Imprinted in Ice

“And thus, we will walk through the fires of Hell. Our hearts remain cold to the world as it burns. The memories that we cast in ice melt with time. Beauty lasts for but a sliver of our vision.”

The sound of music abruptly stopped, and along with it, a hellfire that fell upon the land. A man poked his head around a large organ with an arched brow.

“You’re a strange one. Do you have the luxury of spouting such lines in the given situation?”

Eyes closed in contemplation opened. The face of a debonair lady with royal blue hair stared back, a smile curled upon her face. Her hand continued to wave in the air as Ice magic drifted out from it in periodic bursts.

“Art waits for no one. The creative mind does wonders when embracing the extremes,” Cornelius replied.

“Fair enough.”

The man at the organ slunk back, hitting a few keys with gusto. Fire magic shot from it and morphed into the shape of Valkyries on pegasi. They drifted from the sky down to the surface before crashing into a landscape of frozen wonders. The heat of the collision melted the scene where they clashed.

This was a battle between the God of Magic, Cecil, and the chosen Electi of Magic, Cornelius. And as they were both connoisseurs of the fine arts, such a confrontation turned into a fight between creators, embodied by the magic that they spread upon the lands before them.

Cecil’s weapon of choice was his organ, playing symphonies that turned into fiery mythical beings that rained down upon the land. In contrast, Cornelius waved her arms like strokes of paint brushes, creating cascades of ice that enveloped the land in a wintry landscape.

It became a battle of who could dominate the most land, spreading their influence in a way that suited them.

Icy briars crept along the ground to ensnare the flaming beings, while snowmen and ice sculptures of villagers swarmed forward. In response, the shots of fire and burning swords melted the limbs and features of the frozen denizens. Icy roses lost their petals, homes crumbled under the weight of their thinning pillars, and the ground was scorched to lava.

The tide of the battlefield continued to advance and ebb, shifting the border of hot and cold constantly. The two creators were putting forth their greatest creations to one up the other.

For Cecil, he fought his battle to the tune of famous composers, drawing on them for inspiration in this battle. His head bobbed and weaved to the distinct melody of the ‘Revolutionary Etude’. The energy of the song translated to energized Valkyries soaring through the sky. And when that song ended, a new one started. This time, the powerful march of keys in the form of the ‘Rondo Alla Turca’ brought forth a parade of tanks rolling forward while launching bursts of cannon fire.

This meant nothing to Cornelius, who knew nothing of such music lost in the course of time. Nor did the significance of these otherworldly creations play into the mind of someone that only knew what she had seen in her relatively short lifetime. Cornelius had only the inspiration from library books and personal ventures. Unlike many of the other Electi, she was not an incarnation of the god before her but had her blessing bestowed upon her as part of a summoning.

That didn’t undermine what she was capable of.

The creations of ice were depictions of normal lands, towns full of people and forests brimming with life. Her combatants were knights and heroes, their names likely mattering little compared to those that had endured far beyond their lifetimes.

She was fighting godly creations with the power of man. It should have been clear as to which side would have the advantage. And certainly, Cecil had gained a lot of ground already. More than three-fourths of the field were currently aflame.

Yet, Cornelius held on.

A team of board riders whipped through the area, a girl in distinctly revealing armor leading the way. In another area, a large team of Magic Knights unleashed a kaleidoscope of magics. And further on, a lone chef charged forward, wielding dinky weapons to cut down beings vastly more intimidating than himself. By his side, a bespectacled lady regally blasted her enemies with guns.

Cornelius held on because this was the Kingdom of Sistina that she created. They were powerful because she believed in them. They were not figures from some studied text but contemporaries that she fought alongside every adventure.

Even the villagers from before were able to go toe-to-toe with flying warriors and rolling metal boxes. Rolling pins collided with swords, refusing to give into more ‘proper’ weapons. Paint brushes and chisels pounded into the armor of tanks.

To Cornelius, these people defined the strength of a kingdom. They were her proof of strength. And her memories of them were channeled into the imagination that she brought forth into this battlefield.

Her ice warriors were beaten back. They melted in the face of great amounts of heat. However, the ice soon restored them, and they tried again. And again. And again.

Inch by inch. Little by little. The ground became frozen more and more.

Flames were snuffed out. The hearts of the god-like beings were placed on ice. And the people stood with their chests high as they marched forward to bring an endless winter.

Cecil looked on with surprise. If Chopin and Mozart didn’t work, then he switched to Beethoven. If not, then Bach. Liszt. Rachmaninoff. Debussy…

“Why?! Why am I not regaining any ground?!”

