Fear rippled through the arena.
Boots scraped against the ground. The sound was sharp. Erratic. Elves stumbled backward, their eyes locked on the horror unfolding before them.
Some gripped their weapons, around spear shafts and sword hilts.
Sylvantherion stood frozen. The weight on his back was heavy. Alive. It pulsed against his spine, a wet, parasitic heat.
He tried to turn. To see the thing that claimed to be the Spirit Elder.
But his gut churned.
Something solid shifted inside his abdominal cavity.
It pushed outward.
Squelch!
The sensation was revolting. His skin stretched tight, becoming translucent, before it gave way.
Rrrrip.
Sylvantherion staggered. His balance failed him. He took three clumsy steps back, his boots slipping on the loose gravel. He flailed, arms windmillling, until his heel dug into the dirt.
Knees trembled. They threatened to buckle under the sudden new weight.
He looked down.
A head protruded from his stomach.
Thick, slimy black hair cascaded over his belt. It dripped dark fluids onto his boots. Two pairs of ears twitched on the sides of the head, flicking slime onto Sylvantherion's tunic.
The face gasped. Mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
"I-I do not understand..." Sylvantherion choked. The air rattled in his lungs. "What is this?"
He stared at the visage.
"Whose... whose head is this?"
The question died in his throat.
More movement erupted.
His left shoulder bulged. His right thigh rippled.
Control vanished.
Crack.
Snap!
Sylvantherion threw his head back.
"Aaaargh!"
The wail tore from his throat. Raw agony.
Three more shapes burst free from his flesh.
Limbs flailed. Hands clawed at the air. They thrashed against his body like sailors drowning in a storm. Desperate. Violent.
Sylvantherion felt them kicking inside him. Pushing off his ribs. Clawing at his organs to surface.
Clang!
A spear hit the ground.
A young warrior stared, his mouth agape. He mouthed the words first. No sound came out. He pointed a shaking finger at the mass of writhing bodies fused to the Ancient.
Then he found his voice.
"The Elders!" he screamed. "It's the Elders!"
Voooom!
Light exploded beneath Sylvantherion's feet.
A massive magic circle ignited. Runes spun wildly, casting harsh shadows across the grotesque tableau.
Sylvantherion continued to scream.
The sound merged with the wet tearing of his own body as the five elves continued to writhe. They pushed and pulled, sinking into him and surfacing again. His body was no longer flesh and bone but quicksand. And they were fighting to break free.
The magic circle beneath him continued to erupt.
But Sylvantherion's flailing died down. The resistance left his limbs.
His shoulders sagged. The extra arms that had clawed at the air went limp. The faces protruding from his flesh stopped screaming.
They began to sink.
A sickening re-absorption. The elves dissolved. Flesh melted into his, fused with his body. They settled deep inside his core, becoming part of him once more.
But as the bodies merged, the memories surfaced.
They hit him in waves. A chaotic flood of lives.
First came the cold.
It bit into his marrow. He saw through the eyes of the Water Elder. Standing before shivering lines of elves. His voice was smooth as glacial ice. He pointed to the frozen figures in the shadows.
"Join our immortal army..."
He felt the light die in their eyes. He felt the satisfaction of twisting them into eternal weapons.
Then the cold vanished. Replaced by a crushing weight.
The Earth Elder took hold. He stood before the Chair. He saw the "chosen ones" walking toward it, faces radiant with purpose. A deep, rumbling voice spoke through his own lips.
"Your sacrifice will strengthen Elderglade's barriers..."
He felt the stone absorb their screams. He felt the lie heavy on his tongue.
Then the heat flared.
The Fire Elder. Pure, unadulterated rage. A sneering contempt for those who hesitated. He saw warriors fighting to the end, their blades shattering against his barriers. He felt the joy of breaking them. Of turning their defiance into ash.
Then came the deepest cut.
The Spirit Elder.
The memory shifted to a round room. Torchlight cast dancing shadows on silver hair. He walked beside a young elf. Caelir.
"Syl, where are you leading me?" the boy asked.
Sylvantherion felt the twisted love. The desire to protect by destroying. He saw the Chair. Sharp angles. Metal spikes like frozen lightning. He watched Caelir sit. He felt the boy's trust curdle into betrayal as the paralysis set in.
"You will be the Protector," he whispered to the paralyzed boy.
Sylvantherion convulsed in the light. The guilt was acid in his veins.
Finally, the Shadow Elder settled in.
The screams faded. The blood and the Chair vanished.
The setting shifted to the dense, ancient woods of the Elderglade forest.
It was quiet here. Lonely.
He felt her isolation. She lived outside the city walls. A silent sentinel in the underbrush. She spent decades warding the forest from outside threats. Hunting monsters in the dark. Watching adventurers test the boundaries.
Then, a softer memory surfaced.
Night had fallen over the forest. The canopy blocked the stars, save for a few stubborn beams of moonlight.
Seraphina was there.
She visited often. Not as a Queen, but as a dreamer. They sat on the roots of a massive oak. They talked about her plans for the city. Radical ideas. Dangerous changes.
And the Shadow Elder did not argue and wholeheartedly listened. She supported her in the quiet of the woods.
Then came the memory that broke him.
Seraphina sat on a mossy stone. Her face was lit up like the clear night sky.
Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke.
"She's beautiful," Seraphina whispered. Her voice trembled with excitement.
She described the elfling. A miniature version of herself. She spoke of tiny fingers. Of eyes that held fire like that of hers.
"I cannot wait for Rryn to return," she beamed. She looked up at the canopy, imagining the reunion. "He needs to see her. He will be so happy."
The memory ended.
The magic circle flickered and died.
Sylvantherion's legs gave out.
Thud.
He hit the dirt. Dust puffed around his knees.
The strength left his arms. He slumped forward, catching himself on trembling hands. The monster was gone. Only a broken old man remained.
Slowly, he raised his head.
His vision swam. Tears blurred the world into streaks of grey and red.
He focused on the center of the arena. On the lifeless body of Seraphina. On Amanda, the child Seraphina had spoken of in the forest, now grown and weeping over her mother's corpse.
Sylvantherion's mouth opened and tasted bile and ash.
"I..."
The word was muffled. Choked by the sob rising in his chest.
"So, it was me all along..."