Chapter Text
Saradomin’s forces were undying. It was a fact, at this point. In the last battle, Zemouregal recognized no fewer than three people that he’d only just killed within the past week, back up on their feets, completely healed. He killed them once more, but he knew he’d be facing them again soon enough.
What annoyed him was that it wasn’t necromantic magic. Zemouregal was familiar with reusing and recycling troops, sending wave after wave of the dead against the enemy. These, though, they were alive again. Their souls intact. Their hearts beating. Their blood thrumming. It simply didn’t make sense. Whatever magic or tool Saradomin was using in this war, it didn’t make sense.
The war was over the Stone of Jas. After Zamorak had disposed of Zaros, he’d vanished himself, to come to terms with the power. To Infernus, where he’d made new alliances. In that space of confusion, when the Mahjarrat had been distracted, Saradomin had deemed himself the best hands to hold the Stone of Jas, and had summarily stolen it. Zamorak had declared war, and other divine entities had taken notice. The war stretched between planes, to other places.
In this recent battle, he’d made an effort to spare a few that seemed familiar. He had to ask a few questions.
After much pain and far too much time, by Zemouregal’s estimate, he knew the secret.
The young man moaned from the floor. He was disarmed. Zemouregal didn’t need shackles to restrain a human; they were pathetically weak, even the ones that they dubbed heroes. Their only advantage came in numbers, because human pairings, for some ungodly reason, could mate and pop out babies sometimes twice a year, should they be keen enough on each other. For Mahjarrat to reproduce, they had to place themselves at a severe disadvantage, expend power and energy, and no one was willing to chance that with rituals. One needed to be powerful by the end of it to ascertain one’s place near the ritual, and yet useful enough to have achieved worthwhile things in the time preceding each event. Zemouregal had never struggled with this, but the powerful would not weaken themselves, and the weak would not compromise themselves further.
The Ritual of Enervation was more than just copulation. It required one parent, at the least, to portion off enough of their limited Freneskaean anima into a separate being. Recovery would take time. Presumably, one could only get back to the former state by surviving a ritual and reabsorbing more Freneskaean anima from the sacrificed sap.
Vhael, once upon a time, must have trusted her ability and position, to try to surprise him with that child. Of course she wouldn’t have asked him to sacrifice of himself. Of course she would have harvested a convenient ritual, perhaps starting the ritual in the days prior, intending to fully give of herself -or, perchance, to use the sacrificed victim’s anima to bring about the intended child.
Vhael had always been the brightest of minds. He wouldn’t have put it past her, after she’d learned of his… well. After he’d blabbered on about his own father. About his own desire for children.
The captive moaned again, and Zemouregal wished he’d die already. He was interrupting some poignant thoughts of the past.
“Kill me,” the prisoner said, shuffling to his knees, “you have what it is that you want. Just kill me and leave my corpse for the collectors.”
“See,” Zemouregal said softly, not moving an inch, like a cat poised to strike, “If I thought it would do me any good, I would. What I’ve suspected -well, known- has just been explained quite prettily, and you’d be out there in the field again within a few days. Perhaps a few weeks, if they give your psyche some time to mend before flinging you back to the warfield. I doubt it. I see little difference between the methods of your god and ours on the battlefield aside from the color scheme.”
“Your kind-” the man spat, glaring with pure, undiluted hate, “only know destruction!”
“I said methods, not motivations, do try to keep them straight. Although, I am interested in this necromancer you’ve mentioned.”
“Elora is a lifegiver! You distort the corpses of the dead, you animate rotting husks, she repairs the body and soul! She-!”
Zemouregal impaled the man swiftly on a clawed gauntlet. He gasped, his air leaving out new holes in his lungs. “You see,” Zemouregal said, “You’re useless as a corpse if I let them cart you off. If your Elora is playing at necromancy, I’ll simply have to steal her material first.”
