ith a loud noise the doors of the tower opened into a circular room at the heart of the Dark Tower, drenched in unholy darkness of the most sinister origin.

Nine pillars held the sanguine ceiling up, each with a rune mounted atop it, statues below them – all facing the centre of the room. At the head of the entry was a serpent biting its own tail, the whole length of whom went around the room.

At the centre of the tower, pointed at by the nine statues, stood a mound of raw energy, upon which stood nine cultists – nine aspects of Morthaur, stoking green pillars of virgin fire, garbed in dark cloaks and adorned with hellish auras of poison and decay.

"Nobody interrupts the summoning," a dismembered voice wailed at them. "Die now!"

"Well, we do," Vil replied, wrath and ruin clogging his mind, the sword of Darrian glinting pale in his hands, "your end is near, disappear now and you shall not be banished to Ngaath here and for ever."

A dread smile lined up on each aspect's face, followed by hellish chanting. And lo, the nine statues came alive with green fire, brandishing stone glaives and ruby eyes. "You cannot stop us," the aspects said in unison, "sooner or later; all forces shall fall before the might of Morthaur!"

"Mey," Vil held him, "go engage the aspects. We three will hold back the statues."

Mey nodded, making a run for the central pit, passing swiftly below the glaives of the statues. Two chased him, but Raucion intervened with a flurry of dark energy, ripping the two's bodies apart. Vil fought three others, the sword of Darrian proving its might against a far stronger foe.

Mey dashed on, slipping around and striking the nine aspects with great speed one after another. Some of the aspects fought back, trying in vain to strike him, hissing like pots of boiling water, but at last all of them fell. The remaining statues fell lifeless as the ritual was left undone.

...

"Is that it?" asked Mey, "did we win?"

"Partially," Vil replied, observing the high chaotic emanations radiating from the mound. "We failed to stop Morthaur's summoning," his words instilled horror amongst all, "but he'll be in a much weaker form."

"Oh no," Mey looked up, face full of horror, watching as the smoke cumulated. "Vil, the spell."

A dismembered voice laughed. "Fools . . . this weaker form is enough to bring your doom!"

The chaotic energies emanating from the mound took a sinister shape: the visage of a malevolent king mingled with the glaze of death. As the smoke from the mound gathered, a bony head and pale green eyes crept out of it and unto them ominously. Cloven hooves of black marched out tall like pillars of an ancient temple, two arms followed brandishing a warhammer, and the rest of the body followed thence.

This was it: Morthaur, King of the Gods. His very sight was enough to instil terror amongst them, to look into the fiery chasms that were his eyes was to gaze upon death itself.

"So this is it," Raucion remarked, "the greatest doom of our time."

"Nay, do not give in to fear," Vil reminded him, "we still have a chance against him. Defend me whilst I cast the spell."

"With pleasure," Raucion nodded, willingly or not I cannot tell.

With a fury unmatched Morthaur hurled aloft The Light, his hammer, and cast it down upon them like a furious tempest, but Raucion sprang aside ere the bolt fell upon him, and The Light rent a pit on the floor, shaking the very foundations of the tower.

And five more times he essayed, and five more times Raucion leapt away, and three times he struck the back of his knees, but dealt no damage. Vil and Mey stood behind, charging the curse of banishment to strike down Morthaur.

"In any other case, I'd deem this folly," Mey murmured, "should this succeed, the whole planet's soul may be in jeopardy."

"We have no other choice," Vil reminded him, "if we have to save Alledoria, we have to give up a part of her soul to this deed."

"I know," Mey wished, "but what if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll have proved as catalysts of chaos," Vil replied, almost laughing.

Strike after strike Morthaur issued upon Raucion and Aeresil, dealing naught but minor damages from the radiating chaos, and now he was growing annoyed, but the toil of work took the toll on Raucion himself, for his vigour limited was far lower than his foe's.

Once again Morthaur swung The Light, and Raucion was the prey.

Before he could notice, the iron head of The Light crashed upon his chest, piercing flesh and cracking bone. He was thrown to the far end of the room, the dent in his stomach smoking and fuming.

