Chapter Text
“ Now. ”
It’s a hiss in his auditory peripheral, a glimpse of sharp ruthlessness that he didn’t expect to hear in this corridor of the Akademiya. He would expect it from a desert ranger, a bandit, a common criminal. He would expect it from a hardened mercenary with more goldlust than decency.
He would not expect it from a scholar, and so he is unprepared. The Akademiya was meant to be safe -
( But you knew it wasn’t, his mind whispers. You knew they hated you. They kept you out of the loop, they hid knowledge from you, they whispered behind your back and they called you a filthy desert dweller. Is this such a surprise?
Yes, Yes, it is. )
He is unprepared. His guard is not down, per se, it never is when inside the lion's den, but holding weapons drawn in a place of knowledge is typically unseemly behavior for a matra. In the half-second that it takes to summon his polearm from his inventory, it’s already too late.
Hands grab him, pulling at him, dragging him down, trying to suffocate him. His polearm is too long, too unwieldy for such close quarters. He drops it and struggles, instead, using his elbows and nails and feet to try and pull and kick and punch his way free, to reach for the knife he has hidden somewhere, if he could just, if he could just -
His fingers graze against the blade just as something collides, hard, with the back of his head.
Sparks fill his vision. Cyno sways, falters, and it’s enough to drag him down, to force him to the floor, hands and bodies pinning his arms, his legs, his chest down. Something is stuffed in his mouth, some wad of cloth, muffling his voice, and it’s only then that he realizes he could have screamed for help.
Funny, how hindsight is obvious in retrospect.
A hand grabs his chin, forcing his head to the side, exposing his akasha terminal. He sees hands, and cold eyes, and something glowing and red -
( No, no, no no no no - )
“You are becoming troublesome,” says a voice, as Cyno fights and kicks and struggles uselessly. “I believe it is time you were dismissed from your post. We can’t have you knowing too much, and so it is better that you know nothing at all, ever again.”
The capsule - forbidden knowledge, divine knowledge - is brought closer. His akasha terminal, reflexively, connects, and it’s like a shock through Cyno’s system, like a bolt of electricity through his neural passageways, like torture.
“It’s such a shame,” the voice says, “that greedy desert dwellers always try to reach above their station. Isn’t it?”
And then a dam breaks, and his terminal sears with red hot heat, and something floods his brain, something floods his mind, ripping and tearing and fracturing and -
(Someone is screaming.
It echoes, harsh and ragged, tearing through the air with all the grace of a broken knife ripping through skin and flesh. It shrieks like a wounded animal, highs and lows, raw and agonized. It goes on and on and on, until the ringing of it feels like it could drive him mad.
Someone is screaming, and the last thought Cyno ever has is oh, it’s me )
~=~
The thing that was once the General Mahamatra lies senseless on the ground.
They had to sedate him. Even with the fabric in his mouth, his screams became too loud and hindersome. Besides, it was unseemly. No one likes to see a member of the matra comporting himself in such a manner, even if he’s no longer a matra or a person.
Better to let him sleep. He can finish his screaming in the desert, where he belongs, away from decent folk.
It’s a pity, almost. Cyno was a miracle, a gutter rat who dragged himself to greatness, a person with authority and power behind his words. It made him a wonder. It made him a liability. Always too much , too smart, too observant, too much a stickler for the rules.
(He could have destroyed everything. This is nothing more than self defense)
It will be easy to spread the rumors. Easy to disseminate the story. A desert dweller given just a little too much power, enough that he became drunk on it and desired more. A cautionary tale. Yet another victim to the dangers of divine knowledge, yet another reason to restrict its circulation, yet anothe reason to keep the desert folk at arm’s length.
A tragedy, but one of many. The populace will be restless, will wonder and worry and fret, but they will move on. Humans adapt, minds discarding unneeded knowledge and replacing it with new, relevant information. Humans forget, and it’s not as if their lives will change overly much.
There will be a suitable period of mourning before another General is chosen, so that they don’t feel that Cyno’s memory is disrespected. And the person who will replace him will be much more amenable to the Akademiya’s requests. It will be seamless.
Yes, this is only for the best. Cyno would have never understood their mission. He would have fought and struggled and been a threat to their god.
(And Azar swore long ago, his heart chipping away and revealing only coldness beneath, that nothing would stand in the way of their god’s ascension)
~=~
There is a cave in the Sumeru desert that is filled with screams.
It never stops. It never rests. The sounds become hoarse, raspy, strained with pain, and yet even when the voice behind them is lost, the screams never stop. Day in, day out, they ebb and churn like a river overflowing, like a flood of agony.
It is a neverending symphony of madness. It is a struggle for life and sanity. It is a fight that neither side can bear to lose. It is man against the unknowable, holding his ground by the tips of his fingernails.
There is a cave in the Sumeru desert, and it is filled with the General Mahamatra’s screams.