The Prophet was no stranger to the ticking clock. For the last seven years, he'd done everything he could to stay alive, so the Fighter and the Faith would have the time to grow into their powers before inheriting the Armor of the Spectres. He was meant to be a stop-gap, nothing more. And for all intents and purposes, he'd succeeded in that. Seven years of debilitating deterioration later, he was still alive.
But the traditions of his people were not the Blackbird's will.
No, just like him, the Blackbird was slowly and painfully dying. With six pieces of its soul held hostage on this side of the veil, their god was becoming more and more desperate. The Prophet knew exactly what he had to do, find one more piece - Kuro had five now, though he'd only attuned to four of them - and complete the fabled Revival Ritual in whatever time he had left.
It felt like an impossible task. His people had gone centuries without any lead on the other armor pieces, and he didn't have centuries. He didn't have years. He might not even have months. The elixir developed by the Mystic could slow his body's deterioration, but couldn't stop it - a fact made all the more evident when he woke from the exhausting aftermath of the latest Blackest Night.
Even after three days of sleep, his entire body ached with exhaustion. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't push himself up from the cot. His whole arm shook as he tried to reach out toward the Mystic, who after days of watchful vigil, had finally fallen asleep beside him. With no strength left, he resorted to a magical message directly into his partner's mind.
'Help me... please...'
That, too, felt weaker than it should have been. But the panicked thought was more than enough to jolt the acolyte awake.
He sat up, diving immediately to the Prophet's side. His hand glowed a faint shade of green as he cast a detect disease spell out of instinct. It came up with nothing. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I... I can't sit up."
"Each Blackest Night has been more difficult than the last. You need time to regain your strength." He replied groggily, gently stroking the leader's sunken cheek.
"We don't have time..." his words rang hauntingly. "This... this weakness... It feels different..."
The color drained from the Mystic's face as the Prophet's words sunk in. His hands shook as he lifted the threadbare blanket off the leader's painfully thin body. The Prophet's fingers twitched. His foot flexed, or maybe it was just the blanket.
"Lift your leg for me, please."
The Mystic held his breath as he watched the Prophet's muscles tense. His leg shook, but it didn't move. He did manage to pull his hand in a little, skeletal fingers wrapping weakly around the edge of the cot in a desperate attempt at added support. But it was all for naught. Exhausted and out of breath, he finally admitted, "I... I can't."
The Mystic felt just as breathless as he asked, "can you bend your knee? Either of them?"
Again, the Prophet tried. He weakly shook his head.
"But you can move your arm?"
The Prophet grit his teeth. Fingers unclenched and he did turn his wrist over, but lifting it, even a little bit, seemed to take every ounce of strength he still possessed. The exertion was immediately overwhelming. His breath hitched, his arm dropped like dead weight against his ribs.
"...a little."
The Mystic gently lifted, almost cradled, the Prophet's right arm. It felt so light, so fragile in his larger hands. The muscle was so thin, badly atrophied. He could feel every ligament, the edge of every protruding bone.
"I'm going to hold this up for you, okay? When I let go, I want you to try to keep it up. Do you think you can do that?"
"I'll try." He nodded weakly.
"Are you ready?" The Mystic paused, waiting for another nod before letting go of his arm. It fell immediately, the Prophet's muscles providing no resistance whatsoever.
"I... I tried..." he whispered between breaths.
The Prophet wasn't lying. The exertion was enough that he'd broken a sweat. The Mystic's heart fell along with his eyes as he reached into his bag for a compress and a waterskin, to gently wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Is this..." his voice faded out before he could finish the question.
They both already knew the answer, but the Mystic still finished it for him.
"The Armor of the Spectres? No one has ever survived long enough to reach a final stage, but this..." his breath hitched. He cupped the Prophet's frail hand in his own, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
Four doses of the Blackbird's Elixir wasn't enough this time. And he wouldn't know until the next Blackest Night if anything would be effective at all at this point. If the Prophet's body even had the strength to make it one more month. It very well might not. Morbid weakness aside, the strain on his heart just to keep beating may be far too much now.
"I think..." his voice quivered. "This is likely how it ends."
The Prophet was silent. A labored breath escaped his lips. Then two. Finally, he spoke.
"Then we have to make haste..."
The Mystic looked up. There was still determination in those bright blue eyes.
