Chapter 5 - Theophany
He dreamed of the cathedral on the mountain.
The black cloak swirled around him as he approached the looming entrance leading into the Chapel of Divine Revelation, the imposing doors swinging open of their own accord as he neared them. Mutely accepting the invitation, he stepped into the outer narthex of the cathedral, reaching up to remove the hood of his cloak as he did so. With a thundering boom, the doors closed behind him, leaving Simon Hopkins sealed within the cathedral once more.
He glanced around him as he walked further into the building, noting the familiar carvings with a smile. It was only as he approached the nave that his smile dropped, and he bowed his head in greeting to the familiar female figure standing between him and the main body of the sacred chamber. Dressed not in the conservative attire he knew her best in, but in the lascivious gown that bared her hips and cleavage, the dark priestess bowed her head with a polite smile, and silently motioned him to proceed towards the pulpit at the end of the nave. As he stepped past her, he could hear her fall in behind him, and despite her demure actions he couldn't help but feel her predatory gaze upon his back, and knew she would fall upon him in an instant if given the chance.
While the entrance to the cathedral had largely gone unchanged, the main chamber was being reformed. Already, the tops of the pews sported new carvings, male and female figures pleasuring each other in arching lines. The stained glass windows gleamed with the shapes of men and monsters in congress, overtopped by the shape of an observing owl. Even the pillars that ran the length of the room were shifting as he watched, becoming drastically more erotic, melting into the forms of copulating bodies, as if the souls of the lovers were trapped within the stone and forcing it to bear their shape forever.
One other change caught his attention. At the end of the room, behind the pulpit and in the arch where the choir would stand, an inhumanly-large couch had appeared, with a lounging female figure laying atop it, her red-violet shifting eyes watching him approach with a feline's smug contentment. She was larger than any human or monster, but not as gargantuan as she had been when he had last seen her in his dreams, and despite the wrongness that she exuded with every breath he bowed his head to her in reverence, walking until he stood a short distance before the empty pulpit.
"I have gone and prepared a place for you at my side," the Fallen Goddess said, gesturing to the building around her. "This palace shall be yours, to speak my wisdom and glory. As it once was, it shall be again." She smiled at him, and her possessive aura was enough to nearly force him to his knees before her. "You shall reign at my side for eternity in Pandemonium as my chosen prince, and together we shall enlighten the lost and afraid."
"Perhaps some day," Simon said, standing straight, smiling up at his goddess with defiance in his gray eyes, "but not today." And, before she could reply, before the priestess behind him could chastise him, he closed his eyes… and awoke.
Simon Hopkins groaned as the morning sunlight fell onto his face. He tried to stretch out, but something underneath the blankets had trapped his legs, and so he settled for arching his back and thrusting his arms out to the sides, luxuriating in the hazy comfort of his sleep-drunk mind slowly clearing. He had been dreaming - he thought - but the details were vague, leaving him only with a feeling of familiarity. Brushing his half-hearted efforts to remember the dream aside, he glanced under the covers to discover a head topped with fluffy ears laying across his stomach, while the body belonging to the head was curled up between his legs. He reached down to stroke the hair of the kobold laying partially atop him, and she nuzzled into his bare stomach, still breathing the slow rhythm of sleep despite the slight smile appearing on her face.
Thoroughly condemned to serve as his canine lover's pillow, Simon resigned himself to laying in bed a little while longer. He leaned back against his pillow, looking towards the window that overlooked the streets of New Haven, trying to think of his agenda for the day to distract himself from lingering concerns over the fate of George. It had only been the previous day that the other man had set off for the northern mountains, and so it was highly unlikely that the Purifier Errant had even reached his destination, let alone found himself in trouble, but still Simon couldn't help but check the crystal lying atop the night stand. It was the one that he had bound to the one George carried, and it would pulse and chime if the other was destroyed. Hopefully, if that happened, it would just be George summoning him for aid…
The sound of the door opening drew Simon's attention away from his worries, and he smiled to see Sarah Wulfe entering the room. The lich - both over a hundred years old, and yet in the body of a girl aged less than himself - was dressed simply, with her long, flowing purple cloak now laying atop a simple white dress. This article was a concession to modesty she had only taken up once she had moved to New Haven, and even then tolerated just when she had to be around others aside from Simon and Gina, the kobold in the bed with her lover. The presence of the white gown told Simon that Sarah had come from outside, since he doubted they had had visitors so early- he glanced out the window again, and revised his opinions. How late had he slumbered already?
