Heroes, Chapter 6

Preface: Greetings, all! This is the sixth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.

As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Chapter 6 – Transformation

It was the day after the apocalypse, and they were still alive.

Alive, but not well – that would be too much to ask for.  The three of them were heavily bandaged, and none of them moved with their usual confidence or poise.  Instead, they shifted uneasily from soreness to soreness, and crept like old men when they were forced to move.  What skin showed from under the bandages or their battle-weathered attire was discolored or swollen.  Their eyes, though, showed the deepest wounds – pain that no tonic or tincture could relieve, an ache that only the panacea of time could hope to redress, and even that carried slim odds.  Souls carry deeper scars than flesh, and no matter the condition of their bodies, it was clear from a glance that their truest wounds would leave their marks where it mattered most.

But such is to be expected, when one battles a god.

Two of the young men sat around a fire, staring not into it, but beyond, at something that eyes could never focus upon – even their minds struggled to perceive.  The third approached unsteadily, his wide-brimmed, conical hat drooping as if it, too, had born grievous wounds.  He tried to smile at his – former? – friends, but the expression was false and fragile, and he instead merely sat down opposite them, dropping onto the log that served as a bench with boneless grace.  He almost caught himself with his right arm, but stopped himself, instead cradling the heavily–bandaged limb closer to his chest with a grimace.  Despite his presence, the silence that had reigned over the other pair held court for some time longer, welcoming him to join in the solemn ritual of painful introspection.

     Finally, the newcomer shattered the silence. “At least it’s over.”

     The slight young man with dark hair only coughed a bitter laugh, but the slim blonde raised his emerald eyes to glower at the speaker.  While his friend carried the weight of numb defeat on his slumped shoulders, there was still something defiant and angry about the one dressed in forest greens, just as there had been the last time he had spoken to the fourth remaining member of their party. “Is it, John?” he demanded, his voice sharp and precise as one of his arrows. “Seems to me that it has just started all over.”

     Sighing deeply, but somehow glad deep inside that at least the fight would be open and direct, the young man in the drooping hat stared back at the one who had challenged him. “Pers,” he started grimly, “we won.  The Dark God is dead.  The monsters are retreating, or scattering at least.  The spell is spent, and the war is over.” 

     “Oh, of course,” Percival replied sardonically, his eyes narrowed. “The King of Demons is dead.  But long live the Queen.”

    A cold rejoinder came to John’s lips, but a glance to the side showed that, beyond Percival’s angry glare, even the third man was watching him closely, stirred from his defeated melancholy by something not distant from curiosity.  Dragging back the words that had threatened to erupt from him, he forced himself to sculpt a better response. “Yes, there is a new leader for the monsters,” John replied, “but it is better that way.” He paused at the bitter laugh from Percival. “Tell me, how did you think this would end, really?  We kill the Dark God, and then… what?” John saw Percival lean back slightly, and so he drove the point in harder. “What did you think came next?  We go on, and hunt down every single monster?  An extermination campaign?  A genocide?”

     “Genocide is exactly what they meant to-”

     “You don’t mean that ‘they,’ Percival.  You just don’t.” John’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Whatever the Dark God wanted, he’s dead.  And if they had wanted it, we three would be dead also.  None of us had anything left after that battle.  But they don’t want to hurt us, and that’s why we’re alive to argue about this.”

     “Most of us.” The quiet words from the third man caused the other two to pause, all wind, all anger, driven from them.  They could all still see the moment that serpentine blade had pierced through the gleaming armor of the massive golden figure Theo had become, and the way that the overwhelming light and warmth had drained from that avatar until it was just the broken body of their friend.  Silence reclaimed its throne over them once more.

When Percival spoke once more, his voice was considerably more subdued. “They intend to take Theo to Vindobona, since he was raised there.  The Church of Apollo has already declared him a martyr.  There’s talk of monuments for him, even a holy day.”

     John laughed at that, but this time the sound was clean of any anger.  Instead, he was incredulous. “He never would have believed it.  An orphan, a nobody – he called himself that.”  John smiled, but his eyes were as damp as those of his friends. “But he deserves it, anyways.”

     The others nodded mutely, their minds on the latest friend they had lost.  The past two weeks had been terrible in that regard – first, the sacrifice Paul had made, and then, after the bitter argument that had split their forces in half, Alex’s death at the hand of the Dark God.  Now, Theo had died to the same malevolent deity.  The nascent rift that they all felt growing between each other only made matters worse, but they were all too tired and bitter to find a way to take care of those wounds just yet.    

  “The Solar Church isn’t the only one that’s paying attention,” Percival noted, his eyes gauging John warily. “There’s talk of a major delegation on its way from the Order, and even the High Priestess of the Chief Goddess, too.  They’re coming to see for themselves what happened here.”

     ‘Oh.” John blinked, caught off-guard. “But the last High Priestess died at the Vale of Sorrows.  They’ve already chosen a successor?” That surprised him a great deal – the Church was practically synonymous with political scheming and influence peddling, and their decisions tended to be slowed by the complex egocentric negotiations of the upper ranks.

“By divine commandment from the Chief Goddess herself.” If John had been surprised before, he leaned back on his seat now, and even the third member of the group watched his face intently. “It’s Evelynn.”

John’s whistle, low and long, sounded squeezed from his chest. “Really?  Damn.” He blanched at the thought of it. “Oh, she’s going to be pissed.”

