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In the blissful phase between sleep and waking, all that Magolor knew was that he was very wet and very cold. Neither of these were comfortable, but the dull patter that filled the background with gentle noise kept him comfortable enough to cling to that hazy intermittent. There was a sense of exhaustion that was buried even deeper in his sense of awareness, further encouraging his repose until, all at once, the illusion of peace exploded into a barrage of pain and ill-fated memories.
His lifelong mission. The dream that he had chased after for years. It had been in his grasp for such a fleeting moment that there were no traces of victory to taste. The Master Crown had been his, but its destructive influence had dug its talons into his mind and stripped away all of his free will, twisting him into a husk that was nothing more than an extension of the parasitic relic and its desire for complete control. He had shattered under pressure like brittle glass, and the only dignity he could cling to was knowing that someone had been able to put him down before he could do something irreversible.
A fierce pang set the nerves of his chest and midriff on fire, the presence of an unidentifiable wound grounding him in the present so thoroughly that he was almost able to convince himself that it didn’t hurt to begin with. When a second blipped by and the irritation grew stronger, he relented. Keeping his eyes tightly shut, he shoved one hand past the hem of his overshirt and underneath his belt, feeling around until he managed to slip beneath his undershirt. Starting from the left clavicle and reaching across his stomach to touch his right hip was a deep incision. The flesh around it was raw and tender, as though it was fresh, but the actual injury had already scarred over. Another assemblage of foul reminders clogged his brain, the images of being sliced in half and instantaneously repaired leaving him prone on the ground and wracked with a horrible migraine.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Sliced in half. Sliced. In. Half. It had been done with such ease. How many times had Kirby done that before, he wondered?
Magolor’s ears pulled back as soon as the name came to mind. The bitter and cynical part of him understood that it was that stupid idiot’s fault he was in such pain, but the kinder side reminded him that Kirby had responded to his pleas for help. In his own strange way, sure, but a response nonetheless. Unfortunate, then, that if his intention had been to kill him for good, it had clearly failed.
When he eventually gained the courage to open his eyes, a world of mist and darkened hues greeted him. The patchwork sky told him right away that he had been flung into Another Dimension, suspended islets creating the impression of an archipelago that surrounded the place where he had landed. A constant drizzle rained lightly from an unseeable source, turning the ground into muddy puddles where enough water had collected and veiling the scenery with a despondency that matched his distorted heart. Empty space stretched past the deformed horizon that was made by the suspended cluster of land, granting no end in sight and no way for him to leave. Fake stars twinkled in the atmosphere to mock him, forever reminding him of a home he could no longer reach.
Briefly, Magolor considered the convenience of the easy way out. Starving didn’t sound very palatable, but there were other ways. He could finagle something. His undying curiosity, however, won him over as it always did. For now, this was an opportunity to learn things about Another Dimension that he had not known before. If he ever changed his mind, then he could finagle something.
He pushed himself upright with his elbows, balking at the sensation of atrophy that caused his muscles to ache. It felt like several years had passed since the last time he had moved around, but he knew that was impossible. He would have certainly been dead if that was the case, and apart from his healed lesion, there were no physical signs that he had aged or deteriorated at all. He tried to shift again, this time to change into a sitting position, only for his legs to drag across the ground like lead weights. Horror skittered up his spine at the deprivation of control, his gaze dropping down to the exposed metal and circuitry of his prosthetics. The bottom half of his pants had been torn off some time during his jump between worlds, and with his boots were nowhere to be found, his artificial replacements were now thoroughly caked in mud and grime. The connection module that allowed him to operate the machinery telepathically must have stopped working.
“No, no, no no no,” he breathed out frantically, reaching out and nudging his legs apart so that he could start dragging himself across the ground. There were several pillars of stone blocks stacked on top of each other that surrounded him in a circular fashion, and though his newly tattered rags were now also smeared with dirt, he hauled forward with every ounce of strength he could muster to prop himself up against one of them. Tearing off his gloves, he ran his fingers down the length of the implants to make sure none of the screws were missing, trying to scrub away the mire along the way.
Externally, nothing was out of place. None of the articulation joints bent smoothly, and some of the gold plating had begun to peel away, but they were mostly functional. That was ideal. Replacing the connection module was far less complicated than having to repair the actual integrity of the replacements. That realization didn’t make him feel any better about no longer having functional legs, but he could just use magic to levitate himself instead. Even though it would require a little more of attention because of the extra weight, he had enough practice in subconsciously drifting just above the ground that it wouldn’t be too much of an effort.