Horror welled up in the terrified, yet still somehow brave, man’s face. He tried to gasp out some protest, some insult -Zemouregal cared little which- but blood sprung from his lips, and Zemouregal let him slide off the gauntlet, down to the floor. That had been a rather satisfying kill of a practically infuriating person. Rather like scratching a very obnoxious itch, Zemouregal had enjoyed the death.
Now, the proper thing to do would be to collect the corpses from the battlefield, all of them, enemy and their own. It would be an arduous task, and rather dangerous. Conflicts would spring up again, and battlefields would never truly be free of battle, not when corpses were the commodity to be fetched. They could bash against each other endlessly. Zemouregal’s undead, however, could be tattered and torn to unusable husks. If this Elora was truly raising the dead -as good as new- then Saradomin’s forces had an advantage against him.
He didn’t like admitting that, but he was a strategist. You had to become a damned fine strategist, especially if your natural abilities led to the practical application of leading an innumerable host of the animated dead.
A Renmark centaur, blessed with a unicorn’s horn that could raise the recently deceased, mend the wounded and dying. It sounded ridiculous, a limitless source of power.
A limitless source of rejuvenation…
Involuntarily, his hands went to the locket. It was a sturdy thing, steel on steel, shaped into some menacing shape. But it swung open on a clever latch and hinge, and he kept a tiny shred of one of Vhael’s cobalt-blue dresses inside, alongside the little gemstone he’d recovered from her ashes.
Was he willing to let this chance pass him by?
Perhaps it was time to send a message.
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Lord Saradomin, commander of his forces, great god of justice and peace, shook blood off one of his gauntlets. The corpse of a man that had delivered the letter had been a recent kill; his blood hadn’t yet coagulated. He’d been one of theirs, but he’d been transformed into one of Zemouregal’s. Saradomin hoped that the death had been quick, at least, but he didn’t spend too much time thinking on it. If he did, he’d have to spend years thinking of each individual who’d died thus far in these god wars.
He’d expected some communique eventually, hopefully from Zamorak himself, begging for an end to hostilities. His best gambits, however, were matched in full force by his enemy, and as much as he hated to admit it, they were two similarly sized stones grinding away at each other, hoping one would turn to dust before the other, not caring how much power or mass was wasted in the endeavor.
It wasn’t like he could bloody well return the Stone of Jas to that psychopath.
This communique, though, came from one of Zamorak’s generals. Saradomin cracked the seal and thumbed open the parchment, carefully straightening the creases. He nearly dropped the letter, he was so surprised.
“We might have just won this war,” he breathed, and allowed himself a rueful chuckle.
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Zemouregal met secretly with the Saradominists. He did not use the shadows; Sliske frequented them and noted the passage of those within. Zarosian or not, Zemouregal did not trust Sliske with secrecy, not in this matter. This was his business, and his alone.
Still, he couldn’t quite be certain that his passage had gone unnoticed. Zemouregal had never deigned to hide himself as a human, and he wasn’t about to try that particular bit of magic now, for fear he’d get the features so horribly wrong that he’d immediately be discovered by the first horrified minion to spot him.
He had his ways to go about unseen. The undead patrols were his, and they would not and could not turn him in. He waited late enough into the night that no missives -even urgent ones- should force him from his hypothetical bed, revealing the ruse. For secrecy, he’d behaved perfectly.
He was exposed in the Saradominist camp, but if he felt even a hint of aggression from their quarter, he’d slip into the shadows. He wouldn’t give them the opportunity to strike. Still… this was very much like slipping his head into a snare, not knowing if the noose would pull tight too quickly for him to extricate himself.
The bait, though, was too good. The hope was addictive, intoxicating.
The god was there, and behind him in the distance, the centaur, warded and guarded closely. She was listening in, reclining on a bed of moss, serene, as if a princess. Zemouregal had more interest in what she could do for him than the god before him, but first things first. He had to deal with the gatekeeper.
