Chapter 12: Those of Differing Worlds(Part 1)
—The Past Revisited—
—1200 Years Ago—
—Tyrant Alastor’s Castle—
There the Tyrant is standing before his daughter, who is so desperately gasping for breath. Another battle it is seeming, and yet another loss. Those rebellious eyes of hers glaring into her father’s own. Cyra steadily holding her blade, barely able to keep herself up. The maiden feeling her body shutting down, the adrenaline slowly fading away.
“You have so much potential locked away within you. Yet you refuse to use it, why is that?” his eyes are very stern upon her.
Why he asks? How funny really, not knowing after so much time. Since the leaving of her mother, it is seeming as if the Tyrant has left with her. Asking such a deplorable question.
“I am not like you...” she looks away.
The Tyrant standing silent for a moment, those words she speaks ringing through him. Perhaps his actions are reprehensible, but everything he has done is for her. To ensure such a tragic event never plays out again. It is possibly difficult for her to understand. Though, the demon knowing the worlds hold no salvation for those like them.
“Why do you not understand that I despise destruction?” she questions.
Alastor slowly shaking his head from left to right. His daughter is indeed too softhearted, something such as this must be kept to a limit. Perhaps his methods are questionable, but they are within his own reasoning to do so.
“I am not saying you have to like it or hate it,” he folds his arms.
The maiden looking at her father with confusion deep in her eyes. One moment he is behaving as if it is a must, and now his tone is changing all of a sudden. In all of her years, she can never understand him.
“You are a demon, your power is your lifeline. Without it, you are good as dead, or maybe even worse off,” he explains.
Cyra standing from the ground, her blade dragging against the floor. The maiden looking towards her father, trying to regain any sort of lost energy. Her head slightly hanging low. The devil trying to keep her vision upon the battle ahead.
“Do you wish to know why I gave you Lævateinn?” his tone lightening a bit.
“Why?” she questions in some interest.
“Because despite being such a crybaby, you made me acknowledge you from time to time,” he faintly smiles.
Her eyes slightly widening, her vision towards her father is more of surprise now. Acknowledgment, something he has never admit until this day. Her expression calming a bit, Cyra slightly looking away.
“I may be strict, but I always have your best interest at heart. I may be a Tyrant, but I am a father first,” he turns from her.
“Father...why did mother leave?” her voice distant upon him.
The Tyrant growing quiet, soon looking away. That question in which he hopes to never answer. The maiden noticing her father’s ill mood, shortly taking a step away from him. Cyra knowing well that her father never likes to speak of such. Still, she has to try now and then.
“Sorry...I did not mean to pry...” she looks away, holding her hand to her chest.
“One day I will tell you, I promise,” his disheartening tone is upon her.
Cyra clenching her hand into a fist, some frustration boiling deep within her. One day he says, but never getting to such an event. Years upon years she wishes to know, but her father continuously refusing to speak of her mother. The maiden can only wonder why. Those days appearing so far out of reach now.
“Is her leaving the reason you are like this?” Cyra questions a bit hesitantly.
“Perhaps it is,” he calmly responds.
“I see...” she slightly looks away.
Perhaps this is making sense really. Why her father is like this. Even so, has he really fallen so far? Looking towards him, sorrow lingering deep in her eyes. The Tyrant facing his daughter, gazing upon those eyes. Guilt resting within him, but he can do no more than to bury the past for now.
“My actions are most questionable, but always know, my aim has always been to make a great demon out of you,” he assures her.
Alastor slowly inhaling and exhaling, gathering his nerves. It is not easy raising his daughter alone, but somehow he is making some kind of progress. The maiden looking at her father, seeing the gentleness within his eyes. It is in that moment some of her resentment towards him evaporates. Perhaps in that very instant she grows a bit closer to him.
“Now, mind telling me why you have been hanging around a god?” he questions in some annoyance, folding his arms.
Cyra looking towards her father feeling much shock. To think he of all people will know. Still, it is only a matter of time after all. The maiden slightly looking away, uncertain on where to even begin.
“I am your father, naturally I will have some elites trailing you,” his eyes are a bit more strict.
“He is not a bad person father, he has taken me to see many different places,” she tries to explain.
Alastor looking away from her, trying to be as lenient as possible. This is naturally a phase in her life, and one he must come to accept. However, the demon knowing the danger of a devil being around a god. Perhaps it is his irrational fear that his daughter will be killed. Such a thing can make any parent a bit unreasonable.
“Never trust a god,” he warns.
“Huh? Why? He’s my best friend...” she props her head in confusion.
