Part one, covering the games opening cinematic and the first colossus, and part two, covering colossus two and three, can be found here and here, respectively.
V: Phaedra 1
I steady the Ancient Sword above my head and watch the sunlight bounce off its tongue, misguided at first, as it speaks. I swing toward the southeast and the light gradually focuses upon a point upon the horizon. Distant, like her.
We traverse the wide plains of this forbidden land until we reach a narrow pass, hazy and thick. The scent of earth catches in my nose and the wind catches in my teeth. I gnaw at it unconsciously, my teeth grinding top-to-bottom. I notice the alcove a short distance ahead, sneak through it and find myself in an opening. A narrow cliff face leads me down to the open plains, and Agro crosses it with reserved caution. He has become as weary as I, though he has not yet faced the rigor of war. I am sure he will, and I offer up a small prayer that he sees it through.
In the centre of the open field lays a stone entrance, an opening, a descent. I run underground in anticipation. Perhaps someone will be here? Perhaps this journey need not be a lonely one? Anticipation is released with a sigh. Of course, I was stupid to think that I’d find another soul here, another human, something that interacts with its mouth rather than the swing of its weapon or the stomp of its foot. I circumnavigate the underground room, four interconnected tunnels in the shape of a square. It feels like a catacomb. There are four entrances, one for each right angle. I depart from the opposite side I entered.
In the distance, behind a thin veil of smoke, lies the colossus. As routine and subconscious as breathing, I fire an arrow.
My heart crawls up my throat as the colossus crawls to its feet. Another beast of four. It is horse-like, yet it has the legs of a spider, only less numerous and without spindly hair. In fact, they are without hair at all, and the beast is far too tall to jump up on to. I have to find a way to bring it down.
From its bottom jaw dangles pillars, coated with thick circles of stone. Each step they swing. It’s underside is punctuated with ribs that jut out and curve around its stomach like shark’s teeth. I whistle for Agro, and he gallantly dashes in front of the beast. A true war horse, one of the highest honour. We speed back through the open plains but I fling myself from Agro’s back mid-gallop as a thought captures my imagination.
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The underground passage.
I lure the colossus toward an entrance but it simply stomps over the top disregarding me. I look out the archway from the inside. Behind me, within the underground, rocks rain from the ceiling. I worry the beast’s weight may collapse the tunnels, and if I was lucky enough to escape the full collapse, I would not be lucky enough to escape the beast. I whistle for Agro and the sound reverberates inside the tunnels. Agro does not come.
The colossus does.
The stone skull of the beast fills the opening. I can feel whatever it is that it exhales. It is warm, sticky. It condensates on my cheeks. It is repulsive and frustrating. I reserved those spots for her hands, her lips. I reserved it for her sweat. The beast takes that away, remorseless. I dart back into the tunnel, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I dislodge dirt, dirt I didn’t even know had caked there, like dead skin.
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I rush toward the closest opening, turn towards the beast and notice that it continues to examine the archway I once stood in. This leaves an opening. It is so close to the ground now that its tail is only a metre short of the mound that forms the entrance to the catacomb. I decide against whistling for Agro, as it may startle the beast, and immediately run toward the tail, the grass tickling my feet. My heart pounds. Half the battle is finding a way to climb the beast, the second half of the battle is holding on.
If she’s taught me one thing, it’s how to hold on.
I jump up, grab its tail and propel myself toward its back. The first part of the battle is won. Relief leaves me, like anticipation had, with a sigh. There is a dense forest of hair across its back and I wrap myself in it as the beast tries to shake me free. It is in this moment that I feel the worst for them. This moment, when the second half of the battle is won.
VI: Interlude
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I used to hunt boar, with my father, as a young boy. The idea of bringing down an animal that, at the time, I considered my equal was a thrill. It was the arrow then, just like it is now, that was a great ally. My father taught me to lure the beast into an open patch of land, where the trees parted.
“We must never hide our desires from the gods” he would say.
I would nod, understanding.
