A step forward

Chapter 31: …In The Netherrealm.

“Welcome home, my son,” Argarath spoke the words solemnly and proudly. They held nothing cold or formal, nothing Fenrir had braced himself for.

The demon lord stood at the head of a short flight of obsidian steps, his crimson eyes fixed on his son as though he were beholding a relic he had long ago given up for lost. Fenrir stood a few paces below, feet planted and shoulders squared. For a heartbeat, then two, shock held him completely still. After all these years, after every night spent burying that face beneath distance and anger, the man he had tried to forget for a lifetime stood before him, older and unmistakably real.

Then the shock faded, and what lay beneath it was disdain, sharp and cold. His eyes narrowed with ire and conviction, and out of pure instinct his mind reached for the mark on his upper back, the place from which Arondite had answered every call he had ever made. But nothing came.

The ancient sword lay silent, and where its presence should have been, there was only numbness, as if a limb that had fallen asleep. He tried again, harder this time. Nothing. Whether the fault lay in the air of this place, heavy and close, pressing tightly against his chest, or in something his father had done, he could not tell.

Argarath watched the attempt with a patient and puzzled look. His companion bore no such composure. She stood half a step behind his shoulder, a dagger drawn and held low at her side, and her gaze did not leave the emperor for an instant. Every line of her posture said she would end the conversation in a single motion if her lord commanded her to do so with a simple gesture.

“If you are thinking of calling Arondite, you will only make a fool of yourself, Fenrir,” Argarath said, his voice deep and unhurried, carrying the authority of a man who had never once needed to raise it without cause. “I took the necessary precautions. Everything you carried has been taken care of, and it shall be returned to you in due course, provided you are willing to hear what I have to say.” He descended the remaining steps with slow, deliberate strides until he stood a few feet from his son. The woman followed him like a shadow. A deadly yet cautious shadow.

Fenrir did not answer, and his expression did not change. He closed the distance himself, stepping forward until he could look his father in the eye. The resemblance between them struck anyone at first glance. Argarath had the same strong brow, the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same unyielding gaze, only aged and weathered by centuries rather than decades.

Yet, the differences were small: the shape of his hair, swept back and dark, and the well-kept beard that ended in a small, precise goatee. Like a crown that settled upon his head, Argarath possessed two horns that were large and twisted at the ends, a testament to his prowess as an ancient demon and lord of his domain.

Everything about him spoke of power, authority and cunning. He carried himself with the same poised authority Fenrir had seen in Kitana, yet his was edged with something older. An aura of fear and respect that seemed to bend the very air around him. Luckily for Fenrir, he had inherited his father's handsome features, if that was anything to be proud of. Yet, he had also inherited the demonic blood that came with them.

It was no wonder Fenrir carried such power, for Argarath was an ancient demon of hellfire. More precisely, he belonged to the black-pyre bloodline, the closest to Lucifer in blood. Legions of demons marched in his shadow, and all of them feared and respected him. For centuries, he had won wars in the name of Lord Shinnok, the fallen Elder God, until the day he met a human named Kimiko.

He had fallen in love with her, and she with him. She had changed his heart, and before he knew it, she carried his children. For a time, they lived in peace, hidden from the Netherrealm inquisitors, yet in peace all the same. Then that night happened. The night that changed his life and Fenrir's forever, when he lost her and his elder son, Alain, and never saw either of them again.

Fenrir alone had survived. At first, Argarath had not understood how. When he finally did, his heart had frozen in fear. The same curse that had found Argarath, his father, and his father's father before him had found its way to his son. Yet here the boy stood, grown, defiant and breathing, within arm's reach. After all this time, they were together again.

“I am glad to see you breathing once again, Fenrir,” Argarath said, a pleased smile softening his severe features. Whatever it had cost him to bring his son back, it had not been in vain.

Fenrir did not share his joy. Nor, if his theory proved correct, did he welcome the thought of standing in the Netherrealm once more. He took a final step, until they were inches apart, and stared down at his father with a solemn, unreadable gaze: a son facing his father, an emperor facing a demon lord. Then he raised a finger and pointed it at Argarath's chest. “Go fuck yourself.”