Alastor slightly looking down, knowing all too well she deserves a reason at least. Sometimes he wishes he has a son, at least then he may not have been driven up the wall and back as much. Even so, the Tyrant finding himself at fault for constantly letting her loose like this.
“Heaven and earth, two beings from opposite worlds. Those of the earth ascended to meet the heavens, and as a result their full wrath rained down upon that one devil. Simply because they wanted to meet that one friend. The gods are the lowest of the low. They would even resort to genocide to solve their problems,” he explains.
The maiden looking away for a moment, taking her father’s words into consideration. There is much she does not know, and while her father may have more experience, she refuses to believe her friend will ever attack her.
“But...he will never...” she looks away.
A sigh of frustration escaping the lips of the Tyrant. Perhaps there has been a time where he himself will have been so willing to reach past the clouds, to meet with those of the high heavens. However, long ago, the Tyrant learning that those of two different worlds shall remain as so.
“Just know I do not approve of this in the least, and if he dare steps out of line. I will make him sorely regret it,” Alastor raising his voice a bit.
—Tyrant Alastor’s Castle—
The red carpets, and the darkened walls all seeming to be worn with age. The crystallized windows appearing to use some form of cleaning. The air however being clean in the least, perhaps not everything has been left to time itself. A warm light shining through, enlightening the lonely room. Upon the throne revealing the Tyrant sitting upon the seat. The demon hanging his head low, feeling guilt overcoming him. His eyes sincere, his will remaining strong in the face of turmoil.
“Perhaps I misjudged you, Valor. You knew my daughter will rather die than to live a cursed existence. Still...I suppose I am impressed...to think she would return to life once again...” his attention turning to the window on his right.
The light bathing the room. It must be some kind of sick joke. To have lost his wife, and now his own daughter suffering like this. Perhaps he is simply a demon, being unable to do no more than to look on. Even so, his will remaining that of steel, the Tyrant looking ahead to the empty room. A stressful sigh escaping the lips of the demon as he stands from his seat.
“I know you will never forgive me, Cyra. Though...I am still a father. I cannot allow those gods to erase you from this world,” he walks onward, his eyes burning with confidence.
Far out at sea, the salty breeze feeling fresh upon those on board, the birds flying far and wide. Along the deck of the ship, Cyra laying on a recliner chair. Her arms propping behind her head, and her eyes resting from the long journey.
The Tyrant looking at his daughter with some doubt in his eyes. Alastor slightly turning his away, soon returning his gaze upon her. The maiden standing there in front of her father, her eyes of devastation. Beside the Tyrant is standing Ardin. The demon glancing to the Tyrant, soon looking towards Cyra, holding his hands behind his back.
“Father! I refuse!” she yells.
It may pain the Tyrant to come to such a conclusion, but action must be taken. The Nine Worlds is a cruel place, Alastor knowing this well. Remaining ignorant of such a fact may even be the reason for her life getting cut short.
“This is but an order now. You refuse to acknowledge that power you have. I thought I could one day pass on my throne to you, but it seems like I was wrong,” his eyes are stern upon her.
Hatred burning deep within the eyes of the maiden. The Tyrant looking on, seeing those all too familiar eyes. That glare defying him for many years. If she has been anyone else, certainly it will have meant her life suffering silence immediately. Even so, she is his daughter, and so he has come to put up with her rebellious nature. Cyra standing to her side, directing Lævateinn at her father. The Tyrant knowing all too well that such will happen. Alastor slowly inhaling and exhaling.
“Princess Cyra, your father only have your best interest at heart,” Ardin taking a step towards her.
Hearing his voice only fueling even more hatred within her. Such a thing clawing away deep at her mind, Cyra being unable to accept this. The maiden having her own life to live, her own path to lead. As such, not even her father has the privilege of impeding on her future.
“Silence!” she commands.
Malevolence slowly spiraling around the maiden, intensifying by the moment. The darkness slowly burning a pure white light. Ardin standing silent, feeling the immense power crushing against him. The demon taking a step back, and Alastor immediately taking caution. This power he has seen from time to time. Perhaps it is a final test, for him to see of where the end result will be.
“Hmph...very well then, Cyra,” Alastor gripping his blade upon his waist.
Within the eyes of the Tyrant, some fear protruding. It is slight, but nonetheless obvious. Alastor beginning to think how much she is like her mother. That same heart and resolve filling him with even more determination to ensure she will have a pleasant life.
The surrounding area crushing with the exertion of her energy. Cyra extending her blade, immediately dashing towards her father. The area tearing apart, rubbles flying into the air. In response, the Tyrant meeting her action in kind. Their blades closing in upon the other.