Upon that patch of land we would lay various scraps of fruit and meat from previous kills that had been left too long in the sun.
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“A boar is not fussy” he would say “it feeds on the foulest of foods, even the flesh”
I would nod, understanding.
We took positions in the trees that surrounded our killing ground. My love of climbing had begun early; it had begun in those days. At first, my father would let me stand upon his shoulders; allow me to start my climb from the low-lying branches.
“To become a giant, you must first stand on the shoulder of giants” he would say.
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I would nod, understanding.
We would sometimes wait for hours, in complete silence. My father didn’t enjoy talking and he definitely didn’t enjoy talking to me. Yet he had loved me, like all fathers love their sons, and he had nurtured me. I could tell, even then, that he was waiting for me to become a man. I imagined all fathers waited for their sons to become men. I imagine he is still waiting for me to become a man.
“Silence will breed love”
I would nod, though I never understood then. I understand now. I understand how her silence has unlocked whatever part of me questioned love. Silence did breed love, my father always knew that.
Our prey would catch the scent of the rot that we had placed for it. Typically, the boar would circle a few times, in between trees. Shadows played with shadows. My father would draw his bow first, alerting me to its presence. He always had a better eye than I did; always so focused. I would draw my bow next, though I drew it with shaking hands. They clapped against the ivory. My hands told that story in pink hues. My father would not comfort me, and he did not wish to sympathize. I withdrew an arrow as the boar exited the safety of the woodland trees. They were not reluctant in their offering; they kissed the boar goodbye as it brushed against the bark.
The tip of my arrow followed the boar’s skull, tracing a line through the air of erratic thoughts and hunger. My father’s arrow followed too.
I had been on these hunts many times but I still shook the same. I could fire an arrow, my father knew that, indeed, he expected that much, but I had never killed a boar. My father always landed the coup de grace and he always slit the throat. He always bloodied the beast. I just wounded it, startled it. I just made it flee.
The hunt before my father passed followed this same pattern. We trapped, climbed, waited. The boar arrived. We readied our arrows. I traced the path of the skull with the tip. My father did the same.
We sat in the southern tree line and the boar approached head-on, from the north. It reached the scraps and it fed. Previous hunts had afforded me the luxury of placing an arrow in its flank but this was different. I had the skull, or I had nothing.
As the creature fed, it raised its head toward us. It chewed. It was ugly, but it was alive. My hands clapped the ivory like thunder. Never as loud before, never as loud again. A tear broke, reached for a trembling lip. So did my concentration. How could we take the life of an animal who also struggled to survive? Is it right to slaughter for survival? When does slaughter for survival become slaughter for joy? Is my father enjoying this?
An arrow whistled past my ear. It answered all my questions.
An arrow whistled through a waiting skull. It answered all my questions.
The creature squealed and joined the rotting meat.
My father, disappointed, did not speak to me again on the way home. He did not speak to me when he fell ill with a plague. He did not speak to me on his deathbed. He did not speak to me in death. He still refuses to speak with me.
Not only am I doing it for her, I am doing it for him too.
VII: Phaedra 2
The horse colossus bucked, lifting its feet high into the air. I was sure it would collapse through the underground tunnels, but they held. I held.
I progressed across its spine, vertebra by vertebra, and climbed its neck. I imagined Agro with a tinge of fear, having seen the full extent of human desire and death. I imagined Agro like myself, paralysed between the branches of trees. I hope he didn’t think of me as the monster.
The beast’s weak spot rest on high, upon its skull. The Ancient Sword sang again. The horse colossus fell. Again, I waited. The darkness consumes, like it always did and I awake again, to the sound of a crumbling idol.
Pulling myself from the stone ground, I notice Agro at her side. He whinnies as I console him. Agro does not fear me, Agro mourns for me. Four doves circle us and rest upon the altar’s feet. It is a moment I wish I had captured for the three of us, but Dormin quenches the moment with the booming voice. The riddle suggests the creature is not of the earth, but of the sky.
I grin, hardened by the kill, roused by the challenge.
“This one will be for you, father.”