“You’re just a gardener,” Bennet sneered as he raised Pehmphero’s sword high and brought it down on the magician. Nico felt a surge of power rise up through him erupting in a roar as he raised his father’s sword against the blow. When the sword shattered, fine crystalline pieces flew through the air, as potent as the blade itself. There was no avoiding it. The shards peppered his face, bringing fine pinpricks of blood to the surface. Nico screamed in agony, rage, and despair all at once, knowing what had happened to him the moment he felt the pain. 

His weapon shattered, Bennet became unbalanced and watched with a warrior’s acceptance as Nico brought his own sword crashing down upon him. In one blow, the war between magicians and the lesser gods was over. The last god’s champion was defeated and his divine weapon broken. Now all of the weapons of the gods had either been destroyed or collected and locked away where no human hands could obtain their powers. The mage fell to his knees and began to weep.  

Nico flinched as hands touched his shoulders before the voice of his brother soothed the storm of emotions raging inside him. Donovan’s hands touched his face to assess the injury while Nico whimpered, “It’s done. It’s all over.” 

Donovan quickly discerned that the injury was beyond his skills to heal. Already the magic of Pemphero’s sword had burrowed deeply, purple streaks beneath the flesh that would leave scars where it had touched. Nico wept tears of blood, the soft flesh and delicate nerves of his eyes torn by the fine shards of the broken sword. “Let me help you,” Donovan said. “Let me fix this.” 

Lifting Nico to his feet, Donovan led the way as the two of them limped off the battlefield, allies and enemies stopped to move out of the way of the two magicians. Nico’s sword lay behind, stuck fast in Bennet. Already his body was sprouting roots and limbs and soon the warrior and weapon were encased by bark and lifted from the ground. The tree grew and a cascade of silver foliage spilled from the branches. A great willow stood weeping over the field, signaling to soldiers on both sides they should lay down their arms. 

As they reached the edge of the field, a pair of horses trotted up to the magicians. Donovan helped Nico into the saddle of his gray mare before mounting his own bay gelding. Nico held the reins loosely, letting his horse follow his brother’s. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the sky with his unseeing eyes as the blood continued to streak down his face. Despite the promises to make him whole, Nico knew his eyes would never see again and was already resigning himself to this dark future. Acceptance of his fate was beginning to dull the pain and he felt an odd comfort in the warmth of the sun on his back as they rode away from the moans of the injured and dying soldiers.