“I need someone healed. Revived. Whatever.” His words were dismissive, but his tone was dead serious. He spoke quickly, trying to speed the meeting along, to minimize the chance of his being missed.
“We’ve lost many a loved one to your hordes, death guzzler,” Saradomin said, and he somehow managed to make an impressive descriptor sound insulting, sound base. “Why should we care about your loved ones that have fallen in this righteous war?”
“This one wasn’t a combatant. It- they- they were a baby. You need remains, yes?”
Elora sucked in a breath past her teeth, but Saradomin did not let his expression soften. “Are you accusing us of slaughtering infants? Or do you claim to bring children to act on the front lines, or in your reserves?”
“No,” Zemouregal spat, frustrated at the misunderstanding, “The child died long ago.”
“The body will have rotted, then. Rotted flesh and a soul long gone cannot-”
“It is a Mahjarrat baby,” Zemouregal said, and felt his wounds rip open once again, felt himself raw and vulnerable to these people whom, on any other day, he’d have obediently slaughtered for his deity. He’d probably have enjoyed it, too. “It is my Mahjarrat baby.”
Saradomin was quiet for a long moment, considering. Zemouregal opened his mouth to explain, but Saradomin was quicker, undercutting his words. “Why is this important to us? What favor can we request that you won’t simply betray? Do you come here, planning a secret dagger for our ribs, even now?”
Zemouregal was frustrated with the suspicion, but he kept his head cool, through sheer force of will. Yelling at the pompous, self-important thief would get him nowhere.
“I would withdraw my forces,” he informed, “quit the field. On the return of a living, healthy child.”
Saradomin nodded his head. “Wait here. We shan’t be long in discussing this.”
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Saradomin looked between Elora, reclining still, and her sister, Fern. “You could do it?”
“Depends on the body,” Elora said, “the soul, and it’s less likely the longer the poor thing’s been passed. It’s unlikely all around.
Saradomin looked to Fern, who truly was the one who motivated her sister to great acts of healing. “Your thoughts?”
“She could do it.” Fern lifted her chin. “I am sure of it. Think, sister!” Fern leaned over Elora, who sighed, her sigh sounding more akin to a wince. “You half their army, all with one gift.”
Elora shook her head. “I like it very little. If he does not withdraw? If he uses us, then resumes his warfare?”
“We hold onto the child and return it at the end of the war,” Saradomin said, “It’s a simple enough clause.”
“I am exhausted enough as is,” Elora said, “My Lord, I do all that I can for this war, for the people, for the good of this world, but I am tired. I am in pain. I need to rest, to recover. I may never recover all that I was and am.”
Saradomin appraised her. Her yellow hair had gone steel-gray. She barely ever stood, and her joints creaked. Despite her youthful skin and face, the Centaur had been visibly aged over the course of this war. She was pouring bits of herself into her magic. One day, it would have to end, but damnation, he couldn’t lose her yet.
“It is a baby,” Fern said, perhaps to shame her sister into compliance.
“And we will give this baby to a necromancer? We will create another creature for their wars, another fledgling Zemouregal?”
“Perhaps,” Saradomin said, tasting the words, savoring them, “Perhaps a single act of kindness and mercy is enough to sway a man’s loyalty. Given that it is a powerful enough action.”
“You wish,” Elora said dryly, “for a necromancer to join our ranks?”
“I wish for a necromancer to leave their ranks,” Saradomin reiterated.
“Consider it,” Fern insisted, “You turn a monster into a devoted father. He leaves the warfield, reforms. Perhaps it isn’t wise to entrust a child to one such as him, but think of the lives you will save through it! Elora, imagine victory, imagine a world where you won’t have to keep chipping away!”
Elora exhaled, closing her eyes. “It may not be possible. I have never worked upon a Mahjarrat. If… If you deem it to be the wisest course of action, then I shall try, and try my best.”
Saradomin’s smile was grim, yet satisfied. “Thank you, Lifegiver.”