Argarath's eyes narrowed at his son's reply. The woman's did as well. She had no patience for an Earthrealmer speaking to her liege in that tone. The fingers on her dagger tightened until the leather creaked.

Fenrir shoved his father's shoulder aside and strode out of the room, boots pounding the stone and irritation radiating from him with every step. The hallway ahead led deeper into the palace, and he followed it without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Argarath exhaled through his nose and motioned for his companion to follow. “Where do you think you are going, Fenrir?” he called after him, irritated now, his controlled steps echoing behind his son's.

“To find my fucking clothes!” Fenrir shot back, never turning around to look his father in the face.

The woman let out a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl, in the tone of someone who had run out of patience and only now realised the conversation was not over. Argarath, vexed, rolled his eyes. “Since you are so eager,” he muttered, “I shall spare you the search.” He snapped his fingers. A small flame bloomed between them.

Before Fenrir could react, the world folded in on itself. Heat licked at his skin; the taste of ash filled his mouth. The floor vanished and returned beneath his boots. When his vision steadied, he, Argarath and the woman were standing inside a regal bedroom. The bare stone walls were masked by vast, vibrant tapestries. A gilded chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling by heavy chains, its many candles casting a warm glow over the chamber.

The room held everything any bedchamber should: an iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed, a wardrobe, a writing desk, an armour and weapon stand, although empty and a nightstand. Not a speck of dust lay on any of it. Everything had been kept, tended and polished for a very long time, and yet the room felt empty beneath its care, as if it had been waiting years for its owner to finally arrive and claim it.

Laid out on the bed, a luxurious thing of deeply carved hardwood raised on a dais and enclosed by heavy curtains of velvet and silk crimson, were fresh clothes for Fenrir. They had been prepared on Argarath's orders, though the choices, as Fenrir suspected, were mostly his companion's.

The clothes on the bed were not his own, not exactly. Only his coat remained, draped over the armour stand, scorched and shredded in nearly every place from his battle with Reiko. It was almost unusable and unappealing to anyone who looked at it. It was less a garment now than a memory of his past as a demon hunter, a relic of a man who had perhaps died with the rest of him. Everything else he had worn was gone, nowhere to be found, no doubt in an even worse state than the coat.

Then another thought crossed his mind, and it was a haunting one. “Gods…for how long was I gone?” The question hit him harder than any blow would. The war was not over. Somewhere, Jade, Kitana and now Mileena were still fighting. Every hour he spent here was an hour they faced without him in a realm submerged in the chaos of war. He had to find a way out as soon as possible. He could not, and would not, leave them alone.

He forced himself to breathe and to remember, one event at a time, as best as his body and mind, still recovering from the strain, would allow. The battle for Kuatan. The reveal of his past to Jade. Mileena's return. His duel with Reiko…The battle had been won; of that he was certain. He could vividly recall Sheeva's Shokan driving the loyalist forces back from the walls. Kuatan must be safe, or at least he hoped so.

Then his thoughts turned to what had passed between him and Jade, and he wished he could leave that memory buried. He loved her too much to bear the thought of her anger, and of his own mistake, lingering unresolved. He had only wanted what was best for her, and for what they shared, and in the name of protecting her, he had caused a rift between them, one he hoped he could mend. Now all he could do was heed her words and become what he was destined to be: Outworld's emperor. Whatever remained of the demon hunter belonged to the past, and only the emperor could return to the war.

While that painful memory lingered, another surfaced behind it. Mileena, alive and well, running toward him with Kitana and Skarlet at her side. A soft smile formed on his lips. Even in the chaos and pain, even after everything that had transpired while they were apart, there had been joy. Then the smile faded slowly as the next image came: Mileena screaming in agony as Reiko's hellish blade pierced through him.

He had won that fight, yet Reiko had landed the final blow. After that, he could remember little: only Jade's arms around him, and the faces of the people he loved and who loved him gathering nearby, struggling to heal him.