Catching his wince, Sarah's smile grew the edge of a smirk. "It's merely a few hours till lunch," she teased him, "do you intend to lie abed until then?"
Mock frowning, Simon crossed his arms across his bare chest as the lump under the covers began to stir to life. "Oh, and do you intend to act like you have nothing to do with my exhaustion?"
If anything, the mischief in her grin only grew as a violet light gleamed from her eyes. "My dearest, I simply wanted to offer you comfort - a bit of distraction to bring you a restful slumber." She chuckled as a pair of paw-tipped arms erupted from the blankets over his lap, accompanied by a high-pitched, unreserved yawn from the fluffy head that emerged with them. "It just can't be helped that she also had the same idea. With the same methods."
"And at the same time," Simon murmured with a blush, still not able to keep his eyes from the lines of Gina's body as she sat up in the bed, utterly demolishing the arrangement of the blankets. Reaching to the night stand, he plucked up his glasses just in time to watch Gina stand from the bed, trotting towards the hallway beyond the door Sarah had entered from without bothering to cover herself with her fur as he had - rather belatedly - learned she could do in lieu of clothing. Instead, like Sarah, she preferred going without whenever they were alone, enjoying the freedom, and his attention, that it offered her.
"And look, it worked!" Sarah boasted, watching as Simon stood from the bed. He noticed her stare with his cheeks burning as he moved to recover his clothing, which must be - well, no, perhaps - wait, how did it end up over here? All the while, Sarah scarcely hid her observation of his nude form, with an appraisal both scientific and lustful that he had learned to expect. When he glanced to her in exasperation, she shrugged helplessly, but his eyes narrowed as he spotted his undershirt crumpled just behind where she was standing, mostly blocked from his vision by her body. She offered him a sweet smile as he approached, and would not move out of his way until he lowered his face to plant a soft kiss on her forehead with an indulgent chuckle. Only then did she shift to the side - but even then, as he bent to pick up the discarded article of clothing, he felt a slender hand grasp his rear in a light pinch.
A few minutes later, the two of them made it into their house's kitchen, joined a moment later by Gina who had just left the washroom. As Simon pulled a container of hostaur milk from the icebox, Sarah went about cutting the loaf of bread they had bought the previous day. As Gina loaded the table down with various bottles of fruit preserves and honey, the trio sat down for their late morning breakfast. Sarah contented herself with only a glass of milk; as an undead, her body didn't crave food as frequently as her living companions, though she often indulged along with them simply to enjoy the flavor. Gina, on the other hand, freely slathered toppings onto her slices of bread with abandon, licking the knives in a way that could only generously be called 'cleaning' them. As Simon prepared his own bread, he glanced across the table to Sarah. "Anything interesting come up last night?"
"Well, it seems, if nothing else, I'm coming close to finding a cure for the fact that undead don't have to sleep," Sarah groused. While she did have infrequent periods of dormancy that were almost like meditation, the lich didn't sleep at night to recover her energy, which often led to her working in her laboratory during the night, though she did frequently stay in the bed with Simon for hours after they had been together just for the pleasure of human contact. "The papers that John has me reviewing are excruciatingly boring. Mostly leyline maps of the local area, but he has me comparing them to some older than the original Order. The only interesting thing was a list of locations of old archeological sites dating back…" She glanced back, noticing that Gina was utterly ignoring the conversation in favor of tearing into her breakfast with great gusto, and even Simon seemed distracted, his eyes wandering towards the north-facing window. The lich allowed a mischievous smirk to escape her, deciding to play her game for just a moment longer before revealing her hand to Simon. "Nevermind all that, what are you two doing today?"
Gina swallowed loudly, washing her meal down with her milk, before responding. "Teacher's busy," she said simply. "She's at the town hall. Going to go spar with some of the others anyways." With Simon and Sarah often busy working at the town's tower, Gina had found distraction for herself when a group of foreign martial artists had come into town. She had seen a performance by some of them who had been advertising the lessons they were selling, and had been interested enough to sign up. Since then, she had been training with one of the martial artists, an intimidating tiger woman, and had improved at a rate that had even impressed her instructor. Simon could well understand her reasoning for taking up her training: during their time in Videre, some of the threats they had faced had been nearly beyond them all, so it made sense to be more prepared for any other conflicts, especially when they all knew the Orders would eventually come looking for this town.
