Resistance of Posterity

"Speak. Now."

The shadow cast over Hogarth's bowed head reared into full view, bearing eyes of luminescent violet and full lips, pressed into a grim line. Framed by shimmering silver tresses, the eyes bore into the top of Hogarth's blond head as the silence in the chamber grew.

"What do you want me to say?" came the response, the melodic voice trembling. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Tobias. He insisted we trust you--give over our safety to you." Hogarth threw his head up then, his eyes filled with tears, face contorted with fury. "And you let him die. Like a dog!" In an instant, the looming figure sprung back and shouted, "Phalanx up!" just as a fierce crackling began to sound and Hogarth's bared teeth began to glow from behind.

A detail of mages, until then obscured against the walls of the interrogation chamber, launched into action and threw their hands up in unison, incanting loudly. Just as Hogarth opened his mouth and out burst a volley of flashing tendrils, a shimmering wall of energy encased him in a geometric dome, interlocking triangles all around him. The energy blasts ricocheted around the dissident and dissipated harmlessly. Within the dome, Hogarth posed in a tense crouch, his eyes now as luminescent as the as-of-yet-unnamed figure, who looked on from just beneath the stained-glass window.

The colors imposed themselves upon the floor, from the platform the figure stood on to the threshold of the door at the far side. A glance at the artwork in the glass caught the figure's breath in their chest, if only for a moment: The form of a woman with a flaming body covered in eyes, multiple pairs of wings, and the scantest bundle of fabric cradled in her arms; a baby. All the eyes looked upon the baby except for the ones in her face, a triad of forward gaze. The figure gritted their teeth and turned their eyes back to the angry mage already looking at them.

"What do you want me to say, Martel?!"

Martel clenched their fists, but spoke evenly--perhaps too calmly for the situation at hand. "I want you to recant your claims. You speak of heretical things, things our Order cannot tolerate within its ranks. If you renounce it all, you'll be allowed to live out your meager existence as you had before: in the forests of the world, using Law to support the planet and its health. You'll live in obscurity, forgotten by society as you so wanted all along."

Hogarth flinched slightly, caught off-guard. "What if I don't comply?"

Martel's eyes flashed. "Then you will be struck down, preserved, and your body will be robbed of its Law. This is the way of the Order." Martel scoffed, their body expressing every ounce of scorn their face did not. "You were a part of us for long enough to know what it is we do with seditious Lawmakers."

Hogarth growled, and glimmering electric energy began to swirl around him. "You think you're in the right...it's appalling."

Martel began to cry out, but it was too late. Hogarth drew back his arm, fist balled, and slammed it into the floor. The energy he'd concentrated in his hand dispersed through the brick and mortar, destroying its integrity completely. The floor beneath the surrounding mages collapsed, and down they fell to their mortar death. The raised platform Martel stood on remained intact, bits of stone crumbling off the edge, and Hogarth stood tall on a small pillar opposite, his gaze murderous. His hair and clothes undulated in invisible waves like he was submerged underwater.

"What do you hope to accomplish now?" asked Martel, voice as flat as ever. "It may only be us in this ancient room, but you and I both know that you cannot defeat me, just as I cannot hope to take you down alone. And regardless of the outcome here, you will never be able to rest again once you flee." Violet mist began to rise around Martel. "You will be forever hunted by every branch of the Order, all the way up to the Zenith. None of us will rest until you are recovered, Hogarth. Is this how you want to live out your immortal days? As a fugitive, a target?!"

Hogarth turned his face down for a moment, the silence between them only lessened by the roaring of the blood in his ears. Then, a small laugh, which grew until Hogarth was boisterous, and to Martel, a little maniacal.

"As far as I'm concerned, I was always a fugitive, ever since I was born. Nothing about my life has ever given me cause to think otherwise." Hogarth sighed. "My grandparents always suppressed me, told me I was 'too much,' or that I needed to listen to them because they knew best." Hogarth locked eyes with Martel again, and they didn't need any type of Law to feel the resolve that the mage embodied. "The truth is none of us know 'best,' because best and worst don't really exist. They're forms, set in place for those who want to mold themselves into an idea that was given to them by someone else. They want to 'fit in,' maintain some type of status quo--like this world is worth living in anymore, anyway!" Hogarth swung up his arm, with a finger pointed squarely at Martel. "You and your people have made sure of that!"

"No," said Hogarth, dropping his arm. The hall outside the chamber began to echo with the voices and footfalls of incoming Order personnel. "Neither of us can win one-on-one. But then, I'm not trying to beat you."

"NO!" Martel swung their arms up and forward, and at once the purple mist, having built up to a fog, solidified and turned into great ethereal arms, making to encase their target. All that Martel, the great general, was left with was a wisp of blue electricity, grinning at her in defiance and--was that hopefulness they detected in those blue eyes, made to gaze at them as they again lost the only hope of the future of the Root People?