“Guess all this means that the engagement is called off.” Percival shot a glare, half–surprised and half–reproachful, at the third man, but he replied with a crooked smile, and for just a moment, Christophe Sutton looked like his old self once more.

“I won’t shed any tears over that – means I won’t have to cover for when Adam runs away and leaves her fuming at the altar,” John quipped, and even Percival’s lips quirked.  None of them had liked the overly-pious priestess – even ever-polite Paul had said she was a bit much – and Adam’s engagement to her had been another divine decree, part of his promised reward for helping to save humanity.  The Chief Goddess had outlined grand plans for Adam’s future, and had consulted the hero on absolutely none of it.

“But maybe marrying the head of the church and being crowned a king would have been a better idea than… this?” Percival suggested, motioning vaguely towards the site of the final battle.  John knew it wasn’t that conflict that the archer was referring to, but the decision Adam had made in the lead-up to it: to partner with the Dark God’s estranged daughter.

     “This is what Adam chose,” John insisted.  Percival’s face darkened, but he held his tongue. “He thinks he can help build a peace between monsters and humans.  And… he cares for her.” John shrugged, his voice betraying the fact that he, too, had doubts, but out of all the heroes, he had always been the closest to Adam.  They had grown up together, fled Fairhaven together, adventured together.  Only now did John consider walking a different path from his best friend, but still he believed that, if anyone could forge peace out of the ruins of the war they had survived, it would be Adam.  His voice rising a bit, he raised his wounded right hand. “And she’s not all bad.  If it weren’t for her, I’d be dead too.”

     “What happened with that, anyways?” Christophe asked, leaning closer to stare at the wrappings that encased John’s wounded limb. “We’d heard you were hurt in the fight, but…”

     John stared at the hand for a moment longer, regretting that he had brought it up.  Considering how his friends felt about monsters, he wasn’t sure how this would change their opinion of him, no matter how it had come about.  Finally, sighing, he reached up to unwrap the bandages.  It took a moment, but as the cloth dropped away, both Percival and Christophe drew nearer, their eyes wide in horrified wonder. “One drop of blood,” John bemoaned, staring at the monstrous form of his forearm.  From fingertip to almost his elbow, his arm was inhuman, with dark blue flesh and corded veins standing out from the slabs of muscle.  The nails were blood-red and nearly as long as the fingers themselves, and looked as sharp as talons. “That’s all it took.”

     “Blood?” Christophe asked, confused.

     John sighed. “Do you remember what we found, right before the battle of the Vale of Sorrows?  The sacrifices?”

     The other pair nodded, their expressions grim.  That had been a mystery to them since, especially since they hadn’t discussed it with John afterwards.  He was the only member of the party skilled in arcane matters, and in the day before their argument, they had all been too tired and heartsore from the slaughter of their forces and the loss of Paul to think about the matter.

     “It was the Prime Baphomet, killing dozens and dozens of monsters, and doing some sort of perverse ritual…” Percival recalled, his lip curled in disgust.  Beside him, Christophe nodded, looking a bit green.

     “It was a Ritual of Transformation – the mist that changed our people into blood-crazed monsters.  That mist that swept over our armies… I could see the mana that created it, and it came straight out of the monsters she and her attendants had murdered.  She used their blood as the vector for her spell, the physical object it could be bound to.” Seeing the disgust on his friend’s faces, John shrugged. “Blood magic is old, but forbidden by all human nations, and even monsters stay away from it.  Seems the Dark God decided to use it – but, that spell failed.  Even if I hadn’t killed everyone already under his control-” his voice cracked a bit in uttering that fact, “the spell would have quickly dissipated on its own.  The blood wasn’t potent enough.  No one would have turned back, but it couldn’t spread.”

“Then how was he going to turn all humanity into monsters with this spell, then?” Percival asked, obviously already suspecting that he knew the answer.

“With his own blood as the vector,” John explained, his face pale beneath the grime. “The Baphomet was summoning the spell-shape, what she called the Incantation of Divine Transformation, and then when it was ready, the Dark God was going to bleed himself almost dry into it to create a cloud of mist big and long-lasting enough to cover the whole continent.  He would have been badly weakened, but who would have been left to contest him?” John’s laugh was sharp and loud. “And so, while Theo was fighting him, and then when Adam and Lilith took over, I was contesting that goat-faced witch for control of the ritual, hoping I could shatter the spell before he could get to it to fuel it.  Unfortunately…” At this, John sighed, slumping bonelessly as he stared at his newly-malformed limb, “During the battle, a bit of blood sprayed in my direction, and…” He forced himself to stare at his new hand and arm. “So close, and so concentrated, it was almost instantaneous.  And it kept growing, too.  Not long after that, Lilith blasted the witch away and took over the spell, and when Adam struck the Dark God down, she used his blood as a reagent instead.  Of course, all that power had to go somewhere…” 

     “The way the monsters… changed, afterwards?” Percival guessed.

     John nodded. “She used it on her own people, instead of us, through the blood of their creator.  Spent the spell turning monsters into something like her.  Said it could give them a chance for peace with humanity. His power, too, came to her through the spell, though I think some of it died with him.”  Silence returned as they all sat in thought, chewing on this knowledge like gristle. “She helped stop the transformation affecting me, before it could go further than this.” John held up the arm, motioning to the line of discoloration where his flesh transitioned from human to monster. “It could’ve been worse.  Being tied to the spell made me immune to it.  If I hadn’t been part of the ritual, I could’ve had a lady monster hand, too,” John quipped.  He smiled over at Christophe, expecting some sort of profane joke from the typically-jovial rogue, but the other man was looking down in thought.  Instead, John was distracted by the shadow of something moving beyond him, near the tents beyond where they sat.  Before he could decipher what it might be, Percival’s words drew his attention back.