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“We will attempt to revive the child, on the condition that you remove all of your undead forces from the field and remain neutral for the remainder of this conflict,” Saradomin announced.
“That’s ridiculous!” Zemouregal was louder than he would have liked, despite how far they were from his own encampment, “Have you any idea the multitude of ways in which Zamorak could choose to kill me for such a betrayal?”
“That is the deal. You have nothing of interest to us. No treasures. No skills. No words. The only thing you have is your military might, and that is the only thing that can sway this discussion.”
Zemouregal growled to himself, grumbling, but he settled down. “Go on.”
“We would withhold the child until the end of the Saradominist-Zamorakian conflict. Once the war is won or lost, your infant shall be returned, unless you rejoin Zamorak’s hordes, breaking your oath.”
Elora stood and approached Zemouregal. He’d been about to argue, but something about the woman, how she moved smoothly, somehow with the minimal amount of energy required to move, demanded his attention and respect. “I will be honest with you, necromancer,” she said, her voice soft and lilting, her accent strange, “I do not know if I can do this thing. How long ago did the child die?”
“Unborn. Toward the second age’s end, but not terribly close to it.”
Elora frowned. “I have never revived one so long gone, with no sense of self, no identity. The soul is likely not even present to be worked back into the body. Does an unborn child have a soul, if it was never given time to develop? Was that soul-”
Zemouregal lifted a hand, interrupting her. “We have no such thing as what you refer to as a human soul. There is no afterlife for a Mahjarrat. We are living dreams. When we die, we die as ideas, not individuals.”
“Then it shall be most impossible,” Elora retorted, “even if the body were not decomposed-”
Zemouregal opened the locket, carefully removing the sliver. “This is it. The remains.”
Elora paused, then extended her palm. “Let me see.”
It took more willpower than Zemouregal was willing to admit, to place the tiny gemstone into Elora’s hand.
“There is no body. I have no concept of what the physical form should take, even if I could create one from this stone. It’s rich with Freneskaean anima, that is certainly true. I have never seen a stone that feels… alive. I suppose I have never studied Mahjarrat or their crest gems, though. This is not a corpse, not in a way that I would label a corpse. It is a seed that needs to be watered.”
Zemouregal’s heart leapt into his throat. If he took it back, gave it energy, forced his magical essence into the shard, then maybe-!
Elora was mostly talking to herself as she examined the Mahjarrat shard. “I am… curious enough to try. There is no form. No soul that I can identify. Yet it lives, in its own strange way. A dream can live again, if invoked accurately enough, can it not?”
Zemouregal’s heart leapt to his throat. He fell to a knee, barely knowing what he was doing or saying. “If you can prove to me that my child lives and is healthy, if you can return to me a healthy, living child, I will withdraw from the God Wars, damn the consequences. I won’t lose her again.”
Elora’s hand rested lightly on the back of his head. He bristled, wanting to shake it off, take a defensive posture, anticipate a blow, but nothing further happened. She didn’t seem to realize his discomfort. “Go and return three days from now. By then, I will have tried. But I must rest now. It is very late, and I have healed many whom you have only just slain. It is in your benefit for there to be no fighting on the morrow.”
Zemouregal nodded. He didn’t know that he could promise that, but he could promise his return. “I will return. If the task is impossible, I will have the remains returned. They are sentimental to me.”
“Of course,” Elora said, and withdrew her hand.
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Everything went wrong far too quickly for the tastes of all involved.
In practice, a soul could be bound back to its healed, recently deceased body. It would be near enough to life that it could still be pieced back together and returned to the living world. This was completely different. No body. No soul. Just a fragment and a thrum of source energy. Elora’s usual fare wouldn’t be enough.
But this child could end the war, if Elora could only succeed.
So, she’d give what was needed. A body. A soul.
Fern was eager, as always, to offer that which she had no right to give. Elora didn’t fault her sister for it. Overzealous, but Fern’s heart was in the right place.
