Character note

Yeven (was Piffy)
Reka (was Maraulea)
Sagis (was Sagizeulus)

(A/N): Ok, this is the finale already. You've come a long way... heh. Let me know your comments on the story, all reviews are much appreciated.

Epilogue

The hysterical scene, at the tall, arched gates of the white city, suddenly looked and sounded very new to the newcomer. New was not the word; and so she searched for a better word more akin to what she felt. Yes, it was more of a nostalgia. She had not heard such a din since a good seven months ago. Seven months ago… where the horrors were realized, but stopped too late.

The lone rogue- she felt strange to travel alone as she was almost never without her companions around her- wrapped her coat around her more tightly as the biting wind rushed past and chilled her as though the fur coat had loosened patches in it. The fur coat, custom made for her back in Morroc, had not been cheap. But what was money to her? If she ever had anything to boast about, it was her fat zeny pouch that was threatening to force the seams apart. She ruffled the soft, yellow fur; the tailor had told her that it was a fresh import from the north, purely extracted from the manes of Baphomet Juniors.

She even noticed several new put up stakes that had arrows nailed at the head, pointing in a certain direction that would lead to a place with the names of it scratched below the arrows with a chalk. She found it amusing that an arrow pointing north indicated "Prontera", while anyone, even someone partially blind, would obviously see the high, grand walls of the city that yearned to feel the clouds.

It was the start of winter, but that did not pose as an excuse for postpones and trainings, definitely not for vendors- mostly blacksmiths in sleeveless white top that clung tightly to their beefy body- who were still promoting their wares, promising discounts to the first batch of customers who would patronize him. Novices carrying horribly blunt knives sat dejected outside at the lush, green fields, as if their weapon owed them lunch money. The rogue found her hackles rising at the wet splattering noise of poring dying; she had always felt disgusted at it.

The red-haired rogue did not fail to marvel at the majestic aspects of Prontera, even though she had already been in and out of the city countless times, and even lived there longer than most people. She smiled at the newly revamped south district; the black, charred buildings she did not remember fondly were now replaced by freshly painted tall buildings, some even attaining the height of the walls. Blacksmiths and merchants crowded the street curbs as usual, some so proud and confident of their works that they so much as to perform the crafting of the demanded equipment "live" in front of the customers, hoping to earn their performance some flattery from the watchers.

Children played and squealed around her, and smells of cooking fire pervaded throughout the city from the row of houses. She actually felt more at home here than in Morroc. At least, she did not have to breathe the mud and watch her pouch more closely than a goodwife fixing all her attention to adjust a cook fire to perfection. She rounded a corner and stood at the square. The fountain was reconstructed; but there was something odd about it. The statue of Odin was gone, now replaced by one of King Tristan III, with the head cocked upwards as though to admire his golden blade. She nearly died from choking laughters.

Well, well... now it feels like the four was quite unheard of at all. Feels just the way it is before.

The rogue jostled through the throng of people- looking like a gathering of many households- holding a roasting session, the whiffs of spiced Pecopeco stimulating considerable spit. She cursed silently when she realized that the last meal she had was some Willow's sweet potatoes and Poring apples, caramelized. In the morning.

It was near dinnertime; she suddenly wished she was putting her dinner before the search for her companions. The rogue looked at her hands –and was genuinely surprised to find three zeny pouches in her hands.

Damn, was I that hungry and bored that I didn't know what my hands were doing? Forget it, more money is better than none.

The redhead came right up the Night Star, an inn sitting at the edge of Prontera, but not totally unnoticed. On the contrary, business was bustling. A sign showing a spilled beer bottle and a stack of coins hung slightly above the entrance, freshly painted like any other buildings. Pushing aside the doors, she went in. The rotund barkeep was inspecting a tally sheet with eyes squinting with effort, a pencil stashed along the back of his ear. The newly renovated inn had a welcoming touch to it; redstone walls and furniture constructed from fine trunks of Elder Willow, and a homely fragrant of a hotchpotch of roasted fish and stews hung thick. The furnace provided no little warmth that meekly satisfied the customers.

The rogue heard a distinctive "You, come!" booming from the corner of the inn, one of the bigger tables near the fireplace. She did not have to guess any further; it could only be Yeven. The barkeep wrapped a meaty palm over the ears of three tall mugs, and waddled over to the alchemist's table to slap it down, spilling the foam. The alchemist shouted something to him but was lost in the din. The rogue noticed another man sitting quietly beside him, and his black robe had him pretty well hidden in the corner. She knew the wizard detested attention.

"I'm back, you dolts! How did you all miss me?" Reka screamed above the din.

Yeven dropped his mug and spilled a good half of what remained. With his head buried in his mug all the while, he was startled unexpectedly. The alchemist's face became red, and fixed a glare at the rogue.

"And how about getting' me another mug of these expensive liquid, missy?"

Reka grinned at the man. Fishing out two of the three pouches she had stolen, she dangled it in front of the alchemist's eyes. Yeven made a clumsy swing at it, and caught air. Dropping his glare, he waited for the pouches to drop before him.