With a shaky sigh, Magolor put his gloves back on and held out his hands, murmuring the levitation spell so quietly that he almost couldn’t hear it. Nothing happened. A second attempt only caused a tiny spark of energy to fizzle out from his palms before it was whisked away by the wind, and an arcane emptiness gnawed at his bones from within. Nearly all of the magic that wasn’t innately tied to him had been stripped away.
Panic-stricken tears threatened to spill from his eyes, and he furiously wiped them away with his sleeve. Against all odds, he had found a way to reach below rock bottom, reduced to a state of being that he didn’t think was even possible for his kind. He had spent a significant portion of his recent life relying on magic for even the simplest of tasks, and that had clearly spoiled him. He had no idea what he was going to do. Jerry-rigging an easy way out didn’t even seem like a viable option anymore, what with the vast majority of tools he might have used to craft one no longer being available to him.
Despite everything, a sliver of stubbornness insisted he hold on. The unknown offered limitless prospects, and the reaches of Another Dimension were supposedly immense. Maybe there was a way out, and all he had to do was find it.
Magery was a complicated art. It was one thing to read the books and memorize the incantations that had to be spoken to perform it, but weaving multiple spells together was where its true potential lied. The majority of spells that Magolor knew were, in actuality, multiple kinds laced together to make the effects more precise or potent. He could sense that he still had the capacity to perform weaker spells, so if he deconstructed the layers that had been stacked together to create his unique brand of personal hovering, he might be able to pull it off in spite of his weakened state.
It took an immense amount of concentration to not only remember the original, separated pseudowords, but also to remember how they were pronounced. Saying them incorrectly wouldn’t activate the spell, and he’d been mere a kit when he’d first learnt them. With a bit of persistence, though, he was able to recall the one for levitation and immediately cast it. It was wholly unlike how he was used to it working, only decreasing the gravity of his prosthetics instead of his entire body, and not being able to independently manipulate his legs continued to be an unenjoyable loss. Still, this was progress, and that provided him with a bit more confidence than before. Being able to finally pick himself off the ground was doing miracles to soothe his mangled ego.
The new perspective also granted him a better view of his surroundings. There was grass that sprouted from the dirt and a howling wind that carried his cloak with it every now and then, meaning that some semblance of life did exist here – just not intelligent life. A large, cathedral-like structure surrounded most of the island he was, casting their long silhouettes over him whenever he passed by crumbling walls and towing arches. It was more likely that the architecture had been copied from a location in the original dimension, rather than an actual civilization having once taken root here. If the latter did happen to be the case, it was evident that these buildings had long since been abandoned in favor of another home. His failure to recognize any of the designs meant that he had no clue which society might have built them, either. He was starting to acquire more questions than answers, and that never failed to irritate him.
Upon reaching an altar of sorts, he decided to take a break from exploring and took shelter underneath one of the unlit torches, the labor of keeping himself afloat for even a few minutes having already overtaxed his small reserve of energy. Pulling up his legs to be level with his chest, he rested the side of his face against his knees and stared out into the endless skyline. He hated weakness. He hated being weak. It made him feel helpless, which meant having to rely on others, and relying on others meant that he had to be sincere. Everything he had done for himself had been in service of being independent, incapable of grasping what true friendship meant. Every tome he had stolen, every lie he had told, every spell he had learned, they all meant nothing now. The consequence of these actions had been stolen from his life, as though he’d never lived to begin with. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe that was the point, and this was punishment for being such a terrible person in order to exist without any genuine connections.
As he rubbed away another cycle of shedded tears, the distant flap of wings reached him past the neverending rain. He glanced up just in time to see a butterfly flitting over to the raised platform next to him, vermillion-tinted wings fanning out behind it to roost on the table’s curve. Magolor couldn’t help but perk up at the sight. Its general appearance reminded him of the lepidopteran families he had seen on Popstar during his short stay there, though this one was noticeably larger than the ones that had flown by whenever he was taking a break from working on the Lor. If he had to hazard a guess, it must have passed through one of the rifts that Kirby had made while looking for Energy Spheres, and it hadn’t been able to follow him back out. How unfortunate that they shared a similar fate.
Thin antennae twitched in his direction before the insect fluttered over to rest on his leg. Fascinated, the mage held out his hand, and it quickly relocated to perching over the knuckles of his fingers. “What I wouldn’t give to be on Popstar right now,” he quipped, drenched in wistfulness.
