Miyuki Miyabe - ICO - Castle in the Mist

“Hateful things!” the queen roared, and her hand faltered as she traced another glyph in the air.

Ico lifted the sword above his head. He charged up onto the platform, making directly for the throne. The sword traced a beautiful arc in the air, trailing white light as it cut straight for the queen’s chest.

There was an explosion of light centered on the tip of the sword. It grew, enveloping the throne, and Ico saw the ring of dark creatures around him evaporate in it.

It felt as though the sword had struck nothing as it pierced cleanly through the queen’s black robes. Ico followed its momentum until he was practically leaning over the throne, seeing its black obsidian reflected in the blade.

The queen doubled over, her chest collapsing onto the seat of the throne. Her arms, stretched over her head, stopped abruptly, grasping the air. Then her fingers lost their strength, her elbows bent, and her head fell backward, revealing her white throat.

The strength left her shoulders, and her arms fell down on the armrests together.

Ico looked at the queen’s white face, so close to his own. He was looking at a white mask. Where her eyes should have been were two dark holes. Then the darkness faded.

“I…” the mouth of the mask moved. Ico kept his grip firm on the sword. “I cannot be…”

Ico shut his eyes tight. Then with his remaining strength he thrust the sword forward again.

The white mask crumpled. Like white paper burned by an unseen fire, it fell inside itself, wasting away to nothing. Her black robes lost their shape and color, turning to a drab gray, their embroideries fading, until the cloth itself began to thin and disappear.

No one was left sitting upon the obsidian throne.

The last ring of light emitted by the sword reached the corners of the throne and evaporated to mist.

The sword dropped from Ico’s hand.

With a clang, it fell upon the throne. It was no longer shining. Now it was dull, aged. Rust showed on the hilt, and the notches in its blade told the tale of its many years.

For a moment it hung balanced, half off the throne, before falling onto the floor next to Ico’s feet.

Ico lowered his arms and stood a while just looking at it.

The glow of his Mark had faded as well, as had the shades from around the room.

Ico staggered back, almost toppling off of the platform. He found it hard to control his own body.

Fresh blood flowed from the base of his right horn. It ran down his neck and trickled onto his shoulder. New blood flowed with every beat of his heart. His knees bent and he sat, face dropping. He raised his right hand to hold down his horn, but couldn’t lift it all the way before he lost what strength remained in him and collapsed on the spot. His face was calm, peaceful, like that of a sleeping boy.

The Castle in the Mist realized something was different-its core, its soul, was gone.

In countless rooms, walls of stacked stones sighed. Cobblestones in the floor began to rattle.

We are cages. We are empty.

The strength that held us in place is gone. The darkness that bound us together has faded.

The vibrations were so faint at first that not even the most wary bird would have noticed them. Yet the entire castle had begun to tremble. Every stone, wall, and floor began to shake. Tiny particles of rock fell from the cracks where the ornamented walls met the ceilings. As one, every torch in the castle was extinguished. Water in the copper pipes ceased to flow. The wind that whistled through the towers and across the terraces and along the outer walls grew still.

We have held this false shape for so long.

All of this should have faded years ago.

Minute vibrations became a noticeable trembling that came with a keening noise. The birds sitting on the Tower of Winds or flying around the old bridge sped away from the castle.

It is ending. I am ending.

On two slender legs she climbed the stone stair to the queen’s chambers, the tattered hem of a dress falling around them.

Yorda was free of the stone, and her body had begun to glow again as she walked.

She saw the boy lying on the stone floor, his back to her. He was exhausted and covered with wounds.

Yorda approached. She knelt by his body. She extended her fingers and touched his cheek as she had when they first met.

The boy’s face was dirty with blood and dust. His eyes were closed.

All around them the Castle in the Mist shook with a low rumbling noise Yorda felt in her body. The sound of the deep, vital foundations collapsing. Yorda looked up at the royal crest over the throne. The vibrations increased until Yorda could see the stones shaking.

The carving of the crest split in two. Along with the pair of carved swords, it fell to the floor behind the throne with a loud crash.

Yorda put one hand on the floor to support herself as the castle shook anew. She could hear the castle screaming through her hand.

There isn’t much time.

Yorda reached out and picked up the boy in both her arms.

Pillars crumbled, floor tiles buckled. Yorda continued on, ignoring the swirling dust and the collapsing walls. She advanced with steady feet through the groaning, screeching, lamenting castle. She passed through a corridor and it collapsed behind her. As she crossed a hall, she saw its floor give way, crumbling down into the earth. A chunk of rock grazed Yorda’s heel. She did not stop. Through the next room and the next, destruction and collapse followed close behind her. But Yorda did not look back. Over swaying steps and collapsing bridges, down secret stairs that only Yorda knew, they reached the underground pier. Yorda stepped across the wet sand, making for the water. The ground rumbled under her feet. The shock waves were growing more violent. When she stepped on the pier, one of the rotting pilings gave way and the pier collapsed, leaving nothing but a few scattered boards floating on the water.

Yorda smiled.

Still carrying the boy, she stepped into the water. The vibrations in the castle above sent ripples across the surface of the water. Yorda lifted her arms, keeping the boy’s face above the lapping waves.

Pushing her way forward, she reached one of the planks from the shattered pier. She laid the boy atop it. He was still asleep. Blood oozed from where his right horn attached to his scalp. The blood dripped down onto the board, staining it red.

Yorda kept moving forward, pushing the boy along on the board. The water rose until it was just below her chin, and then higher until she could go no farther.

Summoning all her strength, Yorda pushed the board forward as hard as she could. As though it heard her unspoken plea, the current shifted, carrying the plank out through the grotto toward the open sea. Yorda watched it go.

The final dying cries of the castle reverberated through the grotto. Yorda whispered something as the boy drifted away, though even had he been awake it would have been impossible to hear her over the clamor of the collapsing castle. He had never been able to understand her language, in any case.

“Goodbye,” she said.

Then, pushing back through the water, she quietly turned back toward the castle.

One of the pillars gave way. When it fell, the one next to it cracked and buckled, as though victim of a fast-spreading plague, followed by the next and the next.

In the Western Arena, the viewing stands crumbled first. Rubble buried the platform where knights had once fought for their lives and for honor. Finally the arena itself collapsed under the weight of the rubble, dragging the walls down with it and burying the queen’s observing throne.

The large reflectors to the east and west shone brilliantly, standing through the quakes. As their bases shook and the earth split, they fell to the ground, facing up toward the sky. At the same time, the two spheres above the main gate collapsed into dust.