Vil's eyes were left wide open with horror, a horror he had not experienced in years. "Raucion!"

Abandoning the spell, he shot off to Raucion's aid, his arms around his dying brother, tears streaming down his eyes. Mey was horrified too, but he knew he had to be there, keep his concentration on the spell, lest it failed. But no, he could not concentrate anymore.

Aeresil looked at them, his heart skipping a beat, filling with wrath and hatred. Time stood still, the fate of the world hung by a string. Yet even in then he did not break, but his loathing commanded his moves. "Morthaur!" he cried at last, "o abomination most foul, shameful are you not to have smote down someone half your size?"

And Morthaur laughed dreadfully, the iron crown upon his head gleaming like some evil jewellery. Yet proudly the elf challenged doom, the sound of his voice crackling like a raging storm.

"I stand alone, no one by my side," Aeresil claimed, his axe on the ready, "fight me now, o cowardly lord of slaves. Now it's me and you."

*****

Vil moved his hand through Raucion's cheeks, his tears falling upon Raucion's face, "Rau, please talk to me. Please, brother, I don't want to lose you. I've already lost everyone in my life, please don't leave me."

"Brother," Raucion issued his hand forward, grasping Vil's. "Do not weep, my brother. Even though I die today, I have found the answer to my questions."

"What? What is it, Rau?"

"To serve others, to be with those you love," Raucion answered, "at least for me. Before I met you, I felt no emotions, I was hollow. And when I met you, I had a sense of purpose, a sense of want, a sense of love." Raucion rested his hand on Vil's cheek, wiping away his tears. "I wish I could've lived longer with you, but at least now I am at peace."

With his dying breath, Raucion pulled Vil's head close to his, planting a gentle kiss. And so he passed away, for whatever fate awaits for, maybe the Afterworld, maybe Ngaath, maybe salvation, who knows?

"Vil," Mey called for him, tense and sad, "the spell's failing, what do we do?"

"We have failed," Vil replied, "if you don't use it now, it'll fade away."

"What?" asked Mey, his face falling pale.

"Let it be, leave it and run to safety," Vil whispered.

"No!" shouted Mey, his voice almost mingled with the screams of Aeresil and the footsteps of Morthaur. "We were this close, we cannot abandon it now. All our people are out-"

"I didn't say abandon, I said 'let it be', do you understand?" Vil said in anger.

"But-"

"That wasn't a request, Prince Meneldir, that was an order. Let it be."

Mey stood upright, sensing the invisible orb of power before him ever so slowly fading away. "Let it be," a voice said to him in his head.

"Let it be," Mey replied, letting go of the spell and warping away.

Vil sat there and watched as Aeresil fought on until his last dying breath, trying his best to hold back the sheer force of Morthaur. At last he failed, Morthaur smote him down. Twice he was knocked to his knees, and twice he arose, but the third time he could not.

Morthaur scoffed as Aeresil lay there bleeding and smoking, but had a last surprise for him. Ere he could mind, Aeresil clutched his chest and burst into a brilliant glare of light and heat, humming like a church choir, appearing before Morthaur's eyes as a phoenix.

...

As the light passed away, Aeresil died, but Morthaur was left blinded; his senses failed to grasp the situation, his evil menace lowered as he too felt the grasp of fear upon him.

Seizing the opportunity, Vil leapt from one corner of the room to another, Raucion beside him, and shot the orb with all the mana that remained within him, taking the form of a spirit of lightning – one last time.

The tower resonated at the strike, the walls and floors shaking voraciously as it trembled like a ship on stormy waters. At the end of it, Vilyánur was mortally wounded, his body broken, but Morthaur stood firm and alive, his vision returned to him.

"Was that all?" he questioned, his terrible gaze upon Vil's dying figure. "You are a brave elf, one of the bravest I've ever seen."

Vil cracked a smile, blood dripping from his mouth.

"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, young elf, for even I shall remember you, and raise you up as my greatest general," he walked towards Vil, unarmed and unguarded, "you and your brother, both of you shall have valuable positions in my army, and I shall respect you as you shall respect me. Die now, for that is your fate-"

His foot slipped and plunged into the floor below, a mild inconvenience. He tried to move away but his other foot plunged below too, now to his horror.

