The scene of an eclipse.
The sun was a mirror reflecting the power of the Dark God, instead of the light that was the source of all life. Light consumed by darkness.
Ico gingerly set his hand on the throne. Cold. He lifted his fingers and saw the silhouette of his own horned head cast across the seat.
Readying himself, Ico stepped back from the throne. He looked up at the crest above his head and turned to step down off the platform when a voice called out to him from behind.
“Is this your decision, then?”
Ico spun around.
The queen was sitting, leaning back in her throne, lustrous black hair and long black sleeves spread wide. Her arms perched upon the armrests. The many folds of black lace covering her held the shape of her body, but at the same time they seemed empty. If it were not for her pale white face and the tips of her fingers extending from her sleeves, it would have looked as though her gown sat the throne alone.
“Foolish boy,” the queen said, her voice strangely gentle, coaxing. “In the end we find that a Sacrifice child has no more wit than his forebears. I offered you my protection, I offered you my strength, and you turned your back on me. As I assume you have turned your eyes away from the true enemy you were meant to fight.”
Ico stared at the queen’s pale face. For the first time he realized that nowhere could he see any resemblance to Yorda.
Because her face is just a mask, Ico thought. Those fingers I can see are not real. All that is here is a dark void. Hadn’t the queen said so herself many times? She had already lost her true female form. Destroying this thing on the throne would only be destroying a mask.
“You lied to me,” Ico said, his shrill voice echoing in the darkness of the throne room. “You said you would let me go free if I wanted to take Yorda with me. But I saw Yorda turned to stone. You lied.”
“Ah,” the queen muttered, her fingers twitching. “But I have not lied. The Yorda you saw in the room of the sarcophagi is the way you wanted her. Were you to take her hand and separate her from her loving mother, that is what she would become. I’ve merely prepared her for you.”
The queen’s black veil trembled with mirth.
“I have not done anything so foolish as to lie-though perhaps there was more of the truth I could have told you, Sacrifice.”
Ico felt the blood rush to his face and his body grew hot. The sword in his hand began to glow with a brilliant light. In response, the Mark on his chest began to swirl with white energy.
“Regardless, the time for us to share words has long since passed,” the queen said, slowly rising from her throne. “Turn that sword on me and I will destroy you!”
The queen quickly spread her hands. Ico jumped back, opening the distance between them, readying his sword.
“So pitiful, so foolish. How could a wretched little creature such as yourself hope to defeat me? How could such lofty dreams have found root in your heart and spread their branches through you? Sacrifice, it is clear that my duty here is to right the terrible mistake your shallow heart has made.”
“You can’t trick me again!”
As Ico charged with his sword, the queen’s hands moved gracefully, tracing the shape of a glyph in the air. Fingers of bone thrust forward, and wind spilled forth with a howl.
Ico was blown back. The wind was freezing cold, enough to take his breath away, and it robbed the sword from his hands and sent it flying.
He fell on his back hard, but was again on his feet in a moment. Just as he regained his footing, the sword landed by one of the idols standing to the right-a considerable distance away from Ico.
He launched himself into the air, diving headfirst for the sword. A second blast of wind billowed out from the throne, striking him at the very moment he grabbed the sword. Once again, the sword was ripped from his hand. It flew end over end, then clanged against the stone wall at the side of the room and fell point first to the floor like a twig tossed by a winter gale.
The queen was playing with the sword as though it were a child’s toy, the purifying strength radiating from it seemingly powerless.
The queen was now standing on the throne. Her hands were raised to summon another gale. Without even time to find where the sword had fallen, Ico quickly ducked behind one of the idols. The wind would have blinded him. It was an icy blast, carrying a thousand poison needles, ten thousand sharp, bared fangs, and limitless hatred.
When the idol caught the brunt of the queen’s cursed wind, the patterns on it glowed and sparked like lightning. It was the same as the effect Ico had seen when he used the sword to part the idols by the door. When the wind had passed, the idol’s light faded once again. Only the sword and the mark on Ico’s chest remained bright.
I have to retrieve the sword. Where is it? Where did she send it flying to this time? He found it almost directly across the room. Ico waited for the queen to raise her hands again and darted behind the idols on the left-hand side.
One of his leather sandals, faithful companions this entire time, finally gave out, splitting as he ran. His left foot felt suddenly lighter, and the sandal shot off, lying with its sole facing toward the throne, directly between the two pairs of statues.
The queen’s wind picked it up, and Ico held his hand up over his face to protect himself from the cold. When he pulled his hand aside, he almost yelped.
His leather sandal had been turned to stone, the severed thong that had held it to his leg crumbling at the end where it had broken.
I have to stay out of that wind!
But what had happened before? The wind had hit him and he was fine. Maybe that was the power of the sword. If I can get the sword, then I can face her.
“Are you running, Sacrifice?”
The queen’s black robes trembled with derision and laughter. “Run. Run until you are exhausted. Run until your legs grow weak. In my castle we have all the time in the world!”
Ico kicked off his remaining sandal.
I have to get that sword back. It’s my only chance.
The queen was moving her hands almost as though she were dancing. She drew glyphs in the air, fingers leaving black trails that lingered in his eyes. I have to wait for my chance. When she’s ready to send out her next blast, I have to pick my moment and run to the sword.
Ico grabbed the Mark firmly in one hand. It crumpled between his fingers, but its light remained steady. Now go!
Waiting for the queen’s shoulders to bend back, Ico ran toward the sword. His extended fingers touched its hilt and scraped at it, getting it into his hand when the queen’s next blast of wind came over him. Ico clutched the sword. Its light wrapped around him, shielding him from the blast.
Ico stood and ran over to the wall, tracing a wide circle back to where he had begun.
Another blast of wind. Ico lowered his head and met it, sword raised. He took one step toward the throne. Then another. And another. But when he raised his sword again and looked up, another blast hit him, knocking away the sword. Ico was flung into the air. He tumbled to the ground, defenseless. The impact of the hit made his body scream. His right horn struck the floor and blood flowed.
Ico’s head spun with pain and rising nausea. He got an elbow under himself and sat up, looking down at the blood that flowed from his head pooling on the ground. His right horn hung loosely from its base.
A broken horn-the sign of defeat and shame.
“This is your end, Sacrifice!”
The queen’s arms lifted again.
An icy gray wind blew forth. It erupted like a living thing from the lines the queen’s fingers traced in the air. Ico saw it coming for him, he saw it tremble with a cruel appetite.