Knuckles leaned back in the hot spring, reflecting on the evening's conversation. Elijah's words about the dangers of the magic and power offered to him echoed in his mind. The Nephilim had made a compelling point about the nature of the divine and the perilous bargains they often entailed. He took another sip of his drink, the warmth of the alcohol mingling with the steam rising from the spring. Knuckles had always known the hammers were more than just weapons they were symbols of a deeper power, a connection to forces beyond his understanding. But Elijah's caution about the cost of wielding such power resonated with him. The power of Mjölnir and the void hammer came with a price not just physical, but spiritual as well.
"Maybe it has to do with you being a Daemon so they don't care if it could kill you, it probably wouldn't since you're 'dangerous magic' too," Elijah had said. Knuckles knew that his nature as a daemon placed him in a unique position, one where the lines between good and evil, power and corruption, were often blurred.
He thought back to his first encounter with the void hammer. The void demanded something in return something from him, something from his soul. Knuckles had been willing to make that sacrifice, driven by the desire for strength and redemption. But Elijah's words reminded him such bargains were never simple. The void was a place of chaos and uncertainty, the strength it offered likely to be no less a danger to him than a support.
There was Mjölnir a god's hammer, a tool of pure divine force. The legends of Thor using it rang far and wide to channel the power of thunder. But legends often omitted the darker truths, the hidden costs of such power. That, and more, made the sage words of Elijah that the gods preferred to use their most dangerous magics playing with mortals themselves, so maybe he was nothing more than a glorified pawn in some higher god's amusement stick in the back of his mind. Or was there something deeper to this connecting thread between himself and the hanging void hammer that was Mjölnir?
"Maybe of a savior, maybe not," had been Elijah's words. Knuckles pondered these words. His path was uncertain, his destiny unclear. He had the power to be a savior, but also the potential to become much darker than that. The dual nature of his hammers reflected the duality within himself a being between light and darkness, seeking redemption but at the same time haunted by his very nature.
Knuckles finished his drink before finally feeling like the thoughts weighing on him had started to grow heavy. Elijah's warnings hadn't been for naught they had served to remind him that power, especially of the variety that he wielded, was never without its price. The choices he made, the battles he fought, and the alliances he chose would shape his future.
With a last look at the now-vacant seat where Elijah had been sitting, Knuckles decided he would have to tread very carefully. The path of power was full of snares, but it was a path he had chosen. And if he were to walk it, then it would be with open eyes, knowing the price and wary of the traps lying in wait.
"Night, night, Elijah," he spoke softly into the glass, raised high in a silent toast to his new friend and his wisdom.
"Till we meet again. "TWC: 2249
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