"Tell Donya... that we need to get to Dog Territory as quickly as possible. Carry me if you have to... but we're leaving... Now... Time is running out."
The Mystic bowed. As long as he was living, the Prophet's word was law. "As you wish."
1 - Making Haste as Time Runs Out
But the traditions of his people were not the Blackbird's will.
No, just like him, the Blackbird was slowly and painfully dying. With six pieces of its soul held hostage on this side of the veil, their god was becoming more and more desperate. The Prophet knew exactly what he had to do, find one more piece - Kuro had five now, though he'd only attuned to four of them - and complete the fabled Revival Ritual in whatever time he had left.
It felt like an impossible task. His people had gone centuries without any lead on the other armor pieces, and he didn't have centuries. He didn't have years. He might not even have months. The elixir developed by the Mystic could slow his body's deterioration, but couldn't stop it - a fact made all the more evident when he woke from the exhausting aftermath of the latest Blackest Night.
Even after three days of sleep, his entire body ached with exhaustion. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't push himself up from the cot. His whole arm shook as he tried to reach out toward the Mystic, who after days of watchful vigil, had finally fallen asleep beside him. With no strength left, he resorted to a magical message directly into his partner's mind.
'Help me... please...'
That, too, felt weaker than it should have been. But the panicked thought was more than enough to jolt the acolyte awake.
He sat up, diving immediately to the Prophet's side. His hand glowed a faint shade of green as he cast a detect disease spell out of instinct. It came up with nothing. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I... I can't sit up."
"Each Blackest Night has been more difficult than the last. You need time to regain your strength." He replied groggily, gently stroking the leader's sunken cheek.
"We don't have time..." his words rang hauntingly. "This... this weakness... It feels different..."
The color drained from the Mystic's face as the Prophet's words sunk in. His hands shook as he lifted the threadbare blanket off the leader's painfully thin body. The Prophet's fingers twitched. His foot flexed, or maybe it was just the blanket.
"Lift your leg for me, please."
The Mystic held his breath as he watched the Prophet's muscles tense. His leg shook, but it didn't move. He did manage to pull his hand in a little, skeletal fingers wrapping weakly around the edge of the cot in a desperate attempt at added support. But it was all for naught. Exhausted and out of breath, he finally admitted, "I... I can't."
The Mystic felt just as breathless as he asked, "can you bend your knee? Either of them?"
Again, the Prophet tried. He weakly shook his head.
"But you can move your arm?"
The Prophet grit his teeth. Fingers unclenched and he did turn his wrist over, but lifting it, even a little bit, seemed to take every ounce of strength he still possessed. The exertion was immediately overwhelming. His breath hitched, his arm dropped like dead weight against his ribs.
"...a little."
The Mystic gently lifted, almost cradled, the Prophet's right arm. It felt so light, so fragile in his larger hands. The muscle was so thin, badly atrophied. He could feel every ligament, the edge of every protruding bone.
"I'm going to hold this up for you, okay? When I let go, I want you to try to keep it up. Do you think you can do that?"
"I'll try." He nodded weakly.
"Are you ready?" The Mystic paused, waiting for another nod before letting go of his arm. It fell immediately, the Prophet's muscles providing no resistance whatsoever.
"I... I tried..." he whispered between breaths.
The Prophet wasn't lying. The exertion was enough that he'd broken a sweat. The Mystic's heart fell along with his eyes as he reached into his bag for a compress and a waterskin, to gently wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Is this..." his voice faded out before he could finish the question.
They both already knew the answer, but the Mystic still finished it for him.
"The Armor of the Spectres? No one has ever survived long enough to reach a final stage, but this..." his breath hitched. He cupped the Prophet's frail hand in his own, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
Four doses of the Blackbird's Elixir wasn't enough this time. And he wouldn't know until the next Blackest Night if anything would be effective at all at this point. If the Prophet's body even had the strength to make it one more month. It very well might not. Morbid weakness aside, the strain on his heart just to keep beating may be far too much now.
"I think..." his voice quivered. "This is likely how it ends."
The Prophet was silent. A labored breath escaped his lips. Then two. Finally, he spoke.
"Then we have to make haste..."
The Mystic looked up. There was still determination in those bright blue eyes.
"Tell Donya... that we need to get to Dog Territory as quickly as possible. Carry me if you have to... but we're leaving... Now... Time is running out."
The Mystic bowed. As long as he was living, the Prophet's word was law. "As you wish."