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Splintered and broken, the shields and bodies of those who ascended the mountain… and failed. I kneel in a sea of arms-- Demacian or Noxian, Solari or Lunari, Targon does not discriminate-- and feel the daunting weight of my armour. Once, my helm was an undying flame, its plume ignited and sustained by my unbreakable mortal will. My spear had burned with celestial might, power not gifted by a generous patron but forcibly grasped from the brink of death as the Aspect of War was slain, its constellation torn from the heavens by a Darkin blade. A lifetime ago I had soared through the skies on heavenly wings, arriving in a Grand Skyfall as I battled against Aspects, Ascended, and Demons who wished to rule over us.
Now, I cannot even gaze up.
Above looms Mount Targon, its presence an oppressing reminder of the Aspects and their lofty throne. It was at the mountain’s peak where I was blessed (or cursed?) by the Aspects with transcendent strength and durability. I was a champion for brothers and sisters who had fought for something bigger than themselves, evermore vowing to stand up and rise against the inhuman injustices of the world. But how much can one man endure? Indeed, I am no longer just human, but I am still mortal. I still bleed.
Not for the first time, I wonder how it would feel to stay down and finally rest after a lifetime of struggle.
How much further could we march, if we were not forced to carry our fears on our backs?
I had once turned to the stars for answers. Their power, I had naively thought, could bring vengeance on my enemies. When the Aspect of the Sun denied my request, I sought to hold divine might in my own two hands. I would do what others could not, and scale the Mountain to return as an Aspect. I convinced Pylas, my brother-in-arms and the strongest Rakkor I knew, to ascend the peak alongside me. We who had survived the barbarian ambushes would rise to face our most arduous adversary yet, returning to doll out divine punishment to those who had slain our kin. We were supposed to come back together as heroes.
Was it my foolishness that allowed the mountain to claim him?
When I reached the summit, Pylas’ lifeless body steps behind, frost already covering his eyes and lips, I was judged by the stars. I felt their unrelenting gaze bore deep into my soul, my failures spread open for them to see: constantly defeated by my fellow Rakkor in spars, failing to protect my clan from the barbarians, cradling Pylas’ body as he exhaled his final breath moments earlier. The Aspects, cruel and indifferent to the suffering of man, deemed me unworthy to wield their might. The Aspect of War, the Pantheon itself, took possession of my body.
Neither Atreus nor Pylas returned from the climb. I watched, subdued in my own mind, as he razed cities and levelled civilizations in his pursuit of Darkin, exalting war and glory as the purpose for why men live. If only the Aspects knew it is not why we fight, but who we fight for, that gives our battles meaning.
When I fled Nerimazeth, the faux Sun Disk had already been raised, its corrupted light illuminating the night sky. Despite its luminescence polluting the heavens, I could see my namesake star weakly glowing alongside a new light within the fallen Constellation of War.
Asose .
I mutter her name as I collapse into the Shuriman sands. Asose, Asose, Asose . Even though I could not slay the stone-faced Ascended, I will not forget her name. Her last moments-- her face resolute, one arm holding the shield that protected me from the magus’ arcane blast; the other, ruined, sinew charred to a useless crisp-- I will not let be in vain. I swear to remember her name, her face, her bravery.
But how many times have I sworn this vow? How many more brothers and sisters will be sacrificed in my fight? Even though I am far from Targon, I can feel their gaze on me, judging me once more. Heavier than my destiny tattooed on my chest, my gilded breastplate or my spear blessed with celestial might, is the weight of one singular life. A life that I could not save.
Asose , I had shouted, even as my lungs burned and legs quaked. The Ra’Horak had answered my call, hurling spears and locking shields as we stood together. Yet, where are they now? Scattered in the sands and carried as dust in the wind, their remnants remaining only in my mind.
Is it our destiny to endure these mortal coils? To fight only to die?
I can feel Xerath’s Sun Disk burn brighter as his magic, more powerful than any foe I have faced, corrupts the denizens around Western Shurima. Screams and sobs suffuse the sky. He resurrects the once-sacked city with his stolen power, and Nerimazeth is rebuilt in the image of a tyrant. His azure energies streak across the sky, hiding the constellations from my view. I am powerless to do anything but watch.
I awoke to a sword in my chest, and a dark, terrible being towering above me. I could feel the blood taking the spear from my grasp, my breaths shallowing as my spirit wanes. I am almost paralyzed by the pain, but refuse to show it. I will not give it the satisfaction. My strength dimming, I spit in the face of my killer, a final act of defiance in this cruel world. My adversary only sneers at my insult, and leaves me for dead.
Is this my destiny? To ascend Mount Targon only to become an Aspect’s puppet, dying alone and forgotten? My failures flash in my mind, reminding me of what I could have been.