He was playing all of the greatest music ever known, yet how could that not topple the likes of the common man?! The best styles, all ingrained and integrated into his own play, Cecil looked on as his warriors seemed to stagnate and eventually be pushed back. He wondered how the epoch of musical talent could fail to translate into a battle that morphed such gifts into strength.

“Your champions are certainly very promising. I admittedly was daunted by them at first,” Cornelius answered him. “But I feel that they have not gotten any stronger since the beginning.”

Cecil looked out at the battlefield again. The ice warriors from before held more impressive weapons now. Their movements became refined and purposeful. He watched as a coordinated barrage of Ice magic slammed into a Valkyrie, knocking rider and pegasus to the ground. The chef from before sliced his opponents in half with giant blades, like they were made of butter. Magic shots zipped around portals until they converged upon their target, breaking through defenses. And the tanks started to groan as it bore gaping holes, torn by common, everyday tools. Even the vines that ran along the ground seemed like steel restraints.

“I don’t know what you use for inspiration, but apparently, it is lacking compared to mine. This world is controlled by intent, and my mind sees the promise of those around me as they continue to grow. I am Cornelius von Reichenstein, and I know what it is like to put faith in the world that I live in!”

Gods were the pinnacle. That was what Cecil believed. In becoming one, he could proclaim that of which he loved, the great composers in history, would be the very example of what he strived to be. He had become the perfect example of them all, playing any tune on command. And in this world, his intentions through music granted strength to his allies and demoralized his enemies.

But dead men couldn’t advance. Cecil hit a ceiling which he believed was the upper limit. But in truth, he simply didn’t want to learn more. His limits had been confined to the single room of his apartment, surrounded by his music. He had forgotten what it was like to step outside and see a whole world open before him.

People were messy and often not beautiful. Their actions were chaotic and judgmental. But without them, he couldn’t grow beyond his own capacity. He could make things sound like magic, but only to himself. He was the pinnacle of one room. He only heard his own echoes from within.

As he realized this, the ice finally took over the remainder of his territory, the last embers snuffing out. A blast of cold enveloped him and froze his body next to the organ he played. Ice roses sprouted from his body, the signature final touch.

Cornelius walked over and plucked one of them, looking at the glistening petals reflected in the light.

“People change over time. They cannot remain stagnant all throughout their lives. And as such, nothing beautiful is ever absolute.”

The prison of ice around Cecil exploded, and he came tumbling out and into the arms of Cornelius.

In that moment, Cecil recalled something nostalgic.

“If you think it is in everyone’s best interest, then show me what you intend to do about it…”

A simple phrase from someone that understood his passion was all it took. He had believed that there was no one that would understand him, so he took the first hand that was offered his way. Freedom to impress what he loved onto others was the command that the Architect gave him, but did anyone truly care about such things?

They cared that it helped change the tide of battle. They cared that it empowered them. But not once did they casually ask for it without incentive. The Architect had coddled him and his passion. It took critique by someone in his own mindset, someone artistic but different, to make him reconsider.

And then Cecil recalled it – the moment that he decided to entrust his power to another, rather than another incarnation of himself.

He had observed Cielle’s descent to the human world, becoming truly a mess of what she was before. But the more that he watched, the more beautiful the story became. He started to wonder if he could be a part of that, and when given the opportunity, he approached Sistina in secret to revive her close human friend who had fallen in battle.

However, the Architect had wiped all of that from his memory. And once again, he became a coddled puppet to his schemes.

“Now I know why I chose you. Perhaps, I am biased, but I saw potential far greater than myself. I see that I wasn’t mistaken.”

Cornelius nodded at his words. She gave him a smile.

“Thank you for the concert. My ears have been blessed with quite the ensemble.”

Cecil laughed. Strength returned to his legs as he backed away from Cornelius. He dropped into a cordial bow, his hair hiding the wide grin he had on his face.

“I’ve been waiting to hear that for so long….”

In a plume of white light, his body faded away. He found satisfaction, not as a god but from a fellow person that understood beauty.

Cornelius pulled out a device and brought it to her mouth.

“You recorded all of that, didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” a voice responded back.

“Good. That gives me a chance to study these pieces at my convenience. It wouldn’t do to lose such works of art to time.”

“It shall be remembered in the history of Sistina. Your queen guarantees it.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

Cornelius turned around to look at the ice-covered battlefield. She watched as it started to fade along with the surroundings. She sighed in satisfaction that technology had come so far to be able to remember such a moment, even if the moment itself thawed.

“God made the wonders of the world. But it is man that strives for ways to appreciate them. That is why we are here.”