"I'm going to be helping John with a few things today," Simon explained in turn. "Apparently he has agreed to let Lady Mephis spend the day out of the tower getting to know the town, so he's going to be more free to discuss defenses." In all honesty, Simon had higher hopes for the day than that - since the pale lady of the tower often kept John busy, he still had dozens of questions he wanted to ask the former Hero, but occasions to ask them rarely emerged.
"Oh, yeah," Sarah said, a perfectly-sculpted figure of nonchalance, "that reminds me. When I was leaving the tower, John asked for you. He said that Ceann was bringing someone in that he wanted you to meet." She grinned as Simon nearly spat out his milk.
"-When?!" he managed, coughing.
"Oh, maybe a half-hour ago? You took so long getting ready, it nearly slipped my mind," she shrugged, hiding her grin as best she could.
"I have to go," Simon said, standing up front the table abruptly. "I should've- gah, where did I leave my staff? And did he say who I am supposed to meet? Oh, I should've woken up earlier!" Sarah and Gina exchanged an amused glance across the table, the kobold rolling her eyes at her lover's panic. "Why didn't you tell me?" he wailed, stumbling as he struggled to put on one of his shoes.
"Because then I would've missed my chance to have breakfast with you, and aren't I more important than John?" Sarah asked, and Gina turned to face him with a toothy grin, crossing her arms over her still-bare chest to show she expected an answer to the same question.
"I-" Simon's face flushed red, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. "Of course you both are," he said, placatingly extending his hands as he stepped away from the door. "I just-"
"Then I expect a goodbye kiss before you go rushing off," Sarah demanded, lifting her chin imperiously. Gina mimicked her posture, although she couldn't maintain the same haughty disposition, instead wearing a wide grin.
Realizing that the girls were teasing him, Simon sighed and stepped forward. He bent down and gently kissed Sarah on her lips, meeting her eyes. "Better?" he asked.
Smirking, she shrugged. "Good enough for now…" Simon walked over to repeat the process with Gina, but as he bent to kiss her, the kobold wrapped her arms around his head and pulled him into a deep kiss that lasted considerably longer, to the point that both were gasping for breath when they broke apart. "I didn't know that was an option!" Sarah protested indignantly, and Gina merely stuck out her tongue at the other woman.
"I have to go," Simon insisted, heading for the door. "I'll go by Second Home for dinner, if you want to join me." He stopped at the door, looking at the pair of women at the table with a deep contentment that he had only recently experienced in his life. "I love you both, you know."
Gina's reply was a loud, happy bark, her tail beating at the back of the chair she sat in, while Sarah's pale cheeks darkened with embarrassment, and she nodded, commanding, "We love you too - now go, before whoever it is gets there!"
Simon nodded with a grin, enjoying the rare chance to discomfit Sarah instead of the usual reversal, as well as the domestic satisfaction of knowing he would be coming back to them that evening. This was the first time in his life he had experienced anything like this; he had been young when he had been separated from his parents by a recruiter working for the church, and so he had grown up among the clergy and the Orders. That life had hardly been warm or welcoming, and so he had never been able to as much as daydream about something like this, since he had never witnessed anything so peaceful and fulfilling. Now, though, it was his life, and he would work to preserve it. Grabbing his zigzag-ended staff, Liar's Tongue, from where it leaned against the door, he stepped out into the bright daylight, and started jogging towards the tower on the nearby hill.
The road was crowded at this time of day. He waited for three burly men to pass, an odd feeling of discomfort making him surreptitiously watch them as they went - something about them felt off, especially the one with the scar at their front. Still, he hardly had time to go around inspecting random passerby, so he quickly submerged himself into the flow of traffic. He found himself bobbing his head awkwardly and offering half-waves to the townsfolk that recognized him; he had done some courier work for John, and so people around the town were getting used to him representing the town's leader, and thus took the time to greet him. He also tried to give a wide berth to some of the more exotic monster women that passed by him, not out of distaste but out of fear of his own clumsiness, dreading the possibility of tripping over a draping tail or getting tangled in the multiple legs of the more insectoid varieties of woman. He noted one of those ahead of him, a spider woman clad mostly in black walking next to a young man, the pair taking the offshoot that led towards the western gate and Second Home, the closest tavern. For a second he thought he recognized the man as Roger, but the pair were lost behind a rumbling cart before he could be sure.