It required no special place. No runestones. Elora sequestered herself with only her sister and her god. As important as this action was, she did not quite trust herself to have the necessary courage to do what was necessary. Having them present helped, somewhat. She felt less alone.
“I do not know the form to give it,” she said, “The Necromancer referred to losing ‘her’ again. A female, perhaps?” She twisted the stone in her hands. It was odd, to think that perhaps she could choose the form of the child entirely. Boy or girl. It might be more effective to keep things similar to herself, for… the ease of it all.
“A girl would hopefully be less powerful than a male,” Saradomin agreed, “at least physically. She’d be less likely to do us harm in the future.”
That hadn’t been Elora’s reasoning, but she wouldn’t fault him the rationale.
“I do not know what a female Mahjarrat looks like,” she realized, and laughed at herself for the foolishness of it.
“Like- like one of them,” Saradomin said helpfully, then sighed, chuckling along with her. “A little like a human woman in form. The hips and the breasts. But Mahjarrat. Meld the two anatomies in your mind, and you won’t be terribly far off.”
“If the child is deformed or ugly, do you think he will accept it?”
“He made his bargain, and if he does not keep it, the child will be accepted among our people, I am sure, so long as it behaves.”
Elora bit at her tongue, wishing to keep asking clarifying questions. Ask for details. Ask for more information. She knew, however, that she had been putting off what she intended. “Sister,” she said, “give me strength.”
Fern’s eyes were alight with faith. “You will succeed,” she enthused, and placed a firm hand on Elora’s shoulder.
Elora began.
The energy was simply that: energy. As suspected, there was no soul that Elora could sense. Usually, there was an essence, a spirit, some notion of identity, of collected experiences and memories. Even if an unborn child had some meager sense of self, this child had been dead for ages. A human would long have moved on to the afterlife, dissolved from this realm.
It was really the energy that was so unique. It helped shape the creature. Elora had studied biology, and so she knew enough of what to envision. She wove the body of a child from pure Freneskaean magic. A dream become reality. A body of magic and of physical particles. The physical particles… those pained Elora. She took internally, from what she knew Saradomin and Fern would not be able to see, and thus, they would not think to halt her work.
The work was beautiful. A glowing blue shard, suspended magically between her hands, light emitting from it, taking shape, knitting and weaving… Her own contributions went unseen, due to the casual misdirection of lovely magic.
The child was soon complete, a child that breathed. A perfect child. Oh, the baby was far too small. Fern didn’t have enough spare biomatter to create a gigantic infant, like those monstrously tall Mahjarrat would likely create naturally. This one was even small for a human infant. But it was what she’d been tasked to create.
It was asleep, barely moving, barely breathing.
“Good enough,” Saradomin said, and his eyes sparked with pride. “You’ve done it, Lady Elora. The necromancer will quit the field. We’ll gain the upper hand. With this, we’ve won!”
Fern’s words were similar, but Elora shook her head. “I am not finished yet.”
Elora would be finished. She ached all over, her body screaming that something was horribly, dreadfully wrong. Her heart was weak. Her organs twisted up below her stomach, and it hurt to breathe, as if the insides of her lungs had been scraped.
A body had been supplied. But the child needed a soul.
Perhaps it would be pleasant, to exist as a living dream in some small capacity.
Elora breathed out, exhaling everything of her lungs, exhaling her being. The horn on her head seemed to glow white-hot for a moment, and then she felt nothing, simply peace.
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The baby woke, screaming for food and comfort, as selfish as any baby ever was. The cries went untended. The two nearby individuals were currently preoccupied, futilely trying to revive the corpse of a good woman.
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Zemouregal had known things were amiss when the enemy stopped healing their wounded. He dared to hope that all would be well, that the attempt had only exhausted their centaur healer. On the third night, he returned, only to be insulted. The request had been a trap, they claimed, set on murdering their healer. The trap had worked.