“So now, monsters just go about their lives… it can’t end this clean.  We’ve heard tales of men being snatched up by them already-”

     “Yeah, well, most of them have been found with the monsters,” John argued, his cheeks warming in a blush. “Apparently those female forms aren’t just for show.” He glanced over to see Percival staring at him. “They’re not killing people.  They’re… taking mates.”

     “We don’t know how this changes things,” Percival insisted, standing up.  He glanced off in the distance, towards the golden gleam in the sky. “For now, it’s probably a good thing that they have trouble crossing past Paul’s spell.”

     “And, in time, if you are right about them… then we can look into other solutions,” John relented. “If Paul’s spell worked, there’s no reason something similar couldn’t be managed elsewhere, to give more of a boundary between monsters and humans.  I have ideas…” He trailed off, conscious of the victorious smirk on Percival’s face. “Yeah, okay, I admit it – I’m worried, too.  But I still say this is better than the alternative.” His jaw was set as he stood too. “Monsters may still be a threat to us, and we have a lot of questions left to answer.  But that’s a problem for tomorrow, or a decade for now.  We,” and he motioned to all three of them, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Adam, “are done with this war.”

     “I’m not so sure of that,” Percival replied flatly, but he crossed his arms before his chest and huffed a sigh of surrender. “But for now, yes.” He looked up again to John. “Before you came, we were discussing where to go from here.  I think I will go back to the elves of the western forests and make sure they still want to maintain their treaties with humanity despite the war ending.  My goddess is a protector of the wild lands, so I want to make sure that both elves and men respect the boundaries we established.” He nodded down to Christophe, prompting the other man to take his turn.

The rogue was slow in speaking, his gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon. “I don’t have much to return to,” he said, and the other two looked to their feet at the despair in his voice. “Norelle is… was…” His sigh ragged, he shrugged. “Guess being one of the Great Heroes will pay off somehow, eventually.  Someone has to endure the parades and feasts.  Want to come along, John?” He looked up at the other man, the faint hope in his eyes drowned by loss.

It obviously hurt him to do so, but John shook his head, raising his arm. “I want to study how to fix… this.  And I don’t think the answers will be found on that side of the Veil.” Shrugging, and with a rueful smile, he glanced to the east. “From the way he looks at her, Adam is going to be busy for a long time.  I doubt he’ll even notice I’m gone.” Before the others could interrupt him, he pressed on. “The Order has had it out for me ever since I teleported that load of fresh manure into their headquarters-” Despite the tension of the moment, the other two chuckled along with him, “and Evelynn despises me, so… maybe seeing the rest of the world for a while isn’t such a bad idea.” His smile was almost genuine, his hope a near facsimile of the real thing, but at least his expression wasn’t fragile alone.  Both Percival and Christophe struggled to rein in their regrets, their weaknesses – they had all spent years traveling together constantly, and this farewell was too abrupt, too imperfect.  John knew that, deep down, they wanted to apologize for the things they had said to Adam, but that would take time.  Time was what they all needed.

“Hey, look at it this way,” John consoled them, his tone braver. “We’ll see each other again soon.” He shrugged. “Or not soon, but still… being Godchosen means we don’t age, right?  Even less than other heroes.” The other two nodded reluctantly, though Christophe’s expression was faintly haunted. “It’s a small enough world.  You’ll see me around, sooner or later.” His grin showed he believed the sentiment, and it was infectious enough that the others began to mirror it. “Save me a seat at your favorite tavern, and I’ll fill it eventually.”

 Laughing, Christophe stood from his seat. “I’ll make sure they have small cups.” Grinning at John’s aghast offense, he nodded to the other two. “I’ll look for you both, alright?  For… all three of you.”

     “Same.”  Percival’s open smiles were rare, but dazzling when they appeared, and this was a prime example. “I’ll ask the elves not to shoot you on first sight, if you want to find me.  I can’t promise anything about second sight, though.” The other men chuckled, but a cloud passed over Percival’s face as something else occurred to him. “Oh, but… what about the kid?”

     “Freddie?” John laughed, surprised the topic had come up. “Didn’t you leave him back at…” He trailed off as he saw the looks on their faces. “You brought him, here?  T-to the final battle?” His tone was incredulous.

“He followed the forces that came with us,” Christophe explained as he shrugged helplessly. “We saw him before it all started, but there wasn’t any time to do anything about it.”

“But that’s not the problem,” Percival explained, bending to pick up his quiver and sling it over his shoulder. “What is he going to do now?  You know he idolized Adam, thought that he was going to save the world.  He thought Adam was going to kill all of the monsters and make everyone safe again.” Percival shrugged, his hands spread. “What do we tell him now?”

John barked a laugh.  He knew what Percival meant: the kid had always hung all over Adam, listening to every story with baited breath, practicing sword strikes with sticks near their tents.  Ever since he had started following them, when they had found him near the ruins of his village, the kid had appealed to Adam’s softest side.  After all, Adam had told John, the boy was an orphan just like them, and he needed hope since he had lost everything else.  John didn’t know why he had never gotten along with the brat – the feeling seemed mutual, from the way the boy teased and pranked him – but he assumed it was because he knew that, unlike Adam and John, the boy had someone to give him hope, instead of having to find it for himself like John had.  John knew it was incredibly petty to envy that, especially from someone else who had lost it all, but John had never pretended to be a saint anyways. “Tell him the truth, for all I care.  Tell him that there’s no gods, no heroes, coming to save him anymore.  Tell him he’ll have to do it himself.” Standing, John dusted himself off. “Just like the rest of us.”