"You came alone?" Sagis suddenly spoke, still chewing a mouthful of fried Fabres. His Soul Staff was leaned against the wall behind him, the flames from the furnace making it gleam like a dangerous artefact ready to burn a finger off.

"Are you expecting someone else? Or are you not glad to see me?" the rogue replied, putting up a hurt look. But the wizard paid it no heed.

"I thought Mariane or that thick skull of a man was with you. The king wanted to showcase us, or so I heard."

The look on Reka's face immediately switched to one of bafflement. "What showcase? I know we are the heroes responsible for the death of the foursome, might that king be crediting us with riches? I won't have to cut strings and loot belts anymore, I think."

Yeven returned with a whole tray of mugs; there was the inn's own ale mix, Payon spirits, Geffen's honey ale and a black liquid that the rogue knew so well. Almost everyone back in her hometown carried a bottle of Morroc alcohol, and one bottle was quite enough to bring a man down to snooze through the day.

"Careful you drop dead, nobody's dragging you back home," Sagis muttered loud enough to be heard. "I won't be a goodwife to crush herbs and feed you concoctions for an overhang."

"It was a hard fought victory, wiz, whadd'ya know? So that means, it's a bloody good time for a beer frenzy!"

Sagis grabbed the tray away. "We're expected at the king's manor later this evening, Yeven, and I doubt people like dancing with a gruff alchemist reeking with alcohol. Drop the dance, lets not even talk about talking."

"Indeed? But I haven't ea –"

"We are expected for a dinner, to be specific," he interjected the rogue, who was giving him an indignant look for interrupting her. But that was quickly converted to a curl of her lips at the mention of dinner, and her train of thoughts led her to a roasting feast she presumed much grander than the one back at St Caprina. Sagis's eyes narrowed when the rogue did a short jig, and he let his head fall into his hands, as though disapproving his acknowledgement of her.

Reka abruptly stopped when she realized that little foolishness had earned almost every stare from across the room, ranging from wide-eyed ridicule to narrow look of askance. It only seemed that the barkeep was the only one unbothered; apparently he was still leaning back behind the counter, scribbling furiously after a round of coin counting. After all, there was someone who could compete with her in the field of obsession with zeny.

There were already flippant murmurs from tables around her. The four young merchants behind her, who had been discussing heatedly over the lack of trade of pure Eluniums, had digressed to the defeat of the four more quickly than a novice scurrying from a Ghostring, all the while locking their gaze at her and the two men sharing the same table with her.

"So that renegade had enough warm blood left in him to fight those orcs…"

"…looks like that friend of Knight Cerberus."

"…I'll swear before Odin that lightning could've finished every bloody one of us in a single blast."

"…three… so the rest might have died…"

"…church's not down, praise the light…"

"…I'll put ten grand on the line with you, the king's putting the trial off for being saved by the assassin…"

"…I was thinking the rogue looked cute in her fighting stance…"

"…what are you saying? They must've hooked…"

"Yeah I saw 'em hugging…"

"…monk drove that bloody fist right through the cursed knight, I heard…"

Everybody began talking at once, and the rogue was feeling overwhelmed by a sea of humans. Even the barkeep snapped his head up, wondering what he had missed in the middle of his accounting. It was impossible to be heard in this ruckus, and she ushered the two men with a gesture to follow her out of the inn. Yeven looked at his tray of beer wistfully, but Sagis hoisted him from his seat and jostled through the crowd.

Cerberus adjusted the saddlebags slung over his shoulders. The church bells tolled with the end of a funeral, a mass funeral to commemorate the deaths of those who fought for the cause of Prontera, and done what they could to put an end to the four's shadowy conquests. The backyard of the church had to be extended to bury many of the dead.

It was unnecessary for so many to die, at the very least, it's the end of this madness.

He was proud of the warriors, and of the city, for defending against and surmounting the impossible to preserve the legend. The legend of the greatest fortress on Rune Midgard, and that legend would not be liable to any changes. Not now, not any time in the future, not for eternity. They had died well.

The knight gave a long exhale, the leaving a long trail of cold smoke. The tip of his long wool overcoat flapped about his ankles as he walked the snow packed streets. The city was whiter than ever. He doubted if he would forget this winter after he left. Surely, he doubted he would ever forget his companions. As much as he wanted to stay through Christmas with them, he felt the need to leave. His home was drawing him back, and he needed to make a trip back to Izlude.

Home… it doesn't look like one to me though… but…

His friends, Yeven in particular, would never fail to discourage that decision. Yet, he could not bear to leave in secrecy. Not without a word.

His boots left deep prints in the snow as he trudged past the square, and into the eastern district. Of course, he attracted no little attention as usual, with talks of heroes and valor from the Prontera folks. He merely kept his head down and increased his pace.

He stood in front of Yeven's home. The green tiled roof was thick with snow, and he figured the alchemist had better things to busy himself with than to clear the accumulation of snow. He knocked on the door. Nobody opened the door, and there was no reply.

The knight suddenly felt the saddlebags weighing his shoulder down. He realized it had been slung over his shoulder for the past hour without letting it down, and it was numb and aching. He immediately set the bags down, sat on the stairs and knuckled his left shoulder.

