A quick note before we begin

This is a horror piece and definitely isn't for everyone!

This is, first and foremost, a story about how Morva dies. As a result, the main content warnings that apply to it include graphic depictions of death (of course), body horror, and psychological horror.

Tread carefully, dear reader!

 

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When faced with a problem that you had previously solved, it would follow that you should be able to solve that problem again.

If a hinge is squeaky and it stopped squeaking when you oiled it before, you lubricate it with oil again. If wild animals keep getting into your storehouse because you had left the door open, the solution is to remember to close the door. If you had stopped a demon king from conquering the world by uniting with heroes from across the land, when faced with his impending resurrection the only thing you need to do is unite and fight once again.

Most problems have straightforward causes and straightforward solutions, but what if this time you had no oil? What if this time the door had fallen off its hinges? What if this time you were alone?

In essence, that was the problem Morva had encountered.

He was facing down the same problem he had faced 800 years ago, and he knew he couldn’t solve it this time.

This time he was alone, and this time he was 800 years older, and this time the child of man Fomortiis had taken was a necromancer unmatched in both raw strength and skill.

This time, Morva didn’t stand a chance.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried, but the child managed to score the first strike, and with dark magic that potent, that single blow had determined the match.

One by one, his mistakes piled up. He moved his head out of the way to avoid a shot from the necromancer, and his right shoulder took the hit, limiting his movement. The next orb of death grazed the right side of his face and he found his eye refused to focus, the lid beginning to droop. Even if the child needed to score additional hits, could he really expect to dodge them having now lost his depth perception?

One by one, the rest of his limbs took direct hits, dying as the magic seeped past his scales and into his body, further limiting his mobility.

Ounce by ounce, strength left his body, and he quickly lost the energy to maintain his dragon form. He wasn’t prepared for the transformation and lost his footing, his head slamming into the dirt as his legs gave out.

It was only then that the volley the necromancer threw at him came to an end.

As the shock from the impact with the ground wore off, the way the magic had caused his flesh to decay in an instant reminded him of the tome Grado had used.

...On second thought, the child himself reminded him of Grado.

Was he Grado’s grandchild? Or would 800 years make him a great-grandchild? He always had such a hard time keeping track of human lifespans…

What a cruel trick for Fomortiis to play, to use Grado’s descendant to bring about his own resurrection.

The child stood above Morva’s disabled body as he lay crumpled in the dirt. There had been another man with him, but from where and how he was laying, Morva couldn’t tell if he was still nearby.

He took stock of his body.

It wasn’t long until he would die.

He had taken direct hits to each of his limbs as a dragon, and several to his body and wings. He had fallen on his side, with his left arm pinned underneath his body, though his hand remained in view. He willed it to move, but it didn’t. It lay there, unmoving, like the rest of his body. He couldn’t really feel anything below his shoulders beyond a dull, vague ache, though that was probably a failure of his nervous system, rather than an indictor of a genuine lack of damage. After all, the only movement he could manage was to barely lift his head up off the ground for a few seconds. His robe covered his entire body so even though it was in his field of view he couldn’t see the extent of the damage, but despite the abundance of what he assumed to be incredibly severe wounds, he was still breathing.

Given everything else, that he still drew breath was honestly worse than the alternative.

He had lost. There wasn’t anything he could do in this state but wait to bleed out, and yet Fomortiis did nothing but stand over him.

It wasn’t like the demon to wait idly, so was his aim?

Maybe he wanted to savor the victory?

He had been particularly incensed that Morva had chosen to stand against him once again, so it seemed more than likely.

Perhaps something unexpected had come up, and the demon had paused to formulate a new plan of action?

From the way he had avoided outright saying Myrrh was dead earlier, it seemed safe to assume that she and the people she was traveling with had survived — after all, why wouldn’t Fomortiis take the chance to rub salt in the wound?

Did that mean they had been pursuing him, and now caught up?

For the sake of Magvel, he could only hope.

Or had he underestimated how much blood he had already lost, and already lost what he needed in order to hear the demon converse with the other man to hypoxia?