Eyebrow raised, Christophe shook his head. “Never change, John.”

“Didn’t intend to.” Smiling at his friends, the warlock bowed his head in farewell. “See you around sometime, guys.  It’s been fun.”

And the world went on, and forgot their faces – and they had never met again.

 

******

 

The Second Home seemed as lively as ever when Simon Hopkins pushed open the swinging doors, greeting him with the cacophony of voices arguing, singing, laughing, gossiping, flirting, bellowing – a dozen living concerts all played at once to mutual unintelligibility.  It was deliciously foreign to the former Purifier, and it made him smile every time he walked in, letting him steal just a glimpse of dozens of faces at their most relaxed and honest – and, often, completely plastered.  It was a far cry from its predecessor, the inn that its current proprietor had ran back in Videre, but there was a common feeling: it was neutral ground, all men and women floating equally once in their cups.

And yet, just as there had been in Videre, there were exceptions to that rule.  Even as Simon searched the crowd for his friend, he noticed an off-note in the discordant symphony: there was an odd silence from the balcony.  As he tried to turn his attention in that direction, however, his eyes were snared by a familiar figure descending the stairs: that of Mary Kramer, one of the people he had come to trust and rely upon the most since he had first come to New Haven, or even Videre before it.  She had already noticed him, and brightened as he raised a hand in her direction, hurrying to reach the floor below.  She was aided by the emptiness of the stairs, another oddity, but as Mary made her way through the crowd, a glance to the floor above revealed the truth of the subtle change in the atmosphere, the presence that had created a bubble of stillness in the motion: sitting at the only occupied table on the balcony was a familiar figure dressed all in white, flanked by a pair of women in maid attire.

Simon had little time to consider this revelation before Mary arrived at his side, her smile wide and her brown eyes bright behind her round glasses.  She came to him so quickly despite the press that he thought for a moment she was going to collide with him, but she drew herself up just before she reached him, carefully rebalancing the tray of empty drinks she held aloft.  She was dressed in the outfit of the tavern’s barmaids, though to Simon’s eyes it looked to have been made for her above any other, complimenting her curves with pride.  “Simon, I haven’t seen you in days!” she said, the lack of sternness in her voice keeping the comment from being a scold. “I was actually going to come by the tower later, to bring you something to eat.  Roger said you’d be on your own today.  I’d meant to come earlier, but things got kind of hectic here.”  At this, her eyes flickered towards the balcony, and Simon could easily deduce her implication.  Lady Mephis’s status in the town, even if she was typically cloistered in the tower, meant that a visit from her required special attention.

“Thanks,” Simon offered gratefully, allowing Mary to lead him closer to the bar where her father was busy polishing the wooden surface with a rag.  Simon offered a nod of greeting to the older man, and Charles grinned and nodded back to him with a wink.  As Simon and Mary got closer, the barkeep moved further down the bar away from them, presumably to tend to customers at that end, though none seemed to need attention at the moment. “But that’s okay.  John sent Claude out earlier for stew, and I had some of that.  We had some surprise guests come in today, but now that they are gone, I’m free to run a few errands, so I’ll be out of the tower for a bit.  I just stopped by for a minute since I had the free time.”

The truth was a bit more complex than that.  After John had broken to him the shocking truth about the Holy Martyr, the conversation had largely lapsed into an awkward silence.  John had seemed reticent to reveal more, his mind captured by memories of what they had been discussing, and when Simon had asked once more about his still-wrapped left arm, John had become even more evasive.  Since Simon was still struggling to accept the information John had already offered him, he had attempted to give John some space by suggesting he could check in on Sarah’s progress on the leyline maps.  The former hero had readily agreed, and so Simon had left him in his room close to the tower’s summit as soon as they had finished re-wrapping his right arm in the bandages.

Simon had come here seeking a place to clear his head.  Some part of him wasn’t surprised at the revelation of the Holy Martyr’s true fate; after all, the Church had lied about so much to every one of the people under their rule, so why would even something so foundational be immune to their deception?  Still, having grown up with legends of the Martyr and his great sacrifice for humanity, it was hard to think of him as something different than the monolithic champion of mankind that Simon had always envisioned.  To think that he had not been killed by the Demon Queen, but had been bedded by her instead…

“Oh,” Mary replied softly, bringing Simon out of his thoughts, but not soon enough to notice the disappointment that flickered across her face. “I had thought…” She re-fortified her smile, shrugging her shoulders. “Another time, then.  Are you going to be here long?”

“Just long enough for a couple of drinks,” Simon admitted. “I wanted to check in on you and your dad, make sure that everything was fine here.” He motioned to the rest of the tavern with a wave of his hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by as much recently-”

“It’s fine,” Mary replied, still smiling, though the expression felt changed to him. “I know you’re busy.  We’re fine here.  There’s certainly enough customers to keep us working, that’s for sure.”

“I can definitely see that,” Simon acknowledged. “I’ve spread the word about this place as much as I could, but honestly I think you came at the perfect time to get known.  Most of the other taverns around town are smaller, and I think having a human bartender is another appeal for a lot of the people here.”

