Day 3 Evening

[Magus]

Colossal raindrops the size of grapes pelted him as he lay in the mud, the taste of blood on his lips and the heat of agony in his chest. For what felt like an eternity, he could not take a breath, nor fade away, though his lungs burned for lack of air.

The strange, black tendrils that teased at the periphery of his vision whenever he made a Shadowstep had appeared again. Perhaps he was dying, ebbing further and further from the material plane. Perhaps the infernal denizens from where his magic came would claim him when he died.

Interesting concept. The ramifications were worse than death. Worse than Hell, even. At least, worse than the Hell as described by his victims. Many times he’d been cursed before ending a life. Damn you to hell, they said. Only one time it resonated with him. Perhaps it was the time he most truly deserved it, as the words had come from a schoolteacher who he’d put to death. And then her students.

And then, finally, with one long, gasping breath, he arched his back and began to cough. Blood spattered his face and chest and the violence of his hacking sent spears of anguish radiating throughout his torso. Waves of sickening heat radiated from his flesh, but the frigid rain brought great comfort to him as he relaxed again and laid there, in the mud and the blood and the defeat.

He took a shaky, wheezing breath, and then another. With each painful rise and fall of his chest, the ominous tendrils at the corners of his sight faded further and further away, until they were gone, and all he could hear was the constant pattering of rain and rumblings of thunder. And the occasional shriek or wub-wub from his new ally’s weapon.

But it was Kopaka who suddenly towered over him, looking down at him and shading his face from the rain. Magus looked up at the Toa with scarlet eyes burning with anger and pain and shame. How hamstrung he was without his magic. How utterly useless.

The ice creature extended his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Magus took it. The pain in his chest as he was hauled to his feet was debilitating, but the Demon King took it in stride, having immediately noticed the actual demon tending to Link.

“Is he dead?” Magus asked at once.

“No, he just took a savage hit to the head. He’ll feel about as shitty as you look once he wakes up, but I don’t see any reason that he shouldn’t be alright. I mean, relatively speaking, anyway,” Crowley replied, having to shout over the din of the storm.

Magus stiffly picked up his chainsaw, gritting his teeth against the pain that throbbed in his chest, and made his way over to the one he had felled. A booted foot roughly turned the corpse over so that Magus could see his face.

“Redgrave,” he said at once.

They had fought in the Colosseum. The man was a formidable opponent, and had nearly defeated the Fiendlord there. It was a stroke of good fortune that he was able to quite literally cut the man down before the devil could hit his stride – things may have had turned out quite differently if it were so.

Magus looked over to Kopaka, then to Crowley and Link. He hung his head.

“I am… sorry,” the magister finally said. “It was my decision to come this way. My decision to attack. I should have done more.”

“You protected Link and Crowley. We could all have done more. Regardless, we fared better than our adversaries. They will emerge one sword arm fewer. Attrition will be harsher for them than for us.”

“Perhaps,” Magus allowed. The Hylian stirred and Crowley helped him to sit up. Vague familiarity overwhelmed him again, and he found himself again questioning why he felt as though he already knew the one called Link. The wizard looked back at his masked comrade. “We will emerge from this as victors, Kopaka. I’ll not let the ones who did this to Link escape judgement. We’ll slaughter everyone who stands in our way and we will get you the Mouse, as well.”

“Then perhaps we should focus on Relics for now. He has hidden himself behind some very powerful allies,” the Toa replied.

“He has indeed. But you’re right. We shall not be cut down by foolishness and emotion. We had not come this far heeding bleeding hearts and the lust for blood.”

He spoke of pragmatism and rationality – both traits that had come to define him. But beneath the façade, he harbored deeper, more fiery motivations. He’d find the little one who’d broken his ribs, oh yes. The poor girl would suffer for the pain inflicted on him. She would suffer until her heart stopped beating for the very last time.

And the Mouse and his friends? If they were lucky, they would expire before he could set upon them.