It seemed possible, though it wasn’t as if there was much reason to care either way.

The thought that he was closer to death than he had initially assessed filled Morva with… an odd feeling.

He wasn’t exactly at peace with the idea, but it wasn’t in his control anymore, was it? Maybe by sheer happenstance an ally of Myrrh’s would come by and heal him, but could he really expect that?

No. Of course not.

It was like he was in free fall. He had already reached terminal velocity and where he was headed was a forgone conclusion; all he had left to do was wait for the inevitable.

All he could do was wait for the inevitable.

He was starting to get lightheaded.

Part of him wanted to see Myrrh again, but another part of him didn’t want her to see him like this. He hoped she was safe, but if she had to see the man who raised her in this state… something like that wouldn’t make him happy. If she was indeed on her way with people who could stop Fomortiis, he could only hope that she wouldn’t happen across his body.

It was odd… he had expected it to hurt more. Maybe the tome had done something to his nerves… killed them in just the right way, perhaps? If it was a mercy granted by the tome’s creator, Fomortiis certainly didn’t know about it.

The pain from slamming face-first into the ground had begun to wear off (or had he just grown numb?) and he could feel his cheeks begin to swell. If he lived to see the sunrise again, it’d leave quite a bruise.

The dirt in Darkling Woods had always been firm. It seemed the animals that digested the ground and made it soft and loamy instinctively avoided the area, which was no surprise. Even small animals like birds and rabbits would know to stay away from the temple here.

There was something he still needed to do; it was at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t remember it. How frustrating.

His body felt heavy, not like he was about to fall asleep, but rather as if he had just woken up.

The child took a step back.

It was sudden and without warning, but Morva barely registered that it happened. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but the child was standing still again, so maybe he had only moved and wasn’t planning to do anything else.

No… no, that wasn’t it. He could barely hear it, on the edge of what remained of his hearing, but he could certainly hear the child chant.

For some reason, that worried him.

Why would it worry him, though? He was already dying; what else could Fomortiis possibly do to him?

Morva immediately regretted asking himself that question. There were several answers to it, and none of them pleasant. A lump formed in his throat as his oxygen-deprived mind raced as fast as it could, trying to figure out what Fomortiis had in store for him. Was he reviving him, just to kill him again? Was he setting some sort of trap to ensnare Myrrh and her allies?

His stomach turned at the thought.

Wait.

He could feel his stomach. His limbs felt distant, but he could feel his abdomen with an alarming clarity.

Why could he feel his stomach? Why could he feel the rest of his body when moments before he was on the brink of death?

Had someone actually come and healed him? Had Myrrh’s associates arrived? Had—

His hand twitched.

He hadn’t done that.

Morva knew in that instant what was happening, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

His stomach contorted and his intestines flailed about violently, pushing his abdomen out in every way that it shouldn’t be pushed and pushing his last meal up through his esophagus. He had to struggle to not choke on his own vomit as it exited his body, the gastric acids burning his throat and scalding his tongue as some of it pooled in his mouth. He frantically spat out the chunky remains as he began to dry heave, but the disgust from the vomit, the vileness that spread throughout him, couldn’t hope to compare to what the underlying cause made him feel.

In retrospect it wasn’t much of a surprise that Fomortiis had chosen to make the necromancer he had claimed perform some necromancy, but not even waiting for him to fully perish before reviving him for his own nefarious ends?

Despite everything, Morva hadn’t expected the demon king to stoop so low.

His fingers began to move and then writhe.

It didn’t hurt, and if anything it was a somewhat refreshing sensation, like waking up well rested or stretching after remaining stationary, but that made him feel even worse.

The magic began to work its way up his arm, and while he couldn’t see them, he could only assume his legs had begun to suffer the same fate.

He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to die like this, and he didn’t want his body to be turned into some puppet for Fomortiis to defile, and he didn’t want Myrrh to see him like this, and he didn’t want Fomortiis to be revived, and his regrets ran through his head faster and faster and faster as his body continued to be overtaken by the necromancer’s magic.

