The journey down, from the Weisshorn felt like a trail of suffering. Each muscle ached fiercely every fresh abrasion and battered rib spoke plainly and sharply. The wind wind now lashed against him. The cold stood as a tangible foe. He embraced it. It was genuine. It showed he was living in a world that still offered feeling.
Beneath the summit ridge he discovered his abandoned armor and swords a shrine to a past version of himself he had outgrown. His gaze settled on the sword, known as the Penitent's Blade. These were weapons for a battle he had forgotten how to face. He abandoned them there. Let the mountain claim them. From his belongings he retained a heavy woolen cloak enveloping his trembling body and proceeded downward the river stone a steady reassuring presence, in the pocket of his plain trousers.
After two days close, to the treeline where the earth started to blend into shades of green and noise he discovered the cathedral.
It was a grotto yet unlike any other. The gateway was a curved doorway of moss-covered rock partly concealed by a waterfall tumbling down the cliff face spraying the air with shimmering rainbows. Within the chamber stretched upwards. Enormous fluted stalactites dangled from the ceiling, like the tubes of a heavenly organ. Stalagmites ascended to join them creating columns that bordered a passage. Dim ghostly light passed through cracks far overhead lighting the quietude. The air was cool, still, and smelled of wet stone and ancient peace. It was a place of natural, silent worship.
Alexander came in not in search. As a refugee looking for a place to stay for the night. He proceeded along the nave his steps reverberating quietly. He was at the midpoint, where the biggest pillars created a sort of transept, when he sensed it—a disturbance in the calm air a presence as tangible and sorrowful, as the stone itself.
Emerging from, behind a column of solidified limestone he appeared.
General Clement Duncan.. Unlike the figure on the wind-battered ledge. Within this room he appeared even more integrated into the structure—a statue of a mourning warrior brought to existence. His dark spiked armor blended into the shadows. He gripped his sword not aggressively but resting it on his shoulder the blade a stark streak of total darkness, against the pale stone.
He remained silent. There was no need, for words. His mere existence posed the question, the defiance, the unavoidable truth.
Alexander paused. He carried no armament except the stone in his pocket. No protection beyond the cloak. No goal aside, from moving.
Duncan's helmet, without a face watched him. Then gradually with intent he lowered his sword from his shoulder, the tip dragging along the stone floor producing the cavern's genuine sound: a deep harsh screech reverberating throughout the cathedral halls.
This was not the intended examination. That had already been completed. This was different. A gesture of respect. A tribute. The ultimate assessment of what Alexander was and what he had evolved into.
Duncan shifted.
His manner was unlike the rush of the peak. Here, in the expanse it was dignified. Effective. Strong. He moved forward every step deliberate, swinging his sword in a horizontal sweep. It wasn't a hit to obliterate. To split. The strike cut through the atmosphere a rich echoing rush.
Alexander took the action available to him. He rolled forward the dark blade gliding above him the suction, from its path noticeable. He rose up behind a stalagmite column massive as an old oak tree.
Duncan's sword came next. He didn't pursue. He merely changed the direction of his strike. The dark blade hit the pillar.
GONNNGGG—!
The noise was not a snap of shattering rock. It was a rich sorrowful bell toll as though the column were a gigantic bell. The whole cave echoed with it one solemn dirge-like tone that thrummed through Alexander's teeth and bones. The pillar stayed upright yet a large sleek piece was sliced off its side dropping to the ground with a thud that was overshadowed by the lingering ringing.
Alexander looked on shocked. The knight wasn't merely battling him; he was manipulating the cavern itself causing the very ground to grieve.
Duncan emerged into the open his sword lifting more. Alexander dashed, not fleeing, but moving across the nave placing pillars as barriers, between them. Duncan pursued, not quickly. With relentless certainty. Another strike another pillar hit.
GONNNGGG—!
A second toll of the bell, at a tone, deeper more mournful. It conflicted with the waning echo of the initial producing a lament.
