Chapter 29 Hell
HELL
It’s Mikkel who finally gets control of this magic, as he seizes Baldur from behind now.
He bites Baldur’s neck, roaring into his spine as Baldur fucks me upon the bed.
As Mikkel’s gargantuan black drake floods into Baldur now, giving him and us a mega fuck-ton of energy to stay afloat in this tide, I feel it finally steady us.
At last, I have the breathing room to hurl my roar at the Ancestors assailing us, commanding them to give us memories of the Five one bloodline at a time.
As Strom kisses me, memories from his Ancestors flood into me first, from the Void. With a roar, Baldur penetrates me harder, fucking me mercilessly now as he hauls all those memories from Strom’s Ancestors out of my Bloodwalking.
He channels them down into the physical world, into sigildry.
Baldur’s incredible art sears and blisters around us now in a diamond-white and blue maelstrom.
It’s aided by Mikkel’s gargantuan power and stabilized now by Bjorn’s Blood Magic resonance, as it roars and makes unspeakable rune-phrases all throughout the cavern.
My belief in him holds him strong as I grip his arms and he fucks me harder upon the bed; all of his magnificent power funnels down into the Soulstone now, right beside me on the bed.
It glows brighter than a fallen star now, as all the veins of silver, gold, and white ore blister upon it. The sigil for Strom’s Ancestor in the Five blazes brimstone and green upon it.
The soul-imprint for Strom’s Ancestor locked in now, complete.
As Mikkel bites Baldur, pouring his vicious, electric power all through Baldur to make this happen, Mikkel’s Ancestor’s memories are drawn in next.
Incredible tirades of sigils go roaring through the space as they heave down into the Soulstone.
They create a master sigil upon it for Mikkel’s Ancestor in the Five now, searing with black, bright copper, and chartreuse green fire as it locks in.
Then it’s Bjorn’s turn, as a rageful fury of memories come from his Magnussen Ancestors, way back in the day. I barely have time to register that we’re mostly experiencing memories from King ?rn Magnussen when Baldur has those memories secured by his art.
The ridiculously complex soul-sigil for Bjorn’s Ancestor in the Five blazes crimson-gold upon the Soulstone now, far more complex than the other two.
But as Baldur receives memories from his own Ancestors next, about the person from his bloodline who was part of the Five, I feel him become temped to go dark.
I feel it as his massive work of sigildric art falters; I seize him by the face, forcing him to stay with me as I ride him hard now, rather than him fucking me.
It works, though I know his addiction to this kind of magic is not gone, not by a long shot. It keeps him with me, however; keeps him working his massive, most incredible art, as that sigil blazes blue-white upon the Soulstone, fully imbued upon it.
As it comes to my Ancestors, however, who could provide us with memories of Hedda, I feel how the power in our ritual suddenly becomes chaotic. Because although we pull from a myriad of dragons who knew Hedda in life, the person who knew her best in my bloodline was Aesa, her very own sister.
Aesa’s soul is gone now, though, and all her memories with it, as the power Baldur’s working suddenly careens, unstable.
Because we have no one in my bloodline who can provide us with the most intimate memories of Hedda; the only other people who knew her that well were her drakes, and they all became part of the Black Dragon Five.
It makes our ceremony wild now, unsteady, as Baldur’s fucking of me becomes unhinged. Despite Bjorn holding me and Mikkel holding Baldur, Strom pushing all of us with his passion to stay the course and finish this, we suddenly have no anchor to ground us.
I feel Baldur’s temptation to be a god then, as it rolls him. Because he’s stronger than the rest of us, with his cosmic magic and mastery over all things sigil and Void. He knows it, as I feel how he hauls out his darkest nature now, letting it rage wild and free.
And letting his better self collapse.
Because some deep, terrible part of him feels he can best Hedda. If he just let himself go there, if he just allowed himself to become everything he is, far out in the cosmos, he knows he could beat her—just like I tried to beat the Black Dragon in my darkest hubris, and failed.
The ritual seethes, twisting dark as Baldur lets his addiction take him. As his power roars through the cosmos now and the Void, unleashed and insanely free, I cry out as his fucking of me becomes painful rather than pleasure.
But he isn’t stopping; he can’t stop, as I see the roped coils of his addiction now, in my Void-sight.