What is it that you would offer?
Magolor blinked hard, swiveling his ears forward. What he had heard hadn’t been a true voice; more like an impression of one, ringing in his mind like the chime of a bell. Pleasant, but hauntingly intimate for a reason he couldn’t place. “...what?”
What could you give to return to the land that you came from?
It almost sounded childish, a mere whisper carried by a faint breeze. “No, that’s–” He paused, gesturing vaguely with unsteady hands. “I heard you the first time, but I don’t understand. Where are you?”
I am right here.
Hating the mere notion of the obvious, he looked down at the butterfly and frowned. “You’re kidding me.” Its wings stirred, expectancy radiating from the motion as it remained silent. “You’re a talking bug?”
In a sense.
Clicking his tongue ruefully, Magolor shook his head and turned away. What a strange way to find out he was also going mad. Might as well indulge in what frivolousness he could find in this barren, lonely land. “For the record, I was being hyperbolic. I have nothing to give, even if I thought there was someone out here who could help.”
I had hoped to guide you elsewhere, the butterfly replied, but what I require from you is no longer whole, and therefore I cannot be of assistance.
Magolor squinted. “Excuse me? There’s a lot to unpack there. Are you saying you came here with the expectation of helping me conditionally?”
My attendance is not a matter of choice. Rather, it is a duty that I must perform. Seeing as how you are still alive, it seems that obligation will go unfulfilled for the time being. That this scenario has now occurred twice does not bode well for the future.
He was puzzled by the vagueness of it all until the disconnected pieces suddenly slotted together, terror filling his brain with antiquated excerpts from old history books and passed down tales of an unfathomable afterlife. Instinctively, his hand snapped back, and the butterfly took to the air in response to its resting place being removed. Now he realized why the voice felt so familiar: it was exactly how the Master Crown had spoken to him before. “If you’re here to take my soul, you can’t have it yet.”
You know what I am? the wretched invertebrate asked plainly.
“Yes!” snapped Magolor as he drew himself up, reigniting the levitation spell and moving away from the altar. “Now leave me alone. I’ll take my chances with Doomers before I let you whisk me away to some stupid paradise I don’t believe in.”
Of course, it still followed after him, expertly dodging a magical sphere that was hastily thrown in its direction. As I said, I cannot carry out such a responsibility as you are now. Your soul is broken.
He stopped in his tracks. Emptiness pressed against his ribs, and he splayed a hand over where his heart would be underneath it all. “Broken?”
When the warmly colored arthropod landed on his shoulder, he did not protest. You were meant to have succumbed to death before you could reach this place. Instead, your spirit clung to life, despite being so thoroughly drained as fuel. It is now fragmented. This has incapacitated you greatly.
Ignoring the returning visages of being bisected and the feelings of vacancy, his eyes widened with hope. “Wait, if my soul is why my powers are all out of whack, does that mean fixing it would also fix my magic?”
Theoretically.
“Well! I’m off to do just that, then!” He was only able to coast over the paved stone for a few more inches before the levitation spell stuttered out, and he collapsed on his hands and knees. Desperate to not cry on the spot for a third time, he slammed a fist against the flooring and rolled over onto his back, seething where he was. “Later, I guess! I’ll do it later. Yes, definitely later.”
The butterfly – or, more aptly, the reaper – wafted down to relocate itself on the clip of his belt. It said nothing in reply, content to settle down where it was.
Magolor, who was so used to constant background noise and activity, found the abrupt stillness of his surroundings to be disturbing. He raised his eyes to the sky directly above, watching the network of interconnected squares swirl around in arbitrary directions. If he was being honest, he’d been lucky to not come across any dangerous entities in Another Dimension so far. The distinct lack of Sphere Doomers was equal parts relieving and concerning, their absence an oddity that he wasn’t sure he wanted to dig further into. Without any Energy Spheres around to draw their interest, maybe they had congregated elsewhere? Somehow, though, he doubted they would be the only monsters he came across.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked of the reaper after some time, twiddling his thumbs in an effort to expel the kinetic energy that had been building up from his idling. “Okay, wait, before I ask that, do you have a name? For sake of convenience.”
I am Morpho Knight.
“...knight?” Magolor repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Yes. It is a title I acquired by happenstance. You may simply refer to me as Morpho, if that is easier-
“Don’t explain that any further, let me come back to that,” he interrupted, craning his neck to observe the butterfly’s antennae quiver again. “You said this had happened twice, not being able to...collect my soul, I think? When was the first time I was supposed to die?”