The door suddenly creaked open behind him, almost making him roll down the stairs. The startled knight rose to face a monk. He suddenly noticed a cleaned, fresh look on the tall man, as if he had finally been brought out of a dank pit after a week. However, the traces of violence and brutality were still conspicuous in his face.

"Are you going to stare, or are you coming in?" the monk asked in a tone the knight thought was free of the customary contempt. Frowning, he nodded his head. Cerberus picked up his bags and entered. He certainly had not expected Tien to be in the alchemist's home, of all places. And of all people, the leader of Avenger's nemesis. He forced the lines of division between guilds out of his head; the business was gone. He only wished the monk meant no harm.

"Tien, what are you doing here? I was away for a few months to count; those organisations at the barracks are assigning knights to survey cities ravaged by the four "

"Yes, I am aware, knight. Al De Baran, is it not? I've heard, knight," Tien shrugged on a jacket on as he spoke. He led the knight across the hall and into the guest room, as claimed by Yeven. It seemed like surprises was plentiful ever since his return, in which attending the funeral was his first event after the night of his trip back to Prontera. Too many things happened at once, and it seemed he never learned enough to keep up. First it was Larzen's death, and the Fiendbane squad killed. Now, the man he considered an antagonist in the guild fraternity was dangerously welcoming.

"The guild business is no more, there is no need to be tensed at your former rival. Did I just say former?" Tien said. He took a seat on the bed.

"Then you are alone…"

"Its past eight months, isn't it a little late to know? My guild, former guild," the monk corrected. "…is dead. The whole squad, of course, except for me and Elemire."

Tien eyed the knight uncomfortably as though he still sensed a trace of hostility in him. Sniffing, he spoke again. Cerberus started wondering when would be his chance to speak.

"Be at ease, knight. I am not going to put a knife in your ribs with your back turned. Like I said, the guild business is over; through the damned foursome I hope we won't be up at each other's throat too much."

Cerberus nodded his head, but showed no sign of relieve. The monk only thought he was being over sensitive. Leaning against the wall with arms crossed, Cerberus threw a grin at the other man.

"It was the least I could imagine both of us talking, in the same room, without the curses and stare-downs. I guess you are right. A truce, be it." He scratched at his beard that was unshaven for two weeks. "I was gone for long, and back to see Prontera raised once again. It's a good thing, definitely. I just want to see everyone again."

"You are leaving?" Tien asked as he eyed the saddlebags.

"Homecoming, yes. Not too long from now, Tien."

"When? Tonight? You could at least stay for the showcase."

Cerberus's gave a confused look. "Showcase?"

"The king's idea; he wanted to put the heroes of the battles in the limelight of sorts. Oh yes, there is the feast too. You should stay for that, at least," Tien made no haste in explaining. "Your friends should be turning up, I am sure."

Heroes, again. I am no hero, and I do not want to be one. Hell, we are just doing our job.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

"No, I was wondering where all of them went. I've seen only Yeven yesterday night."

Tien nodded his head slightly. He reached for a thick volume, although it was already the thinnest compared to the rest sitting on the shelf. It was titled Glast Heim Legends: Pre-Ragnarok. "I know both the archers once under us returned to Payon. I thought it might very well be a honeymoon in disguise, or it might just be a home-building, so they say."

"There are more than just the two of them…"

"In case you don't know, knight, I am no hunter sending out falcons spying on people." Tien closed the book uninterestingly and slotted it back into the shelf. "But in any case, I would think the thick headed assassin is bringing the mute priestess for a remedy. They could not be in Prontera, otherwise I would have heard signs of them from gossiping novice girls. It is time to leave now, knight; the king may be happy at his statue put up at the fountain but our tardiness may yet kill that grin on his puffy face."

The monk stood up to leave, and Cerberus followed him out of the door, slinging his bags over the other shoulder. The eastern districts were not as busy as the south, as far as Cerberus could see.

"You haven't answered my question, monk. How did you even go in Yeven's house? What are you doing there? He don't have anything edible in there, much less anything useful to you. And the worms…" he thought with a shudder.

"I did not go in to eat, knight. I am finding Yeven to deal him my Kaisers in return for a slotted fist and some extra coins. Then what are you doing?"

"I left him my swords to mend it. I was just going to collect it."

The two walked along the snow packed streets silently, keeping out of the persistent merchants who were shoving their goods into the hands of passer-bys with an outstretched hand that demanded coins. They walked for some time, and heard a distant yell near where they had just left. "…lads broke into my house! Argh!"

Cerberus allowed himself to smile. He knew the voice too well. The knight turned briefly to see an alchemist bounding into his house, with a black-robed wizard and a bantering rogue tagging behind lazily. He decided to make his return more unwinding; after he left tonight, he did not know if he would come back to Prontera for the next three months, seven months, or perhaps even a year. He would eat to his hearts content with his companions later at the manor, talk about the guild conquests they had had, the plans they had, and whisper cheekily about women. Before he left, he would at least let the Prontera folks acknowledge him a hero. For the last time, hopefully. He jogged to catch up with the monk.

END OF INFERNAL INCARNATIONS: THE FOURSOME