The baby lived. He’d seen her at a distance, warded in a strange box, locked behind a code he did not know. He guessed that if he breached it, some magical effect would be triggered, and the child inside would face the consequence. He hadn’t entered into an equal deal, he realized that now. He’d simply given the enemy leverage, a hostage to hold over him.
The worst part was the realization that it worked. He wouldn’t let them kill the baby.
The only way to make things right, by Saradomin’s estimation, was for Zemouregal to withdraw entirely, as agreed, and then wait on Saradomin’s grace and mercy, should he decide that Zemouregal had earned the child.
Which would never happen. Saradomin talked a good game, but he would always do what was necessary. He’d never release that leverage, not so long as he believed it kept Zemouregal’s undead forces away from his populace.
Zemouregal threw one of his spare boots at the tent’s wall, simply infuriated with himself, for allowing himself to be so thoroughly possessed by a singleminded desire, so perfectly trapped, and so easily deceived. Why would the enemy keep a promise made in secret? What benefit was honor, when victory was on the line?
Zemouregal would make him pay for this one day.
He was taken aback when Zamorak swished into his tent without a call in advance, almost on a whim. Zemouregal would have suggested it had been an accident, and his lord had mistakenly entered, but for Zamorak locking eyes immediately on him. There was heat behind those eyes, and Zemouregal immediately came to a terrifying realization.
Zamorak knew everything.
How could he possibly know anything?
“Explain yourself.”
Zemouregal leaned on taking the safe route. “Explain what, exactly?”
Zamorak’s breath came out in a slow hiss. “Your visits to Saradomin.” He was still now, like a predator. Zemouregal oddly felt like prey, and took his time to format his words.
“I was investigating their necromancer. They have a healer capable of reviving the dead fully. Formerly impossible to science or magic.”
“Did you grow envious, Zemouregal?” The words were disgusted. The explanation hadn’t yet satisfied Zamorak. How much did he know? If he learned that Zemouregal withheld anything…
He swallowed, hard. “I made a request.” It was difficult to verbalize. To confess. “I offered up the gemstone of my child. Mine and Vhael’s.”
Zamorak’s face softened considerably, the words taking him by surprise. He’d been expecting betrayal from Zemouregal, and instead… well, perhaps there was some understanding of this betrayal.
“I found it at the ritual site, among the ashes, after you left me,” Zemouregal explained, “and when I saw the dead returning, whole as they had ever been, I thought… perhaps…”
Zamorak was shaking his head ruefully. “We do not have life in the same way that humans have life, Zemouregal. You know this. Whatever they promised, they lied.”
“They succeeded,” Zemouregal raised his voice, an edge of desperation accenting his words as he stared at the floor, “Zamorak, my lord, they succeeded. I saw her. She was so small, a newborn, practically. And now she’s their prisoner, a hostage. I shall never see her again, unless I quit the field of battle, and even then…”
Zamorak’s face was angry, infuriated, when Zemouregal looked up again. “They succeeded? We should capture their necromancer, then. We could-”
“Their necromancer is dead,” Zemouregal interrupted softly, “the revivication killed her.”
“Good.” Zamorak answered quickly. “Their forces shall no longer rise as ours do. We’ve gained the advantage.”
“I must not rejoin the battle, not I or my forces,” Zemouregal stated plainly.
“Don’t be a fool!” Zamorak placed both hands firmly to Zemouregal’s shoulders. “He means to divide our forces. Should he somehow defeat my armies, do you think he will stop and allow your existence to continue? Do you think he will remember you fondly and allow the ‘death guzzler’ to live peaceably among his beloved humans? No. Without my protection, you are simply the next to fall.”
Zemouregal was quiet, only for a few seconds. “Still,” he said, “I cannot risk the child.” He tightened his fists at his sides, and he remembered what he knew of his father. “I will not risk this child.”