“Tell me about it,” Mary laughed, more openly this time. “The amount of times he gets harassed on a daily basis…” She trailed off as a deep bellow from across the tavern proved her point beyond refutation.

“Hey, muscleman!” shouted the familiar voice, and Simon looked over to see that it came from a tall figure seated alone at one of the tables.  Most of the tables had benches with three or four people sitting atop them, but this particular roundtop had mismatched chairs, and the sole inhabitant was leaning back in one of them, the seat seeming to strain under her weight.  That weight certainly wasn’t a matter of obesity – the woman was all green skin stretched taut over dense muscles, angles and might and brutality wrapped up extra tight.  Simon knew her at a glance; Kana the ogre was a friend of Priscilla, and had the previous day helped him out when some of her kin had harassed George before he had departed.  Now, though, it seemed she had decided to swap out roles and become the offender herself. “Hey, big boy, why don’t you bring one of those big tankers over here?  Girlie here can’t move fast enough to keep my cups full, so just let me do it myself.” Kana waved off the waitress next to her, her narrow eyes turned to the bar.  To Simon’s amusement, he realized she was ogling the kegs more than the man before them, or at least that seemed the case.

Sighing, Charles motioned to the waitress, who glowered at Kana before moving to take care of different, more civil customers.  As Simon and Mary – and, to Simon’s amusement, a remarkable amount of the female customers – watched, Charles turned to the barrels behind the bar, and, selecting one, lifted it from the floor and rested it on one of his broad shoulders.  The container was massive, and its weight had to be crushing, but Charles barely showed signs of struggle as he rounded the bar and headed for Kana’s table.  The ogre watched him come too, interest sparking in her eyes as he drew nearer, now watching the man more than the barrel over the edge of her wooden mug.  As Charles lowered the keg to the floor with an audible grunt and a loud enough ‘thud’ to convey the container’s weight, Kana smirked at him. “Oh, I meant that smaller one to the left.  You can take this one back.  Or give it to me at the same price; I’ll take that.”

Charles eyed her with cold dispassion, his arms crossing before his chest.  He was already a bear of a man, and that gesture emphasized how broad he truly was, never mind the size of the biceps straining at his shirt. “If you’re low on cash for your drinks, there’s a river a few streets over.  Go drink from it.”

“Now that you mention it, I did forget my purse back at my room,” Kana purred, her voice like an axehead being dragged over stone. “Shame.  Maybe we could come to some sort of arrangement…?”

“Don’t do extended tabs.  Don’t do beggars.”

“Do you ‘do’ wagers?” Kana leaned forward in her seat, her smile all bared fangs and malice. “How about a bet?” She put her arm forward, resting the elbow on the table. “Little arm-wrestling?” She waggled her fingers as she watched his face. “Big man big enough to play?”

Charles looked long at her bicep before returning his gaze to her face. “Stakes?”

“Well, we can start with a free keg when I win, and if you want to raise the bet from there, then I’m game.”

“And when you lose?”

“I won’t.” Kana shrugged, and with her left hand pulled a pouch from her waist. “Oh, look.  I found my purse.”  She dropped the sack to the table, where it thumped like a dropped dumbbell, the bottom of the bag spreading outwards under its weight. “I’ll spend every coin of it here, and I won’t whine about the mark-up like most people.  Give me the fancy stuff, or what they aren’t buying – I won’t care.”

“So you’ll pay if you lose?  Seems to me you’ll pay even if we don’t play.” Charles gave her an edged grin of his own.  He glanced at the purse, and then back to the ogre. “Former mercenary?” he hazarded.

“Scratch the ‘former,’” she replied, shrugging indolently. “And business is good.”

Again Charles’s eyes made the rounds. “Promise to bring some friends in with you, friends with fat purses like that who won’t whine about spending it, and I’ll call it an even bet.”

“Then get down here and hold my hand, and show me those muscles aren’t just for serving drinks – or maybe we should get you one of those pretty waitress dresses like the rest of these girls.” She guffawed at her own suggestion. “Bet you’d look real pretty if we got you the stockings for it.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, but he took the seat across from her and rested his elbow on the table. “Sounds like we’ve got our next bet lined up, after I take you on this one.  We can see who gets to wear that dress between you and me.”

Kana’s eyes opened wide at the suggestion. “Don’t think they make my size,” she replied, honestly, and he frowned at her blatant hypocrisy.  Still, she shrugged. “We’ll see how I’m feeling after I drink my free keg from kicking your ass, though.” She reached out to grasp his hand, and leaned in closer, as did he.  Their eyes locked over the battlefield of their locked hands, and their muscles tensed as they braced for the first motion, the table creaking under the press of their elbows as they settled in for a long battle.

The tavern had gone all but silent.  Most of the customers were watching the contest, and a couple of enterprising souls had started taking bets.  The barkeep and the ogre paid no mind to their surroundings, however; their gazes were as much as war as their forearms, where veins were already rising to stand in relief out from their muscles.  They leaned in further as the previously-offended waitress stepped up to officiate, hand raised as the flag for their combat to begin.

Simon leaned in closer to Mary. “Looks like your dad is having fun,” he joked.  To his surprise, Mary’s expression was strangely wistful, and she glanced over to him with a gentle smile.

“Good for him,” she said softly. “Pa never had so much as a date after ma died, and that was when I was very young.  He deserves to be happy, and maybe here he can find that.”