Diseased and oilslick-black, they surge in from everywhere.
They cinch around his dragon’s neck, wrists, and ankles, as they coil all around his middle and even seize his tail in the Void, binding him tight.
It’s a terrible magic, something ancient as the universe itself; as Baldur struggles in it now, his power flaring in a maelstrom as he roars and fucks me harder, I feel how it’s got him.
Because this kind of demon won’t do his bidding, and it will never give up. As Baldur is caught in his addiction, forcing his power to rage out further to find Hedda’s imprint and heave it down in his Soulstone to finish this, his power suddenly collapses.
Because those ropes in the Void have got him; they’re bleeding him out now, rather than making his magnificent power do as it should. It’s making our entire ceremony go sideways, as I shriek in pain from how he’s fucking me now.
Bjorn roars, heaving his arms around Baldur’s middle and hauling him off me, so he doesn’t ruin me. Baldur’s connection to me snaps out as we part, and the power in our ceremony recoils.
As it cracks hard through the cavern, blasting us all to the furthest corners of the bed, I feel how the seething ooze from the cavern’s floor receives all that wrecked energy.
The evil ropes of oilslick darkness coming out of the floor rush up to devour us, fed by that careening power from our broken ceremony.
Laerke can’t hold it, as she roars in pain and her power flashes out, her Bloodshield that contained that vile madness disappearing. Hedda does nothing from the stars, only watches us, as that most evil oilslick-black tar surges up to take us.
I’m seized by a dozen tentacles of leviathan night, as that terrible energy hurtles up all around us, pouring onto the bed. As it seizes my drakes also, true tentacles of darkness haul us all apart.
Baldur is secured even more than the rest; our power is gone now as I roar and struggle in my bonds, in unimaginable pain as they char and blister me like acid, preventing me from shifting up.
What’s worse is that I know we’ve failed to imbue Hedda’s imprint into the Soulstone, as all the Ancestors who knew her flood away from the hell that’s imprisoned us inside this cavern.
My Bloodwalker power can no longer hold them near; our ceremony has failed and we cannot finish this, as I feel Hedda’s terrible laugh echo all around me from the stars.
Your hubris will devour you, child. Hedda laughs now, as she watches our ceremony disintegrate, and our power become overrun by the leviathan night pouring out of the floor.
Overcome your deepest schism now, between your darkness and your light.
Or fail… and never leave this cavern alive. It’s your choice.
As Hedda’s dragon swirls out in the Void, gone, I know we’ve failed to capture her soul’s essence. As the fifth and final rune that was imbuing upon the Soulstone fizzles out, a vicious shockwave concusses me from that rune upon the orb breaking.
It hits me, slamming me hard right in my heart, making Aesa’s shattered Truthstone explode from my chest in pieces. As the leviathan darkness below us heaves up all over the bed now, seizing us with a hundred tentacles of freezing cold night, we’re plunged into the darkest hell.
As it drinks every last drop of our light—forever.
My drakes and I are trapped in darkness, as each of us is bound by the black tentacles of night.
Because hell has come for us from far beneath this cavern, thanks to whatever atrocity broke this place, long ago; we’re fucking drained now, as that terrible, almost Vampiric darkness seethes with glee, drinking all our light from us.
Though I sense no mind to it, like a Vampire Revenant, it has a purpose. That purpose is to destroy everything our light is—our heart, our love, our passion, and our rage, as it leaves behind only our innermost darkness.
Our willpower, our retribution, and our wrath.
It’s the ultimate destructive force, as it devours us from the schism in the floor, relentless. And we are trapped by its innate darkness, writhing and screaming and separate, as each of us faces our own innermost hell alone now.
As Bjorn faces the depths of his hate, his father floods his mind, his darkest memories showing him the death of his sister Astrid over and over, infinitely.
Strom is possessed by the face and beautifully horrible body of Alfhild Fey. He fucks her and fucks her, then kills someone and fucks her more, as he’s caught in an endless hell-loop of subjugation to her most black-hearted ways.
Mikkel is devoured by a scene of Laerke, caught and gang-raped in their teens as he was magically restrained by thugs of the Jarl, unable to intervene.
I feel his chartreuse green acid as it surges up from his throat for the very first time, inundating his captors and Laerke’s, melting them as his dragon takes over.