Hours later, I am still alive. Despite the hole in my chest and my sanguine seeping into the dirt below, my biggest injury is that I had been used and discarded, unimportant enough to even kill. Betrayal from and anger at the gods fuel me to rise and stave off the crows and vultures waiting for me to wither. From death’s door, an indomitable will to live and rise again is born. I grip my shield and spear, my lifeline in this world of carnage, and limp back to the Rakkor, a trail of blood in my wake.
Even impaled on a blade, I will press forward. Even then, they will not kill me.
Yet, even a warrior has his doubts. My duty, once linear and straightforward, is now pronged and never-ending. When one foe is vanquished, a stronger being takes its place. My armour and weapons are dulling in the face of these unrelenting threats.
Wouldn’t it be better to lay down the spear and shield, and finally rest?
I can hear Viego’s saccharine words in my mind as we cross arms once again, his voice trying to chip away at my will. His sword, enhanced by the Black Mist rotating around Targon’s peak like a merry-go-round, somehow matches the celestial power that had once slain Demons and Darkin. I know this ruined king is far from my fiercest opponent, but I have not struggled like this for years. Has my strength diminished?
The Mist blocks out the environment around us. I can hardly see the stars, my constellation in the heavens, or the Rakkor villages at Targon’s base. Distant in my mind is the knowledge that Iula’s cottage is not too far, and a part of me yearns to return even in the midst of battle. The Mist is a parasite, slowly leeching away at my strength as it seeks to bolster itself using my doubts.
Viego sneers as he charges once again, his movements accelerated by the unholy darkness he champions. I find myself deflecting more strikes as I am forced to yield ground. With a yell, I manage to shake him off; before I can counter with an attack of my own, he disappears into the Mist, sending several ghouls in his stead. By the time I dispatch them, my breath is ragged. Sweat forms on my brow as my vision is blurred under my helm.
I hear a clamor of voices and turn to see the Aspect of the Moon vaguely behind the Mist, her silver aura pushing the darkness back. With her arm outstretched and mouth open, Diana rushes forward in a moonbeam, but I do not hear her words in the din of the Mist. I realize, too late, that it was a warning. Distracted, I do not notice Viego approaching from behind until he runs his blade through me.
I feel nothing as the Black Mist suffuses into my wound. I do not fear oblivion, for death is the only thing that has ever embraced me. But as Veigo enters my mind, promising me an end to my Sisyphean crusade and a resting place on a distant farm, I find his tantalizations harder to resist, and as the Mist seeps into my mind and explores my soul, I can feel Veigo’s influence grow. At last, he finds what he has been looking for: not Atreus, but Pantheon. He calls out to the dormant Aspect, resurrecting War. Slowly, the stars above me glow with a sickly green hue. Dispair sends chills down my ruined body. Against two wills, one fueled by vengeance and longing, the other with celestial malice and intent, I am overpowered.
In the distance, I vaguely notice Diana’s shouting and the flashes of light from ancient relics. I close my eyes as I am once against cast to the depths of my consciousness. Viego’s crown forms above my head, a mocking halo signaling his mark in the heavens. The divine Pantheon is reborn.
The fall does not hurt as much this time. Already, I plant my sandals into the dirt, soiled with my blood and sweat, and rise. I adjust my helm and squint at Pylas, leaning casually on his spear, tip buried in the earth. His spotless gilded armor and cerulean cape catch the sun’s rays majestically; I briefly wonder how my own apparel looks, undoubtedly bloodied and tattered.
“Atreus, again and again, you never learn,” he sighs, “always charging in without a plan. If you stopped to think and use your head, you might actually learn something from each of your defeats.”
“But I do,” I grit out despite the aches in my bones, “I have found my limit a thousand times over, and still I press further.”
I point my spear at his breastplate and charge once more.
As the fog in my head cleared, shame takes its place. The Sentinels have done what I could not, defeating the Black Mist and the Ruined King. With Viego subdued, the Pantheon receded from the forefront of my mind, yet the consequences of my once-slain Aspect’s actions remain.
“I almost brought war to humanity,” I choke out.
I wasn’t strong enough.
Looking around the Isles, I note the others that were under Viego’s influence: a narcissistic axeman, a rueful pirate, and a sullen dragon-lady. Their regret, like mine, tangibly permeates the air. At least they have the excuse of losing to a mystical being. They do not house the power of the Aspects.
I turn my gaze to the Aspect of the Moon. While lacking a clear path of her own, she resisted Ruination and actively fought against it. Her will exceeded that of Viego’s, and thus mine as well.
How far have I fallen? Am I even worthy to wield these weapons and bear this armour? Can I still call myself a champion of humanity when--
“Atreus,” Diana’s firm yet gentle voice breaks my preoccupation, “can you stand?”
I look up at her outstretched hand. After a moment, I wordlessly accept her help. My stature towers over hers, but I had never felt so small.
Diana studies my face under the glow of her ambient moonlight, but I cannot bring myself to meet her eyes. Her gaze softens slightly as she steps back.