But what could he do? He wanted to fight back, but no matter how hard he wanted, he simply couldn’t. His body had been stolen from him as he still lived, and he wouldn’t be granted peace in death. Fomortiis would surely work his corpse to the bone, reveling in the control he had over a former nemesis.

His arms and legs were thrashing about now, like the limbs of a revenant struck by lightning. His back bent in a million directions as it fell to the magic, and it seemed like the only thing that remained untainted was his head.

Morva just wanted it to end. There was nothing to do but wait, but he didn’t want this to continue. His fate was sealed, but it couldn’t come fast enough.

And as if answering his prayers, the magic worming its way through his body reached the core and his heart stopped.

Morva couldn’t feel it stop. He couldn’t feel much anymore. Already anemic from the blood loss, his consciousness was fading fast, and the end was nearly in sight.

He knew he was about to die. He knew there was no coming back from this. He knew Fomortiis was still there, standing over him. He knew his body was still being defiled in ways he couldn’t have dreamed of. He knew Fomortiis’ resurrection was nigh, but he didn’t have it within him to care.

If he had more willpower left, perhaps he would have still rejected this fate.

Perhaps he would have spat at Fomortiis.

Perhaps he would have fought with all his might.

Perhaps he would have bitten off his own tongue, just so he could die on his own terms.

But no.

Morva did none of those things.

He had spent his entire life safeguarding humanity. He had given up his life to attempt to save them from destruction. He had chosen this path of selflessness, and it had been a lonely one. He didn’t regret the choices he had made up until this point. He didn’t regret letting what he had done 800 years ago fade into the shadows.

In a sense, he had no regrets left, but that didn’t mean he was without things to want.

In his final moment, Morva allowed himself one selfish thought. A singular selfish wish, a sole desire he wanted fulfilled more than anything else.

Myrrh wouldn’t want to see him like this.

He didn’t want her to see him like this.

It would be like ripping out her heart, and he didn’t want to do that.

But even still…

As his body, mind, and soul finally grew still, Morva wished he could see his daughter one final time.

 

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Afterword

0x9F8B10 is the location in the ROM of the line of code that calls the Ephriam version of the conversation between Morva and Lyon, which is also where the quote in the description comes from.

I was hospitalized for a little over a week at the very end of 2018, and while stuck in inpatient with very little to do, I recalled enjoying Koji Suzuki's Ring (you know the movie where the girl crawls out of the tv? this is the book that was based on) and asked a family member to get me a copy of the sequel, Spiral. I must have read it well over twenty times before being discharged, not just because my other options for passing the time were unappealing, but also because the execution gripped me like no other story has before or since. (hi future raen here. idk if i still stand by this)

I'll spare you the sales pitch, but while Ring follows a journalist researching a series of strange and potentially supernatural deaths, Spiral instead focuses on a doctor who is trying to make sense of these deaths from of a medical perspective. It was certainly enhanced by having the first book to contrast against, but I found the way that Koji Suzuki made the novel explain everything that was going on, the way that he deliberately and systematically did away with the show but don't tell and the smoke and mirrors and the unknown that so many horror tales require to work at their most fundamental level, I found the way that he re-solved the mystery already addressed by the first book while still managing to be just as (if not more) horrifying to be so well constructed that my brain went "I want to make something like that" harder than it ever has in my life.

One scene stuck in my mind even a year and a half later as a sort of prime example, I suppose, of the kind of horror I would like to write. It's fairly late into the story, and while it would be a disservice to reveal exactly what happens before giving you a chance to read the book itself, it mirrors what happens here: a character experiences their final moments, and they experience those moments all alone.

Of all the things I was trying to emulate here, I feel like I succeeded in capturing that sense of solitude. There were other things I was trying to do as well, but Morva is a man who was alone for most of his life. The people of Caer Pelyn have deified him, and while it's unclear if other dragons remain in Magvel, it's almost certain that the only person in his life that he had a normal relationship with was Myrrh, and perhaps I can be satisfied with how I've depicted that.