But the heat grew too quickly, and before he could even react it had melted away his armor, a living piece of himself, followed by his hair and skin. Eventually it went down to the bone, each step deeper, creating a new and more intense level of pain. It went beyond his tolerance for heat in microseconds. A tolerance Nixon had no idea he had. He was certain he could live peacefully on the surface of the sun, but this was something else.
His reformation was nearly complete. His armor grew out of his skin, his hair returned to its long, ethereal shimmering length. His thoughts became more organized. He was born of the fire. He lived and breathed nothing but the fire his whole life. If it had done to him what it did, it could not be fire as he knew it. But what else then?
By God, Nixon needed someone with answers.
His form retaken, his body whole yet again, he began to sit up and regain his composure. A moment of pure terror hit him as he realized his back was devoid of his trusted sword, only to breathe a large sigh of relief to see it some distance away, but still whole. Not a mark or scorch on the sheath could be seen.
He walked over to it, getting more comfortable with his body. He returned as he was, large and foreboding, armor black as night and eyes the same. Each microscopic piece fell into place, but sadly the memory of the pain lingered like an old wound. Nixon doubted he’d ever forget it, thanks to a perfect memory.
He drew the sword from its sheath with a reassuring whisper. No nick or mark could be seen. Nixon had a good reason to be afraid. This sword was not a Divine creation like him. If by some insane miracle something could destroy it, it would be gone and it would not come back. Still, even at the center of this blast, its breaking point was a long way off yet. God be praised.
Now Nixon had a larger problem than he’d originally planned. He knew he had to make it to the village, still some days southeast of here, but now it seemed that there was a rising issue in the same direction that had some form of weapon that could not only harm him but decimate him, rendering him useless and leaving the valued blade he carried unguarded for who knew how long.
It made him pause a moment as he considered his options. He wasn’t useless without this sword, but it was still his bread-and-butter weapon of choice. He’d never thought he’d be without it, and he foolishly believed it would never be without him. Although it had never been proven to be true, Nixon knew that this weapon could do some very serious and perhaps lasting damage to him. He wasn’t sure it could destroy him outright, but he couldn’t say it couldn’t either. Then where would the world be? One person would go too far down the dark path with the Power once again, and no one would be around to stop them. The world and all within its borders would be at their mercy.
One little sword. Well, one very large sword, but small in the grand scheme of things. Even Magnus hadn’t considered the possibility of Nixon losing it somehow, but Magnus had never lived long enough to see what man hath wrought.
The sword slept silently, the power within it resting until Nix had need of it. “Lord, let this chase be a short one,” he whispered to himself. “Per’aps my return t’ rest would see me awaken in a better place.”
He surveyed his surroundings. Black, hot, and steaming. Any mortal man would be killed instantly to stand where Nixon was now, the residual heat enough to melt steel and burn rock. For Nixon, though, it was a welcome feeling in what was quickly becoming an unwelcome world. He certainly would have to keep his eyes and ears open for another of those damn black orbs, but for now, there seemed to be none around.
After only a few minutes of walking on the glazed surface which had once been a dry, scrub desert, he came to a decision that he knew was wrong but seemed to him to be his best option. He would fly the rest of the way to the village. He hated to fly being so close. Previous times he’d done so, to save time or make it somewhere faster than his legs could carry him, he’d often overshot his target; his ethereal Power alerting any with the senses to detect him, telling them of his presence and intentions. Those who carried the blade and embraced the Power knew to beware of Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash, even if it was just subconsciously, and he’d been led on chases lasting years just to catch someone who had been alerted to him too soon.
His options seemed more limited this time. He risked further discovery by the scouts if he walked, and he could not guarantee he would always know they were there. Some aerial targeting laser could light him up before he even knew he’d been found. Not a welcoming possibility. Still, flying and using his gift from God could alert the prey to his presence, leading to an extended hunt in this mysterious and obviously dangerous time.