Vil smiled, and Morthaur looked at him in horror. The spell had not gone to waste after all.

As Mey re-entered the hall, he beheld the ground beneath Morthaur's feet crumble, hastened by his vast form and Meneldir's powers, and into the abyss below.

Thus is was that Morthaur, Son of Kaal Time-Serpent, King of the Gods, Lord of Change and Revolution, plunged into the depths unto where slumbered the One from Outside.

As a god his power was undeniable, but as an entity subject and limited to the laws of this universe? Before a thing whom no entity could harm, even a god like him was powerless. The last thing he heard was Morthaur's cry of anguish and a thud following, and a scream of madness, followed by silence.

*****

Mey approached Vil, his eyes brimming with tears. "Vil?" he called out, almost with a smile of disbelief, "Vil, we won. We defeated Morthaur; the world is free from his taint."

But Vil could not open his eyes, nor make a move.

"Vil?" Mey took hold of his dying figure, grasping what felt to him a lifeless corpse.

VIL!

Tears rolled down Mey's cheeks, but Vil just slept there in his arms, his armour rent, his skin burnt, his pulse gone, his eyes unresponsive. Mey cried, and longer he cried, and even longer, his tears wetting Vil's dead face, yet nothing happened.

So this was it: the greatest battle of their time, and it had taken a toll greater than anything before them. They had walked in twelve people into the tower, and now only one remained.

How many lives were exactly wasted? How many lovers today were forever separated from one another? How many faded dreams? How many broken promises? How many mothers would wipe their tears, knowing how their sons have forever slept?

But what was he to do? He was forever separated not only from his lover, but also his brother, his comrade-in-arms – the boy who had saved his life countless times, the only friend he ever had, the only person who deserved him? How could a hero so grand die from a cascade so ordinary? How can life be so ironic?

Who will remember him? Will he be memorised as a hero who saved the world, or a fool who changed the very nature of time to avert what was inevitable? Death clouded Mey's mind, his wisdom blinded and senses blocked. The whole world it seemed had fallen silent to mourn the deaths of some of the greatest heroes The Mundane Plane had known.

...

"Vil," Mey whispered once again, very silent this time, trying his best to crack a smile. "I think I know now what the answers are. I think you should know too: I just remembered a song I used to love as a child. Let me try to sing it, I'm-I'm sure you will love it too."

He tried, and longer he tried, at last conjuring up the lyrics. And then it began, a sweet voice echoing through the dark corridors, laden with sorrow immeasurable.

Half joyous, half sad, is this what life really is?

Or that's just half the truth, ignorance is bliss.

Ups and downs are part of life: know this well,

you might never get it back, as far as I can tell.

But if you live long enough, you might realise,

'life is good, death is bad,' those are all but lies.

Those are all but lies grim, as fake as our gods,

of getting second chances, what are the odds?

Take your time, make mistakes, do not regret,

you will leave it all behind when you are dead.

Do not mourn the past, don't fret about it all,

look to the future hence: shadows on the wall.

If you ask me what life is, my answer is none,

for I do not know the way, even if there's one.

But this I say with all my heart, what I believe:

to stand beside one other, that is why we live.

To stand beside one other, that is why we live.

And so his song ceased, tears welled up in his eyes – just welled. What would shedding tears accomplish anyway? Not like he had anyone to share his thoughts with, the only person who he felt content with was no more.

"My lords!" a voice called out from the corridor, yet Mey didn't flinch, nor did he answer.

In stepped Glarion and his followers, shunned in fear to discover the bodies of their Lords Vilyánur and Raucion, in the lap of Prince Meneldir, fallen in battle. "I be damned," Glarion took off his helm and pressed it against his breast, approaching them with a slow pace, walking around the great pit in the middle.

"I have no words," a hussar in the back said, "not only is our Lord Legate dead, but so is Morthaur Destroyer of Worlds, or so we think."

"We think?"

"For Morthaur cannot be defeated," Glarion replied, "just delayed, to be honest," he pressed the back of his hand against Vil's ice-cold cheek. "Ah, well. There is something else you should know."