Simon stared at her face even after she turned back to watch the match between Charles and Kana, noticing the sadness there but not understanding its origin.  He wanted to cheer her up, but didn’t know what he could do to address whatever was bothering her.  He frowned, his thoughts turned too inward to track the contest, desperate to find something he could say to Mary to lighten her mood.  Had the potion he had sent to her via Roger reminded her that she was the only human girl here in town?  Despite that, she had plenty of friends here – starting with Gina and Sarah and Lyra, but he had seen her happily chatting with many other women here at the tavern.  Was she overworked?  Missing Videre, perhaps?

Mary glanced over at him, noticing him lost in his thoughts, and she reached out to touch his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Oh?  Me?  I’m fine!” Simon offered her a grin, but his thoughts still troubled him. “You know… If you wanted sometime, you could come by the house during the evenings…”

“What?” Mary asked, her cheeks flushing brilliantly, her eyes widening.

“Yeah… It would be nice to be able to spend more time with you,” he said, wondering at the faint tremble that seemed to pass through her, the slight furrow of her brows. “I know you tend to work more for the early shifts, and Gina and Sarah would love to have you come visit for dinner.  You could spend more time with us all, since we tend to be together then.” Something died in her eyes, and he couldn’t figure out what or why, but his heart wanted to mourn anyways. ‘I’m sorry, did I-?”

“No,” Mary said, turning away quickly, her attention back on the competition. “I… I would love to.  To see them.  And… and you.”  If it had harmony, her words could have been a song, full of rising and falling, but it was irreparably discordant. “I…” Her throat worked like the song had slammed to a stop, and she wouldn’t look his way.

Simon looked to the side, his mind working at breakneck speed but producing nothing, unable to determine what he had done wrong.  He had just meant to cheer her up, but he could tell he had done just the opposite, and he let his panic show on his face since none would bother to look away from the contest to see him.  What had he said?

He looked around in search of answers, but everyone seemed enraptured by the contest.  One woman, of ogre size but seemingly made of stitched-together cloth, sat with her arms folded across her chest and face in a deep scowling pout, while others threw coins to the bet-takers with shouted predictions.  A glance at the table showed that Kana had the advantage, bending Charles’s arm down towards the table’s surface, but as Simon watched, the burly barkeep, his bald pate burning a deep crimson, slowly pushed her arm skyward, her eyes wide as she watched in naked disbelief.  With a laugh of feral pleasure, Kana threw her effort into resisting him – and yet still the hands rose higher, until-

CRACK!

Part of the table gave way, sending both contestants sprawling to the floor.  Everyone leaned forward, worried that they had been injured, but both Charles and Kana were soon waving off offers of aid, laughing and brushing off the dregs of beer that had been splashed over them by the table’s fatal surrender.  Even as they stood, the crowd erupted, in laughter, in applause, in demands for a rematch (so the bookies wouldn’t have to just hand the money back, of course!).  The crowd rose, surrounding them, the noise only growing in intensity, and through the press Simon could see the two opponents being herded good-naturedly towards their next arena, a table much more worthy being dragged across the floor towards them while others rushed to the bar to get drinks for the show or to offer to their chosen champion.

‘Well, uh, I should… I should get back to the bar,” Mary said, still not quite looking at Simon.  She turned a smile in his direction, but it was a slapdash imitation of the real thing, and Simon didn’t hide his answering frown. “They’ll be busy, and they’ll need someone to bring things up from the cellar since Pa is busy, so…”

“Mary, I- I’m sorry, I don’t know what-”

He thought she responded, but her back was to him, and she rushed off towards the bar.  For just a moment, her shoulders shook, and to his terror he thought she might be crying.  Standing alone in the crowd, awash in his own ignorance, Simon watched her go, so confused that it felt like the earth beneath his feet had been ripped away for the second time in one day.  When she vanished down the stairs leading to the cellar, he shook his head in defeat, staggering towards the door, towards his other errands, wishing someone could help him see what he had done to hurt one of the only people left in the world that he cared about.

As Simon stepped out of the Second Home, only one pair of eyes watched him go.  A pair of long legs, draped in white cloth, gracefully descended from on high, a white-gloved hand trailing along the bannister, while beneath the white gauze of the veil a pair of crimson eyes burned with life.  When she reached the floor and rounded the edge of the stairs, the few that stood in her way did not do so for long, most moving subconsciously, others guided aside by the gentle touch of a spade-tipped tail, none noticing her presence as she effortlessly navigated the press, none so much as coming close to accidentally touching her.  Not even the employees questioned her as she made for her destination, and a moment later she descended once more, this time into the cellar.

The tavern was even more rambunctious now, full of cheering, laughter, and the eager boisterousness of joyful conversation, but below… all was still.

 

******

 

When the lady glided across the unfinished floor of the tavern’s cellar like a pale ghost, the noise of the hubbub upstairs all but drowned out the soft gasping of the other girl’s muted sobs.  This cavernous chamber was surprisingly complete for a room out of view, but the monstrous citizens were all quite serious about having easy access to acceptable drink, and so priority had been given even to the tavern’s storage areas.  Still, the air in the room was heavy with the scent of earth hidden from the sun, and only a few carefully-placed lanterns offered flickering light to the ranks of parade-ground kegs and barrels waiting their turns to go upstairs.  All in all, it was a sorry excuse for a place to mourn a broken heart, but grief knows how to make do.