A few more fragments rose with that image. Kronika's voice. Then darkness. Afterwards, he had woken up here, wherever here was. If his theory held, he was in the Netherrealm. It was the only explanation for how he could be back without his consent, and for the darkness that had come before. Every demon hunter learned early where the road of the dead ended for his quarry. Fenrir had never imagined walking it himself. But if that was true, then it meant…No. It couldn't be. Had he…died?

If so, then had his father brought him back to life? He shook his head in disbelief. It was impossible. Bringing both soul and body back from death required an insane amount of power that only a handful of beings in the realms possessed. And even if Argarath did possess it, why would he use it? They hadn't seen each other since Fenrir's childhood, and Fenrir, without a doubt, hated him. As far as he was concerned, the man was solely responsible for what had happened to his mother and brother.

He pushed the thought aside. There would be time for confrontation, but not now, and certainly not while Jade and the others were fighting a war without him. What mattered was Outworld, and the only road back to it ran through this palace. Somehow.

But first, clothes. He was still half-naked, a wrap of cloth knotted about his hips. The realisation tightened his jaw. He looked down at the garments laid out on the bed, wary of anything handed to him in this place.

“If you are wondering what became of your clothes, they were destroyed in your battle,” Argarath said behind him, unhurried, as though he were commenting on something as mundane as the weather. Fenrir did not turn. He let his eyes slide over his shoulder, barely, a glance and nothing more. It was all the man deserved.

Only then did the woman speak, her voice soft yet measured. “Your father ordered me to prepare you a new set of clothes, to your liking.” She inclined her head toward the left side of the room. “There is a folding screen, should you wish privacy.”

Fenrir did not reply. The garments had been arranged with a tailor's care: a long, asymmetrical wrap skirt of heavy black cloth that fell in deep, structured folds, its high slit revealing the dark trousers beneath. The sleeves and tapered leggings were obsidian in colour, edged with sharp lines of silver and black trim. It was severe and regal, and unmistakably made for someone who fought for a living rather than lounged at court.

Whoever had chosen it had read him better than a stranger had any right to. He took the clothes and stepped behind the screen, dressing one piece at a time.

“This was supposed to be my room.” His voice carried flatly over the fabric, with no warmth in it, and none in the question that followed. “Wasn't it?”

Argarath hid a nostalgic smile. It was barely visible, yet the woman caught it. Her brows rose in surprise. In all her time at his side, she had seen her lord smile. Rarely so, but never so naturally.

“Yes,” he said at last. “It was.” The smile lingered, deepening by a fraction, as a bright memory surfaced of Kimiko, patient and unyielding, discussing their future with him in a room much like this one. “That was before I came to my senses. You cannot raise a family in the Netherrealm. Not one such as ours, with inquisitors listening at every door. Your mother made me see it.”

Then the warmth drained from his face. “So, we settled in Earthrealm to await Alain's birth, and later your own. We were happy there.” The memory soured as it reached what came after. “I know you remember.”

Behind the screen, Fenrir did not answer. He lowered his head, and the image of that night rose in him as well. The candlelight threw his shadow across the stone, a still silhouette with a frozen hand holding a clasp. “Why weren't you there that night?” he asked, coldly, as he resumed dressing.

For a moment, every movement in the room stopped. The woman froze, for in all her service she had never dared to ask about her lord's past. Argarath's answer, when it came, was quiet. “What makes you think I was not?”

Fenrir stepped out from behind the screen, adjusting his gloves, and the transition from shadow into candlelight was striking. The black cloth shifted around his legs with a sharp, fluid grace, the slit parting with every stride to show the form-fitting trousers beneath.

A crimson sash circled his waist, the only colour in all that darkness, a line of crimson-red that anchored the tunic to his frame. Silver threads glinted along his collar and sleeves. The gilded accents on the gauntlets and boots lent the whole ensemble a regal finality. He looked every bit the emperor he was meant to be. And with it, the demon hunter was finally gone, dropped symbolically along with the ruined coat.

The woman lifted a brow, captivated. Proud in her own work, she told herself: she had outdone herself with the cloth. But beneath that pride was another thought, quieter and far less professional, about how striking the sight truly was. She cut it off before it could take shape. It would not be wise to think of her lord's son that way, however appealing the thought was.