Morpho paused, perfectly motionless. Do you know what my purpose is, or do you simply know that I exist?
This was a stupid conversation, Magolor bemoaned to himself. Willing his body to not feel tired didn’t speed up the recovery process for his magic, though, so he was stuck where he was for the time being. “The latter. Back where I come from, we tell kits fairy tales about reapers to get them to behave.”
Again, the butterfly was quiet, as though it couldn’t decide whether or not he was worth explaining things to. When someone very powerful is on the brink of death, we are made to gather them. To bring them to paradise, as you said. But we only exist to do so for a single individual, and you are not the one I was born to harvest the soul of. I failed to bring them to their final destination.
A twinge of pride filled Magolor’s chest at being seen as formidable. “I suppose even reapers can err.”
It was not a fault of my own. For the same reason that you continue to live, the knight eludes me. It has caused...problems. Morpho’s wings flapped erratically. Is this what frustration feels like? I am not sure.
The mage pulled at a strand of hair that had fallen between his eyes. “If there are supposed to be more of you, how come you want to take my soul? Not gonna happen just because I’m asking about it, by the way.”
My inability to course-correct has brought about the disappearance of other reapers. They have stopped manifesting. I am the only one left to carry on with the work.
Morpho’s voice failed to carry much intonation or mood, but something about the phrasing made it come across as regretful. Inexplicably, Magolor now felt bad that he was making its job difficult, even though he hadn’t quite yet decided if he was ready to kick the can. “Does that mean you’ll keep following me around until I inevitably die?”
Given the perilous nature of this world, I believe it is opportune to remain with you in preparation for the moment that you do lose your life one way or another.
His ears flattened. “That’s not very encouraging.” Quickly, before the other could say anything, he added, “So, that knight guy is why your name is Morpho Knight? Since you were made to reap them?”
...yes.
For all the lackluster that it could muster in its tone, Magolor knew the wavering of a bad liar from miles away, even without a face to read. Being proficient in deception made it easy to see it from others. Even so, a gut feeling dissuaded him from attempting to pursue the truth. Forbidden knowledge was what had led him down this ill-gotten path of crushed expectations and repeated back-stabbings. Letting go of the endless pursuit of unobtainable enlightenment, no matter how difficult it seemed, was the only way for him to move on. No more crowns. No more dreams of dominion. If there was a basis for Morpho not being truthful, it was probably a good one.
I sense a change in you, the butterfly commented with vague intrigue.
“I’m still working on it. I just...I want to go home. But everyone back home despises me, and I bet everyone on Popstar despises me now. Where else am I supposed to go if I find a way out of here? Especially without the Lor.”
Saying the ship’s name made him cringe right after. It was one thing to be loathed. That, he had learned to accept as the status quo. But not having access to his ship, his ship, hurt him in a way that he couldn’t express through words. Stolen or not, the love he professed for it would never be an exaggeration. Seeing as how the last time he’d seen it was when Kirby had thoroughly thrashed it while crossing through Another Dimension, the odds of him finding it intact – let alone at all – were slim.
The Lor probably despised him, too, now that he thought about it.
Since he was little, Magolor had always grappled with feeling apologetic about objectively bad things. The ends justified the means and all of that. To finally accept the idea that he was capable of experiencing regret for his actions and then immediately be struck with a kind of guilt that was utterly incomprehensible to him was a real middle finger from the universe, and he was beginning to ponder if a higher power had a vendetta against him specifically. Not that it wasn’t deserved (it was a little deserved), but this was getting a bit ridiculous.
With caution, he sat up, watching Morpho take flight as he repositioned his legs. When he was done, it landed on one of his knees. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”
Go ahead.
“When I almost died,” he articulated past clenched teeth, “I think I would have been okay with that happening right then and there. I mean, losing to a teenager is pretty embarrassing! Haha. Hah...” He hesitated, scratching at his bare arm. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t know why I’m still alive. You said something about my spirit hanging on, but I wasn’t trying to. So what kept me here?”
The reaper contemplated his inquiry with an incline of its head. Someone stronger than you wished for you to live.
He furrowed his brows in confusion before the implication hit him with the force of a full-speed freight train. Wetness gathered at the corners of his eyes for the fourth time, but he was able to will them away. Despite all that he had done, deep inside he knew that such could only belong to Kirby, regardless of how badly he didn’t want to believe it. He really was altruistic to a fault.