As she walked closer, Mephis slowly pulled off her gloves, her step hesitant as if she was not certain about disturbing the human girl’s misery.  Still, something drove her on, and Mary’s heartache was enough to blind her to the other presence in the room, even as Mephis drew close enough to touch her.  It was only when Mephis paused, her bare hands reaching up to unclasp her veil and to pull the oversized sunhat from her head that the innkeep’s daughter looked up with a gasp, her eyes wide.

Mary stared in shock as Lady Mephis shook her hair free of its binding, the tresses a moon-pale white that gleamed even in the faint light of the cellar, practically radiant by itself, as her river of hair coursed far down her back.  Similarly, her skin was a white beyond cream, perfect and utterly unmarred by blemish or scar.  The only color beyond white was found in the two ebon horns that rose from her head, a deep dark shade that seemed to drink up the light that touched them, and her gleaming red eyes, which flared more brightly than the cloistered lanterns, lighting even her pleasantly-plump cheeks.  Memphis breathed a sigh of relief to emerge from her entrapping clothes, even just her headwear and gloves, and in that moment Mary realized how perfectly beautiful the woman was.  She had seen women before that could boast of beauty – never herself – but Mephis made children of them all, playing in their mother’s finery without a hint of art or style.  Mary had never felt drawn to a woman before, but with Mephis it seemed inevitable – who wouldn’t be enraptured by this picture of absolute feminine perfection?

After a moment her lungs reminded her politely that she needed to breathe, and so Mary took in a sloppy breath, the effort indelicately hampered by her now-running nose and draining eyes.  Embarrassed, Mary dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her barmaid’s dress, but paused when she saw the pristine handkerchief Mephis had extended her way.  Mary took it delicately, as if it was made of fine glass, but Mephis motioned for her to make use of it, and, turning, she did so, hating herself further for defiling the perfect cloth.

Coming to herself, Mary straightened, grabbing her glasses from where she had let them rest on a nearby keg and trying to force them hurriedly back onto her face, leaving them tragically askew in her rush. “Oh my gods, I am so sorry, Lady Mephis!  I left you on the balcony without bringing you another pitcher of-”

“Please,” Memphis spoke, and her voice was rich and throaty, warming like a smooth liquor. “Do not worry on my behalf, child.” Mary blinked at that – Mephis looked at most a year or two older than her, yet somehow the word felt right coming from such a stately woman. “I merely came to check on your well-being.  From the balcony, I, ah, witnessed your conversation with Mr. Hopkins…”

The name brought heat back into Mary’s cheeks, and she looked away in shame. “I’m… grateful for your concern, but please, don’t worry-”

Mary paused as she felt the hand on her shoulder, and before she could think, the other hand pulled her face into Lady Mephis’s prodigiously-endowed bosom.  Her grip was not so tight as to be suffocating, but tight enough that Mary did not hasten to move. “No, child, I… I understand you,” Mephis breathed into her ear, and that thrilling voice was tight with pain. “I, too, know the pangs of burgeoning love, the piercing desire of what you cannot have, yet must!”  Thrusting Mary back to meet her brown eyes with her own crimson pair, Mephis stared at her with rose-blushed cheeks. “We are sisters in this!”

Mary blinked again, her mind still trying to catch up, having had quite a handicap to overcome with the shock of the fair lady’s appearance in the grimy cellar.  She felt, already, like there must be some miscommunication here, but she was still trying to put that puzzle together while the lady chucked the pieces at her. “L-love?” she asked, seizing upon the word that seemed the most relevant.

With a maternal smile on her youthful face, Mephis shook her head. “Even from the balcony, it took less than an instant to see your feelings for Mr. Hopkins.”

Mary’s cheeks glowed to match Mephis’s eyes. “I-I-I don’t know what you mean, I respect him, sure, but…” Wilting under Mephis’s indulgent smile, Mary lowered her head but turned her eyes up to meet the other woman’s. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only a man could miss it,” Mephis assured her gently. “And I know Mr. Hopkins is a very astute, learned sort, but… still a man.” Leaning closer once more, Mephis nearly pressed her forehead to Mary’s. “They are magnificent creatures – wondrous beyond words – but their imperfect perfection means they take in less of the world than we do.  Including the hearts of others.” Mephis’s voice was passionate, and despite herself Mary found herself nodding. “Some have thicker skulls than the rest, and that takes art to transcend.  Let me aid you, and I will make certain that Mr. Hopkins takes notice of you over all the others-”

“But, that’s not the problem!” Mary broke the spell, straightening, her own sore heart singing out frustration. “Simon is… he has Gina, and Sarah, and I am just…”

Mephis studied her for a moment, her perfect bow creased in faint confusion. “Such is often the way of Heroes, tragically, but sharing one destined for immortal glory isn’t such a burden.  Not… always… perhaps.” Her frown was only momentarily introspective before she snapped back to Mary. “Do you conflict with those girls, then?”

“Well… no!  Gina and I are friends, and Sarah has been so helpful – I’ve been teaching her about the world that she missed while she was in the basement of the monastery, and she’s been teaching me about history and-”

“Then…” Mephis paused, her word dissolving into hesitancy. “Do they not wish to share further?  Have you spoken with them about your feelings for Simon?”

“No!  I mean, I told Gina once, but… he’s theirs, and I couldn’t betray them… I couldn’t hurt him like that…”

Mephis frowned, blinking as she tried to decipher Mary’s conflict. “I… see,” she said in a tone that advertised its falsity. “You do realize that he cares for you, correct?”