These surroundings were foreign to Simon even beyond the monstrous forms of most of its residents. Having grown up in the capital of the Holy Orders, Olympus City, he was used to a far less boisterous atmosphere. There, even the air itself felt stilled by the presence of the gleaming half-bubble that lay on top of the city, emerging from the Temple of the Holy Martyr that was at the center of the city's geometric arrangement. He had never been able to enter that imposing sacred structure - few ever did, aside from the ruling Ecclesiastic Council, or those summoned to meet with them. Instead, he had spent his days at the Inquisitor's Keep, or at one of the five cathedrals that were organized around the city. Still, even the streets and businesses had been muted in comparison, as if the golden glow over them had weighed down moods and tongues. People had dressed primarily in whites or grays, and even the cuts of clothing had been universally conservative and generally unisex. Modesty was one of the virtues preached in the cathedrals, especially for women; the fear that moral laxity would lead to women transforming into monsters was a common theme in many of the sermons Simon had attended, at least those lectures intended for the laity.
In contrast, New Haven was a riot of color and noise. Beyond people talking along the sides of the road, and vendors haggling and shouting from their stalls, there were musicians and acrobats and gambling stands. In one vacant lot, a troupe of performers reenacted a play about some ancient battle, and Simon had to force himself past, wanting to stay and watch. The monster women that made up more than three-quarters of the town's populace were all wildly different, and that variety extended to their dress: bright or muted, formal or rustic, exposing or chaste- well, perhaps not that one. As he thought about it, there were only three women he knew in town who tended to dress conservatively: Lyra, who had been a human; Mary, who still was; and Lady Mephis. Still, among those who dressed scantily, there were still vast differences - enough flavors of 'sin' to give heart attacks to the priests that had taken such a firm hand to raise Simon and often lectured him on the vices and temptations of the female form. Among monsters, though, seduction was a way of life; either drawing the eyes of prospective mates, or inflaming the interests of committed lovers. While Simon often found himself embarrassed, often unsure where to look safely, he had to admit that life here felt happier, and liberating. He doubted those priests, however, would agree.
Soon enough, his path took him to the heart of the town, the tower that overlooked it all. It wasn't a particularly imposing structure - had just recently been restored from a ruin - but somehow it felt reassuring, the keystone that held New Haven together. He'd noticed that townsfolk often gave directions based on relation to the tower, which made a practical sort of sense, but he'd also seen some of them leave offerings at the base of the hill it stood upon. He didn't know what that gesture meant specifically, or if the offerings were meant for John or for Lady Mephis, but it told him of the respect the townspeople had for the person that had given them a safe place to resettle, and who had declared himself their protector.
As Simon ascended the hill, he noticed another figure coming in the opposite direction. It was the bulky form of Claude, the Frankish laborer who served John as a personal handyman around the tower. A hulking figure whose face was consumed from the bottom up by beard but left untouched by hair on top, Claude was generally soft-spoken and gentle. Upon his back, strapped to him by a harness he rarely removed, he carried a broad barrel full of a densely-viscous blue fluid: a living slime, his wife, Gellie. "Allo, Mister Simon," Claude greeted him. "Boss sent me for stew. Important guest coming!"
"I'm on my way there for the same reason," Simon explained, smiling at the other man. He liked Claude; the man possessed the sort of quiet goodness that Simon had always expected from the clergy he had met, but he had rarely found those traits united in any given person. It brought to mind Father Wulfe, still a sore spot in Simon's mind, but one he was growing able to face. "I take it they haven't arrived yet?"
"Non," the burly man replied. "Soon, though. Mister Foster is just inside." And with another genial nod, he continued tromping along the path leading down the hill that the tower stood upon. As he walked by, a bubble-like shape emerged from the barrel on his back, quickly defining itself into a feminine face tilted to the side, looking at Simon curiously as she wobbled to and fro from Claude's long strides. Simon waved to Gellie, who formed a hand and arm to wave back at him, her face remolding into a sweet smile, before she slid back into the barrel, now just a wobbling keg of goo.
As Simon pushed open the doors leading into John's tower, he was surprised to find the man himself pacing back and forth not far from the entrance, his face drawn in upon itself in a concerned frown. He was, strangely, dressed in the ornamental armor he had worn back when Simon had first met him, within the laboratory deep beneath the Chapel of Divine Revelation when John and Ceann had been summoned by Sarah to help them escape. He even had a sword belted to his side, though he had eschewed the use of the helmet he tended to wear with the armor. He looked up to Simon with wide eyes as the doors opened, only to sigh in what might have been disappointment before resuming his clanking eight-pace patrol of the center of the foyer. Simon glanced behind him, seeing no one approaching up the hill, before stepping the rest of the way inside and closing the doors behind him.