Zamorak pushed Zemouregal’s shoulder’s roughly, and he staggered back from the casual force of the god. “You’re behaving like a fool. If you dance to Saradomin’s tune, how many of our kind shall perish on the hope that you regain this infant?”
“I would sacrifice them all!” Zemouregal was roaring now. “You don’t understand! I’ve lost everything, and now I have something, and can’t I have just this one thing? I have always been your most loyal! Every action you take, I’ve facilitated! Everything you have needed of me, I have provided! I would carve my flesh from the bone for you, my brother, my friend! Can’t I just have this? This one child, safe? Help me take her from them, help me-”
“Hazeel!” Zamorak’s call was a command.
From shadows, Zamorak’s spy emerged. How much had Hazeel known before this? Had he followed Zemouregal to the heart of Saradomin’s camp? Had he heard it all that had transpired there? Or had he simply seen the coming and going, and nothing more?
He had surely heard this.
Hazeel was not alone, either. Kharshai was with him.
Zemouregal made to fight, but there was no fighting Zamorak. He had no convenient Elder God artifacts. No Stone of Jas. No Staff of Armadyl. He had no preparations. The pure magical power overwhelmed him, forced him to his knees, the air seeming to become a cage around him. Zemouregal could barely breathe, and his words felt forced, as if he had to spit them out through water for them to take form. The air about him was close to solid.
“Do you mean to kill me before witnesses, old friend, to contextualize my death to our allies?”
“You’ve clearly forgotten what I said, long ago. You let Vhael’s death overshadow your life, drag you down, become a burden on your back. It’s broken you, Zemouregal. No, killing you would only finalize this tragedy. I’m going to fix you.”
Cold fear saturated Zemouregal’s lungs. He would have trembled, had the air not held him firmly in place. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to remove her. Every reminder, every thought, every scrap of Vhael, I’m going to purge it. Every time you think of her, you’ll lose that memory. Every time you envision her, you’ll forget a little more of her face. And when you dwell on that hollow? It will sting, slap you from it. Time heals all wounds, and that is because memory is fickle in time. Let me speed that process.”
“No!” Zemouregal raved, and though he flexed and tensed, he could not budge. “You don’t understand the duty I have to my family!”
Zamorak knelt and cupped Zemouregal’s face in one palm. His voice was nearly kind. “What family? You barely knew Vhael, and you don’t know this child.” Zamorak stood. “This is for the best. Hazeel, go on.”
Hazeel pulled Kharshai forward by the elbow, and the other Mahjarrat did not resist. He was stunned, terrified to be in the presence of Zamorak. He was correct to be frightened.
“The neutral one,” Zamorak appraised, looking down at Kharshai, “You’ve long survived by remaining unseen, by avoiding flaunting your talents, but by using them judiciously. You can do this?”
Kharshai looked down at Zemouregal, and Zemouregal hated the pity he saw in those eyes, hated the hesitance. Kharshai did not want to act. “This… I disagree with this,” Kharshai spoke, but as Zamorak’s lips curled into a rageful snarl, he continued, “but I see no other way to best the Saradominists. We must be united and strong, for the sake of our survival.”
Zamorak’s rage dissipated, and he nodded tersely. “Do as I’ve commanded.”
“What of my child?!” Zemouregal roared, “If you must take Vhael from me, what of my child? If I act against them, they will kill-”
“Better a babe that doesn’t even know it lives than you, your brethren, and your beliefs,” Zamorak explained, and his words held a great, terrible weight.
“Take her from them.”
“From amidst Saradomin’s hordes?” Zamorak laughed. “How?”
Silence reined for a terrible moment. There was nothing that could be said. No argument to be made. No plea to cry out.
Kharshai knelt before Zemouregal, across from him, and placed both hands upon the Mahjarrat’s face. Zemouregal wept.
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Zemouregal woke the next day. He readied his forces, as usual. He reached for a necklace that did not exist. Odd.
He led the forces into battle.