Mary’s cheeks flared to even greater brilliance. “A-as a friend, and… someone he takes care of.”  She gestured helplessly with one hand, and then, thinking of evidence, drew forth something from the waistpocket of her dress.  She passed the faintly glowing bottle over the Mephis, whose eyes narrowed at it. “He makes sure I am comfortable, and he protected me!  But he doesn’t… not like I do…”

“I see.” This time, her crimson eyes narrowing to slits, Mephis spoke a harsher truth. “So… I was mistaken, after all.” Mary looked up at her, surprised at the faint chill in her voice and in the air, but Mephis smiled in return, and the expression was genuine despite her next words. “We aren’t sisters, after all.”

“What…?” Mary started, utterly lost on this matter of symbolic parentage.

“Simon Hopkins is not your problem,” Mephis diagnosed, setting the glowing potion to the side.  Her red eyes speared into Mary. “You are.” Before Mary could muster a defense, the pale lady pressed her advantage. “You fear that you will upset his life, his happiness, without thinking what you would add unto it.  You crave without offering him a chance to sate that craving – and his own.  You turn your lust upon itself.” Mephis shook her head in disappointment. “It is so… so very human.”

“But that’s just it,” Mary responded, a note of anger in her voice as she frowned back at Mephis. “I’m just…”

“Human?” Mephis gaped in an unladylike fashion at her. “Please tell me that was not what you were going to utter.”

“Well…” Mary paused, but there was only one honest answer. “Yes.  I guess it was.”

“I see.” Mephis sighed, but in a gentle motion, a setting of her shoulders, her stance changed.  Before, she had seemed maternal, kind, but now there was something powerful about her, about the imperious tilt of her chin, that made Mary want to step back in respect of… danger?  No.  Power. “You think yourself lesser than, whom?  Gina?  Sarah?” Mephis laughed, and it was a beautiful, but icy, sound: half-indrawn breath, half-chest-deep exhalation. “Both are worthy mates of a Hero, but you, you are human.  You have a bond with him that you don’t comprehend, just because of the lives you’ve had.  Sarah, too, comes from human heritage, so she might support me in this, but… the sheer potential you have!” Once more, Mephis reached out to take hold of Mary’s shoulders, and her eyes were almost pleading.

Mary rejected her gaze, looking instead to the floor. “No… whatever we have in common, it’s not enough.  You’ve said it – he’s a hero.  He risked his life to save me, when he could have just left.  He faced down that mad priest.  He stood up to a goddess.  He’s meant for so much more, and I… I’m a barmaid.” Mary motioned to her dress, then cast a plaintive look to the other woman. “He’s going to go on to worlds I can’t dream of, and I will be here, pouring drinks.  What right do I have to even dream of chaining him to…” The words died on her lips, but the tear that rolled down her cheek spoke for her instead.

That tear was the last to speak for several long moments.  Lost in her self-pity, Mary had her eyes closed, but when she opened them once more, the room seemed far darker than it had been before.  Now, Mephis glowed almost like the moon, her pale skin as luminescent as lunar light dancing on the sea, but even that brightness paled to the dark fire of her eyes.  Those glowed like coals, like the bright-burning eyes of a tiger, and Mary shivered despite herself.  Everything else in the cellar dropped away, until the only things in the world were her and the goddess – surely she must be – before her, as Mephis’s pale pink tongue parted ruby lips, those warming eyes holding Mary prisoner. “You wish to rise to his level, then?  You fear being left behind?” Mephis’s face drew closer, crowding out everything else in the world, and Mary could only stare, only listen, passive and enraptured, to the words that stripped naked the path before her.

“Then let me offer you a chance to become something… different.”

And, consumed by the burning eyes before her, Mary didn’t turn away.

 

Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 7”

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Author’s Note: I’ll keep this one brief, since I am literally burning the midnight oil on the week grades are due… Ahem.  Panic overcome, I will say just a bit, and then leave you hopefully wanting more.

I will say here that part of the fun of this story for me is the concept of a genre shift inherent in the MGE.  After all, canonically (And, though I drift from that sacred northern star of canon, I do research and follow it as much as I can while still making my own story work), the advent of the Demon Queen shifted the genre from a standard action-adventure to… well, okay, porn.  But!  I strive to show the disruption this would cause, and what would happen if some resisted the change and tried to force things back to the way they were… while others embrace the change whole-heartedly.  A manga artist that inspired me in an important way – caused me to take back up the pen after a decade – was guilty of shifting genres mid-work, and so I offer a salute with these words to worlds that can change as they have to.  (I mean, this series is staying as action-adventure as it is now, throughout the whole thing, but the shift is the inciting event for everything I write about here.)

The next chapter is back to George, and… whew.  I need to prepare for this one.  I roughly sketch out each chapter in advance, but his… take extra work, since I haven’t developed his potential pairings much as of yet.  But don’t worry, in two more chapters, the whole cycle will repeat, back to Roger, for one more round… before the climatic unifying conclusion.  I hope you look forward to it!

Lastly… the comments and questions always give me life.  Slowly releasing my past stories on Ao3 has been a huge help to my motivation, and I hope that those of you reading my current stuff also give me feedback – this is when it is the most helpful, because it is when I have the best opportunity to consider constructive critiques, or even requests for more of specific elements.  But, either way, thank you for reading – I’ll be back soon for more.

Ack!  My alarm says I have to wake in five hours!  To sleep!

~Wynn Pendragon

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