Demon Spear

A Wild ARMs III Drabble By

Black Waltz 0


During the excavation of Yggdrasil by the wanted outlaws, the Maxwell Gang, Clive Winslett had been the one to rip the mythical spear Glumzamber from the half-embalmed corpse of Janus Cascade.

It had split him easily in two, almost, but held firm, embedded in the destroyed demon's back. Clive had felt like king Arthur somewhat, pulling the sword from the stone. The information in the destroyed tower had to be perfectly preserved for the future generations of Filgaia's children, that was what Clive inherently thought. The Dark Spear was the key and the heart of the tower's evil knowledge.

As the scholar of the group, the dark spear was entrusted into Clive's care. It was too precious to be kept anywhere or hidden secretly, because there was always the off chance that it would be found again. Clive became accustomed to feeling the heavy shifting weight of the Glumzamber against his back now, a playmate of his ARM Gungnir. It was almost too heavy for him to carry, but he endured it. He constantly endured. Sometimes when his mind wandered, he vaguely entertained the thought of one day using the Dark Spear himself in the heat of melee battle.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? The Dark Spear turned its wielder into a copy of its owner.

Clive knew all about the powers of weapons of ancient lore. In fact, his ARM of choice was named Gungnir, the favored weapon of Odin, Chief God of wisdom, who gave his left eye in payment for all the knowledge of the world. He had received so many joking comments over that fact in the years he spent in a rural university, working towards his trainee ship in practical archaeology, because of his own bad eyesight and his knack for absorbing information. He had been a young Odin then, thirsting for that which he couldn't obtain.

Now he had something far greater. He knew it. He could feel it.

And the dreams.

Oh God, the dreams.

Had Janus cringed in the corner of his hotel room night after night, dreaming the visions of Siegfried wavering in and out of the mists haunting the room, mists he knew weren't there, but hung in the atmosphere like a swaddling shroud? If so, then it made sense that Clive saw Janus Cascade each night in the vast emptiness of baleful sleep, always an arm's length away. But when he closed his eyes, which made the child inside him grimace and whimper and wish that he was anywhere but here, he could feel hands on his body, under his clothing, caressing, touching him everywhere.

In his mind's eye he envisioned sky blue hair and golden brown eyes, like fine whiskey from Little Twister. The evil, devilish smirk. Was Janus now the ghost of the Dark Spear? Did it haunt him as revenge for desecrating his vacant, now faded flesh?

Or was the Dark Spear perhaps seeking a new master?

Clive could feel it calling out to him, beckoning him, using Janus' willing soul as oh so delectable bait. The most horrifying truth was that Clive knew that he wanted to go to it, and feel Janus' vaporous form as real flesh beneath him. It was corrupting, he felt it burning like hated evil in his heart, and he knew that the spear was to blame for everything.

If he went to it now and became its new master, assuming the form that Siegfried and Janus had taken, eventually he would have to leave his shell and walk the same path that they did. He would be forced into the role of forbidding tempter to another innocent person who wanted the spear for the good of all mankind, or for evil. Clive would make them choose evil, because that was what the Dark Spear wanted.

Clive wanted Janus. He was in the room. He could feel him.

As far as he was now concerned, the Dark Spear had won. He was tired of fighting it.

The green-haired sniper stood up from the corner of the room that he had been huddled in, shedding his dull red coat. The spear had been resting against a chair near the table. The thick bulbous jewel set in its pommel was like an eye, watching him.

He took the spear by its haft and lifted it. It felt fine. Clive smiled.

Arms wrapped themselves around Clive's waist, gently tugging him backwards. They felt incorporeal in the very beginning, made of smoke, but eventually they solidified and became real. Cold breath washed against the back of his neck.

A quiet voice, low and soft, fog on the moors.

"You ready?"

Had Odin been ready to rip his own eye out in exchange for all the wisdom in the world?

God, he needed this. Just to be free. For the torment to stop.

"Yes…" Said Clive, the words hissing out from around his teeth, his mouth formed in a deadly smile, his voice sounding almost serpentine.

"I am."