“Don’t fret. It’s over.”
Is it ever, though?
My eyes are squeezed shut but against my eyelids, I can still see the infrared outline of celestial magics streaking toward me, as determined and inevitable as death. Targon’s might seems insurmountable from the base of the Mountain. From above, we must look like puny ants to them.
I lower my head and feel the heaven’s heat on my nape. The comets burn impossibly bright-- a cruel reminder of the might I used to wield. I tried to take arms against the Aspects, and they retaliated with impunity. I was foolish to think I could fight the gods without the Pantheon’s powers.
How can a single person halt the ocean? We can only move along with the tide, swept up in its currents only to struggle to keep our heads afloat until we inevitably drown. To fight against life’s ebbs is to paddle vainly against the riptide. We have crossed the event horizon from the moment we are born human, powerless and unable to escape. Only divinity has the capabilities to enact change; the rest of us can only wait at their mercy.
I am no different. I am only a man.
You need to honor the sacrifices we’ve all made. You need to stop the Aspects from destroying our people entirely.
Iula’s words echo in my mind as her retreating form grows smaller and smaller. I bow my head, noticing absentmindedly the thin trail of blood descending down my tunic. Pylas’ blade. Although he is long gone, his spirit still survives in the wife he had left behind. The widow whose spouse I had killed.
He was my husband, but he went with you up that accursed mountain, even though I begged him not to. He was mine, and you lost him up there!
I had sworn to never forget you, Pylas, but I cannot remember your taunts during our spars, or your unparalleled skill with the spear and shield.
I can’t even remember your last words.
You got to hold him, Atreus. You got to hold him as he died. And what did I get?
I grab the hilt of his sword, feeling how ill-balanced the steel was in my hand. It had been long since I wield the weapons of the Ra’Horak; yet, I had always believed that these extensions of myself, trained from decades of honing both mind and body under the unforgiving sun, would never feel foreign. But now I cannot even recognize myself. I rotate the double-edged blade until I see my reflection in the sun-tempered steel.
What would you say to me now, old friend?
He died for you, so you could become something greater than any Ra’Horak. Greater than any mortal.
But I’m not. My Aspect is dead. Whatever celestial power I held has been snuffed out. I am just a man.
You need to get back up, Atreus . You need to prove that you’re worthy of the faith my husband had in you.
I sheathe Pylas’ sword and rest it against the kitchen table gently. Old friend, how many times I have wished that it was you that came back instead of me. You were always the stronger of us two.
You swore that you would stand against them, Atreus. That you would not let this world’s fate be decided by such inhuman monsters.
I have tried. From Shurima to Targon, I have been beaten and broken. I’m not strong enough to slay fallen Ascended and undead kings and cruel Aspects. I believed that simply enduring would be enough, but I am tired, so damn tired.
Don’t you dare tell me about what you’ve lost, and how you can’t go on anymore. This isn’t about you. It never has been.
Iula, I came to you wanting to be set free of my burden, but perhaps that possibility never existed. Maybe it died with Pylas on Targon’s peak. I know that my peaceful ending-- a farm, bread above the hearth-- will be lost if I wield my spear and don my armor again.
Stop trying to justify what you want, and do what you know you should.
I know, but I don’t know if I am able to. To fulfill my promise to you all, I must ascend Targon a nigh impossible third time.
Maybe it’s fitting that in the end, we cycle back to the beginning.
When I look to the mountain's peak, in my mind, I have already fallen. And so, I climb.
Failure is as inevitable as death. Stronger beings than me have faltered in the face of the Mountain. Yet only a warrior who has ever tasted defeat knows how to persevere. He alone knows that our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. We were never fated to bow.
We are privileged to breathe, to taste the air. It is the last gasp of all who have died before us.
Pylas, my brother, I am sorry that I have faltered. I do not know when I began to lose sight, but I vow to always rise once more and remember our mortality. Life, after all, is only precious because it ends.
For those who have fallen-- my pantheon, brothers and sisters who have bled, who have lived and loved and lost.
Your sacrifices will not be in vain.
I put on my helm once more as I rise and stare, defiant, into the comets the heavens have sent toward me. The Aspect of the Sun watches from the ledge I fell, but my eyes focus on the peak of the mountain and the stars above.
If the Aspects wished to send one of their own, then I will respond. No mortals will be playthings in this battle; I shall bring War to the doors of Targon Prime.
I take one last look at the bodies and weapons of the fallen around me. They had looked to the stars for strength, never searching within themselves. Yet, the twilight of the gods comes each morning, when our world shines brighter than the stars.
Streams of energy flow into my spear and armor, my mortal will igniting my helm’s plume once more. I feel celestial power, infused with the strength of humanity, coursing through my body as I leap into the sky, a burning trail of light in my wake.
Here is my eternity… a day the gods will remember!