With a grunt of effort, he raised himself up and rekindled the levitation spell, motivated more than ever to forge ahead. “If that pink idiot wants to see me again so badly, I probably shouldn’t disappoint, huh?” he mumbled scornfully to himself, hiking up his scarf and moving forward.
Morpho found a more comfortable place to hide within the confines of his hood, protected from the majority of the outside world. I am interested to see where your persistence takes you.
The mage laughed, authentic for the first time in a long while. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve!”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
As the last remnants of an ancient malevolency faded into oblivion and the sky glittered with falling leaves and crystal shards, Magolor couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by a sense of closure he never thought would be in the cards for him. He was battered and bruised, heavy gasps escaping him as he struggled to smother the burning fatigue in his limbs and remain upright. With the Master Crown destroyed and the Sphere Doomers banished to some faraway corner of Another Dimension, he stood triumphant over them all, his soul mended and powers restored through sheer determination. There were no more obstacles that stood in his way.
The adrenaline eventually faded away, allowing him to clear his head and even out his breathing into something far less volatile. Rubble and destruction surrounded him on all fronts as a testament to the finality of his culminating fight with the Master Crown, no trace of the altar and its pillars having survived the chaos. Dislodged machinery and gears hung suspended in the air, bound to orbit around the other floating islands in due time. Before his feet was the rusted, decrepit blade he had found among the wreckage to use as a final gambit, and he reached down to pick it up in his hands once more. The weight of it in his grasp was foreign, but one he embraced like a lifeline. Though he wasn’t used to wielding weapons, especially ones that were as large as swords, he was sure that he would now never be able to live without one in reach.
Before he could even begin to evaluate his next best move, multi-colored streaks of radiance began to leak from a small crack forming in the aether, tendrils of pure magic lashing out alongside the formation of a five-pointed dimensional rift. A way out.
Caught within the sunlight that glowed from the opening, Magolor felt his entire body tremble. Stress, relief, weariness, they all swirled together in his chest. He’d lost count of how many moments he’d spent crying or almost crying by now, so when he felt the line of tears running down his face again, all he could do was swab them away, just as he did every other time. There was no telling where this gateway would take him, but judging by the congenial climate that was pouring from it, he figured it was at least habitable for most.
Overhead, a butterfly with red and orange wings coasted across the horizon to see him.
With a stupid smile on his face, Magolor held out one hand for Morpho to land on, contentment squashing down all of the other agitated emotions that were vying for the front row seat. The reaper had absconded before his scuffled with the crowned Grand Doomer, undoubtedly to avoid getting caught in the crossfires of a significantly more perilous situation. “Looks like you won’t be having my soul for a little while longer.”
You must be very happy to return home. If that is so, why do you weep?
“Huh? Oh.” He sniffled a little, using the heel of his palm to dry his cheeks. “I guess I’ve kept my feelings bottled up for so long that now I have to let them all out. I didn’t think anyone would be able to help me, but...you made me realize that there’s someone out there who cares about me, even though I haven’t been the nicest to him. But what about you? What are you going to do now?”
The world is changing often nowadays, but my purpose remains the same. Eventually, I will join paths with the star-crossed knight once more, as the universe intended.
“Do you think we’ll see each other again? Not counting near-death scenarios, I mean.”
I do not understand what it is like to feel happy or sad, so I would like to learn from others while I am alone. You seem to fall into the company of those who are also very strong. Because that is the case, there may come a time where we meet, be it by chance or fate.
Morpho was airborne before he could respond, flying so high into the sky that it winked out of sight like the ember of a crackling fire stolen by the wind. It took a sense of warmth along with it, leaving Magolor cold without the company he had grown accustomed to. Even so, he ignored the dejection that nipped at his heart, instead embracing the gleaming future that lay just ahead. It would be difficult. He knew that. Old habits died hard, and he could think of several names who wouldn’t likely forgive him anytime soon. But Morpho was right about the world being in a constant state of change, and that meant there would be some place right for him. He just had to put in the work to find it.
Floating up to the portal, he took one final look behind him. The green of the void, which had once been a sickly shade, had taken on a hue more akin to viridian. No longer was the atmosphere charged with danger and tension, the dispersal of the Sphere Doomers and their smaller relatives now lending an aesthetic calmness to the severed landscape. Maybe he could return here one day to further peruse the anonymous ruins, when his life was a little more stable.
Gripping his sword tightly in one hand, Magolor closed his eyes and passed through the dimensional rift. The last thing he hoped for before the light enveloped him was that the Lor was somewhere safe and intact.