Ep. 64- To Wound a Living God

We are almost finished with the Queen’s Arc.

A writer probably shouldn’t be this honest, but what the heck. What does it really hurt?

This arc really kinda burned me out- both in the first draft and in its retelling here.

It’s a lot of looking backward to explain why the Queen is the way she is. I strongly believe this will serve the story as we continue, but in the moment, it feels slow, like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I’d rather be looking forward, with Alice. I wonder if the audience feels that way too.

My writing partner has assured me in the past that this is necessary and important. So on we go.

But I can’t help but miss Alice. And I’m excited for what the immediate future holds.

2023 has not been an easy start. From illness to caretaking to the general wear and tear of winter, it can be a struggle to spur myself to write. I’ve been very, very tired. And sometimes, it can be hard to remember the last time something inspired an honest to goodness smile. That’s not to say there haven’t been positive moments- just, ya know. There’s a difference between feeling okay, and experiencing something that inspires genuine warmth in your heart, the kind of vibe that reminds you that being alive should, fundamentally, be a pleasure.

But enough of that. Lets see the Queen through the last of her trials so we can start to look forward again.

int. throne room morning cont.

The Sun raises his hand, silencing the Old Queen of Swords before she can finish her protest. He steps forward, his intense glare reflecting off the translucent skin of the Young Queen.

THE SUN
The Successor. Yes. Most fitting. I accept. I would not have an unwilling servant, regardless.

OLD QUEEN
She is at my command- she will yield.
(to the Young Queen)
The Way of the Sword demands it.

YOUNG QUEEN
(retaining her gaze on The Sun)
I have issued a challenge. I cannot yield. It would be a disgrace to me and this house. THAT is what the Way of the Sword demands.

The Old Queen sinks back into her seat, accepting the futility of arguing the point further.

THE SUN
(not looking back)
Arise Justice, it is the appointed time.

Justice does so. He stands to face the Young Queen. He carries his massive sword, which remains sheathed upon his back. He raises his arms above his head, a salutation to the heavens. He brings his hands together and down in a position of prayer. He breathes in, doing so, his body is outlined with green arcana aura. He exhales and the aura extinguishes, a rush of air blowing all about him, knights on either side stumble backward and even the Young Queen stumbles, falling to one knee before him.

JUSTICE
Tch.
(to the Sun)
I do not recognize this woman’s strength. Drawing my blade is a waste, my lord.

THE SUN
You are too magnanimous, Justice, passing the opportunity to exact what you are owed from the creature who stole your sight.

JUSTICE
Vengeance is beneath me, my lord.

THE SUN
Then think of this as humoring me, my retainer, if only to prove you do not fear drawing your blade against your old house.

This comment inspires a tightened grimace from Justice. A pause, then swiftly his hand passes to the hilt of his blade.

JUSTICE
I will do you a charity, my old rival. I will not even remove my blindfold.

He unsheates his massive sword, a buster, similar in build to the Young Queen’s, made of blackened iron.

YOUNG QUEEN
Even blind you still find it within you to look down on others. It will be your undoing, Major Arcana.

The Young Queen similarly draws her own buster sword and without ado, charges, her green air aura aiding the speed of her movement. However, Justice also immediately activates his own Arcana energy, matching her beat for beat, deftly dodging the charge of the Young Queen.

JUSTICE
I can hear you. Every movement. Every bone scraping against cartilage, muscle straining against tendon, every synapse snapping. I can hear you coming from a mile away, like a noisy animal in the forest.

The Young Queen adjusts her velocity, turning to track her target as she swings around him, circling Justice- the first loop at regular speed but then faster and faster with each additional loop, her own air arcane energy brightening and aiding her speed until a veritable tornado of magic energy is formed, its wicked wind cracking nearby pillars and blowing back the knights who stand at either side.

Justice stands within the tornado, his ears straining to to listen amidst the din of noise, the sounds of footsteps echo on all sides of him within the vortex, stone and whipping air obscuring the footfalls.

The buster blade emerges from the arcane tornado and Justice blocks it at the last moment. The blade whips out again, this time from another point within the tornado. Justice again blocks, this time with more difficulty, his brow knitting together in consternation, his ears perking at every step. The blade of the Young Queen whips out again and again, and he struggles to block twice more.

Justice breathes in deeply, raising his blade with one arm, he brings his other hand to his ears and with the snap of a finger summons air arcana energy which flits about his ears.

Mute. Soundlessness. The mad swirls of the tornado rage without chaos of sense beyond sight.

Justice brings his blade down in a singular slice into the tornado.

His entire arm heaves as if meeting- and halting- a great force.

His lips curl into a smile.