Fenrir raised his gaze to his father. “I don't know,” he said gravely. “I never saw you when the demons killed Mother and Alain.”

Argarath's crimson eyes narrowed and lit with anger. His son had spoken of the tragedy that still loomed over them with no restraint at all. “Watch your tone, Fenrir,” he said, low and haunting. Fenrir held his ground, unafraid. “You are speaking without remembering clearly.”

“Oh, I remember.” Fenrir's voice was just as cold, his certainty complete. “Quite vividly, in fact.”

Argarath's expression did not change, and he did not back down. “Do you? Then who killed her?”

“What kind of question is that? How would I know—”

“Who killed her, Fenrir?” Argarath cut him off, solemn and unmoved. “Not what, but who.”

Fenrir wanted to retort. He would even have thrown a punch if he could; the man had certainly earned his disdain. Yet the answer would not come. He reached for the memory the way he had reached for Arondite many times before, and met the same silence.

He could see all of it: the cold winter night, the demons shattering the front door, his mother hurrying him and Alain toward the vault…all for nought. The demons killed her in front of him. He and his brother had tried to fight, then Alain fell too. That was when the voice had spoken, the same voice that would later rise in his chest in Sun Do and again in Kuatan, and he had listened…

After that, the rest was history, a bloody and painful one. Every detail was intact except one. Where the killer should have been, there was only a shape, a place where a face belonged. Why couldn't he remember?

“I take that silence as an answer,” Argarath said, poised. He turned toward the door. “I know you are confused, son. How could you not? The world has always been a puzzle to you.” He opened it and paused on the threshold. “If you believe I brought you back from the cold hands of death for nothing, then you are most mistaken.”

Fenrir's eyes widened at what the words revealed and how simply they were delivered. Even after piecing it together, hearing it confirmed was different. He had died at Reiko's hands in Kuatan. He had failed. And here he was, in the Netherrealm. “I brought you back because you still have too much to do. I believe your story is not over. Do not allow this second chance to go to waste, for there will not be a third.”

Second…The word snagged on something in Fenrir's mind. He was in his debt, whether he liked it or not. Argarath turned back, commanding in his gaze. “If it is answers you seek, then join us for dinner.” He gestured towards the woman.

Fenrir lowered his head; he could not bear to look at him. He was conflicted, and he knew it. This man was responsible for his pain. He could have saved all of them that night and had not been there...Or at least, he didn’t remember if he was. Yet he had also saved Fenrir's life. “And if I don't?” he asked at last. “Would you let me walk out of here?”

“Yes,” Argarath answered with sorrow, but without hesitation. Above all else, he respected his son's wishes, even knowing the boy no longer held any love for him. “I have no hold over your life any longer, Fenrir. Only you do.”

He turned and walked into the darkness of the hallway. The woman followed. At the door, however, she stopped and pressed a hand against the frame. “You know,” she said, her voice soft and warm despite her irritation with his behaviour. “He still loves you,” Fenrir said nothing, because he did not know how. But she could see he understood. “He speaks of you more than he would ever admit.”

“…Thank you,” Fenrir said quietly. “For the clothes. And for this as well.” The words were genuine, kind and warm. A sharp contrast to everything he had said in the last half hour.

The woman hid a smile and her surprise at the kindness in those words. So, there was more than disdain inside the Nephilim. Perhaps her lord's description of his son was true. A gentle, compassionate soul did lie beneath the fire. “You…you are welcome.”

“Forgive me,” Fenrir said, lifting his head and meeting her eyes without shame this time. “I never asked your name.”

She hesitated. There was a warmth in his voice that soothed her ears, made her feel safe and heard. It was not the tone itself, since anyone with ill intent could imitate a tone, but the honesty behind it. She turned her head slightly. For a fleeting moment that felt longer than it should, their eyes met, no longer in suspicion but in care and interest.

“Sareena,” she said softly, a small smile forming along her lips. Then she was gone, the door closing behind her.