Alexander was driven forward not by any plan. By the undeniable overpowering reality of the knight's presence. He was a mouse in a vast cathedral of bells and the sexton tolled them for his demise. There was no anger, from Duncan, no animosity. Just a deep sorrowful sense of obligation.
He slipped behind a pillar. The dark blade came down.
GONNNGGG—!
This tone was elevated, clearer more poignant. The sound occupied Alexander's mind. He wasn't under assault; he was being honored. Every bell was a tribute to the Messenger who perished on the peak to the fighter who abandoned his blades, to the individual who was left solely with his two hands and a rock.
Victory was, beyond him. Even resisting was impossible. All he could do was run away. The cathedral was limited.
His lungs heaved with every breath his ribs screaming from the piercing cold that had gripped him. He staggered into the clearing standing before a lone stalagmite that towered like a pulpit. There was no escape left.
Duncan was positioned in front of him ten steps distant. He lifted his sword aloft with both hands preparing for a concluding strike that would ring the final deepest tone upon the altar of Alexander's body.
Alexander remained upright. He did not flinch. He dug into his pocket. Brought out the river stone. He refrained from throwing it. He lifted it high directed at the knight aimed at the sword aligned with the sorrowful melody of his own demise.
"I am present " Alexander stated, his tone soft yet distinct, in the reverberating room. "Only a man. Within a location."
Duncan stopped. The blade raised at its peak. The featureless helmet inclined.
Then emerging from the darkness of a side corridor a fresh voice pierced the fading chimes—a tone deadly, playful and completely authoritative.
"Clement, my dear. That's sufficient. The message is clear."
Queen Brianna Calliope drifted through the glow. She appeared as a blend of darkness and softness contrasted with the cathedral's stone. Her eyes met Alexander's resting on the gem he held and her expression was layered—some admiration some letdown, fascinated.
"She heard the tolling of the funeral bells " she murmured, moving to stand to her general. She rested a hand on Duncan's armored forearm. Gradually he brought his sword down. The strain, the music faded from the cavern leaving just the dripping water and Alexander's heavy breathing.
"You might have experienced a symphony " Brianna told Alexander, her gaze fixed on his. "The magnificent dreadful sound of struggle.. The flawless quiet tone of triumph." She motioned toward the stone. ". You picked… a pebble. One small soundless inconsequential object."
"It's far, from trivial " Alexander stated, his tone shaking not from fear. From certainty. "It's genuine."
Brianna's grin mellowed, shedding its sharpness. "I understand. That's why you two are so intriguing, yet utterly ineffective." She exhaled, a enchanting sound. "The game demands participants, Alexander. You have stepped down from the board. You are neither a pawn, nor a queen, nor a king anymore. You are a… bystander.. Bystanders have no role, in the chamber where the game unfolds."
She hooked her arm around Duncan's. "We won't bother you anymore. The Abyss holds no grudge against a stone." Her eyes drifted away staring beyond him toward the realm, outside the cavern entrance. "Yet recall, onlooker, when the last plays conclude and the board stands empty the ensuing silence will not mind whether you picked a pebble. It will just exist."
With that the Queen of the Abyss and her sorrowful general turned around. Strode back, into the shadows lining the cathedral's side aisle. They did not disappear through magic or fog. They merely walked, their steps softly resonating until the darkness enveloped them leaving Alexander by himself.
The final mournful bell had ceased. The sole noise remaining was the everlasting murmur of the mountain stream, alongside the pounding of his very human heart. He glanced at the stone in his grasp then raised his eyes to the scarred columns.
He did not triumph in the battle within the cathedral. He merely endured it by withdrawing from the role of participant, in the conflict it symbolized.
He turned and walked out of the cavern, into the sound of the waterfall and the green, living world below. The bells of his old life had been rung. Their echo would follow him, a mournful music, but he was walking into a different song now. One he would have to learn, note by painful, ordinary note.