Sound returns as the green aura dissipates his ears.

JUSTICE
I have you now.

The tornado intensifies at this. From within the vortex- the Young Queen’s voice.

YOUNG QUEEN
Who has who?

The air arcana intensifies into a dark, deep green and pebbles of dust and heweed stone become bullets, flaying the swordarm of Justice. He attempts to withdraw his blade from the tornado but cannot. From within the eviscerating twister a formless fanged smile of red which grins hungrily back at him.

Justice at last relents and releases his sword, withdrawing his arm- it has been utterly stripped, fabric from his clothing left in shreds, skin torn and hanging, bone exposed.

From beneath the cloth blindfold, Justice’s eyes glow a defiant green, the fabric of the fold smoldering. With his flayed hand he rips the blindfold off revealing pupil-less emerald green eyes;;. He throws his head back at an impossible angle and an cackling air arc of air arcana energy explodes upward, thundering like the break of a storm.

JUSTICE
EYE OF THE STORM.

The force of the arcane energy wells up into vicious clouds of air arcana above the tornado of the Young Queen and immediately draws the tornado up within the ominous clouds.

The Young Queen skids to a stop, her magic cover now stripped. She launches herself from the nearest pillar, darting toward Justice once more, her sword upturned to strike, her voice calling out in a vicious cry-

YOUNG QUEEN
NEVER AGAIN SAY VENGEANCE IS BENEATH YOU!

JUSTICE
IT’S NO USE! I CAN HEAR YOU!

Justice kicks his blade up to his offhand with a quick wick of air arcana energy, parrying back the charging point of the Young Queen’s blade and slapping her down hard into the stone floor with a sickening thud. He rotates the blade back, fixes his stance in a click and flinch of iron and cartwheels toward his downed foe.

The downed Queen raises a hand and green air energy launches forth a wall, blocking the swinging blade of Justice just inches from her face. She rolls on the floor, her blade stubbornly clanking and she lets outa howl, her eyes now burning the same fiery red as seen on the field of the Tournament of Successors- those daemon’s eyes.

THE SUN
(to no one in particular, but observed nonetheless by the Old Queen)
Ah, at last, we see the chained beast…

The Old Queen watches the animalistic form of the now possessed Young Queen. Strength’s voice echoes in her own head, a flashback to the Tournament of the Successor-

STRENGTH
(disembodied, in memory)
When she learns to harness your strength it will be a blessing. Until then, you are a curse to be repressed- nothing more.

The Young Queen’s entire stance shifts from one of brutal calculation to absolute abandon. She swings her blade at Justice once, twice, three times, four times. She swings and swings, Justice parrying each blow with impossible speed. With each parry his confidence grows, the glow of his eyes increasing in brilliance with the Young Queen’s own rabid determination.

YOUNG QUEEN
(her voice changed, guttural, daemonic)
DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. JUST DIE.

JUSTICE
(laughing)
Is this your final recourse? An animal has more subtlety.

The Young Queen screeches at this and launches herself into the air, green Arcane energy lifting her high.

YOUNG QUEEN
(in a voice not of her own)
FROM THE HEAVENS STRAIGHT DOWN TO HELL.

The Young woman lets out a sonic boom of arcane air energy, launching herself like a pointed cannonball from the highest point of the throne room straight toward Justice.

Justice covers his eyes with his maimed hand and makes a show of deftly bringing his offhand blade to parry overhead, a grin splashing across his face. The Young Queen smacks into the blade and bounces off it like a pinball careening off a bumper. Her uncontrollable trajectory runs her straight through a pillar to the side of Justice. The pillar shatters from the force, leaving the Young Queen to roll over in a daze, her head busted open, her sword pitifully clattering amongst the stones as she attempts to raise it from the rubble. Her red eyes flicker in and out, a short circuiting of arcane identity too greatly strained by the draw of protecting her body from the previous impact.

Justice lowers his guard, stepping through the clearing dust, he slams his boot down on the straining sword arm of the Young Queen. Justice raises his sword, his maimed arm dangling purposefully in full view of the Young Queen.

JUSTICE
Wounding a living god can only be a sin of ignorance. They called you a daemon, but even the daemon has knowledge of god. You are nothing more than an animal. It would have been better for you had you simply run yourself through my blade at the start of this farce.

The sword of Justice falls forward and the Young Queen closes her eyes.

All goes dark for a moment. The sound of iron heaving into flesh and bone is heard followed by the clatter of copper against stone.

The Young Queen opens her eyes to see the copper crown of the Old Queen circling to a stop in a pool of crimson blood, the Old Queen’s outstretched body mere inches from the off-cast diadem.

The Old Queen of Swords is dead.