"He's not here yet," John said, still pacing, speaking to - and yet past - Simon. "Stay close to me when he gets here. Ah, I wish Roger were here too, just in case. It's always quick, you know - he never gives you time to think." The repetitive ring of the armored boots echoed off the walls in a staccato drumbeat. "It's never good, when he shows up. It's always doom, or somebody is about to die, or he wants to upend your whole world, or he wants to teleport you across the continent. He doesn't do social visits."
"Pardon me," Simon said, stepping a little closer, keeping his voice light and calm in the hopes of passing those emotions on to John, "but who is the 'he' you are so worried about?"
John paused, looking at Simon as if he hadn't fully understood that he was there. "The old man," John said, as if that explained it all. "The… crazy, inexplicable, prescient old…" John paused in his efforts to wear a groove in the floor long enough to take a deep breath. "He's a prophet. Or something. Some kind of wizard?" His shoulders slumping, John shook his head. "To be honest, I have no clue who or what he actually is. But he shows up at the worst, and best, possible times." He looked at Simon in a way that made the other man feel briefly uncomfortable, as if it wasn't Simon that John was looking at. "You wouldn't know him, of course. The first time he appeared was after… the Great Veil. After y- after Paul sacrificed himself to make the barrier to keep the Dark God's spell from being able to spread across the continent. After that happened… well, it all fell apart." Simon blinked in surprise at the raw look of despair that crept onto John's face. "We fell apart. Without Paul… after losing so many people, including most of the armies we had recruited to help us… we couldn't decide what to do. Percival, Christophe, and Theo wanted to go back, convince more people to join us for the last battle. But Adam, Alex, and I wanted to take the fight to the Dark God, to end the war once and for all. One last death-or-glory attack." The laugh he let escape was a small, bitter, twisted thing. "We were right, and we were so, so wrong. But that's when he appeared-"
A boom from the door drew him up short, and John faced the door, squaring his shoulders as Simon stepped closer to his side. Even as John opened his mouth to tell the person knocking to enter, the door swung open, revealing the armored form of Ceann Alpestria, the knight that served as John's bodyguard and constant companion. Her crimson eyes were narrowed in concern, and her gauntleted fists were clenched. Behind her cloak, billowing as she stepped into the tower and glowing bright with the cerulean fires that danced along the edges of the garment, two other figures entered the chamber, standing just beyond the portal as Ceann stepped to the side and snapped a salute, pressing a fist to her heart and bowing her head. "John Foster, lord of New Haven, member of the Seven Heroes, Toppler of the First Sab-"
"Thanks, Ceann, but the formal introductions aren't necessary here," John interjected, stepping forward. Remembering John's instruction, Simon stayed a step behind him but close at hand, but took the opportunity to study the two newcomers. The first was obviously the old man that had John so concerned, though initial perceptions hardly suggested he was anything more than his label: he was painfully thin and gangly, scarcely more than leathery skin draped over a warped skeletal frame, his skull jutting ahead at an angle that left him fore-heavy. That head was mostly bald, and the man's energetic smile revealed a tragic amount of his well-ventilated mouth. Still, something about him made Simon hesitate - and more than Simon; it felt as if the entire room fell silent as he entered, like a forest just before the onset of a storm. The old man's dark eyes caught his, and a shiver passed up Simon's spine - he had been seen, had been weighed, and found… acceptable? At least that was the feeling he got from the twinkle in the old man's eyes, but he couldn't be sure.
The other guest was a man near Simon's own age, though the long-suffering expression he wore suggested a soul as old as stone. He was obviously of Far Eastern-descent, judging from the shape of his eyes, with dark hair, pale skin, and a slim body. The overstuffed pack he wore upon his back seemed larger than him, but Simon's eyes picked out the shape of books spread throughout the load, a curious inventory for someone so travel-battered. He wore glasses with smaller lenses than Simon's own, and his dark eyes were exploring the room with skilled efficiency. He, like Simon to John, stopped a step behind the older man, observing rather than participating in the conversation to come.
To Simon's surprise, he noticed there was a third member of their party, perched upon the pack of the young man: a small, fluffy-tailed creature with large black eyes. It was a squirrel, but silver-furred and larger than the red ones Simon had seen in the past. It looked around the room curiously, even focusing back on Simon for a moment as it stood with paws outstretched, its nose working to test the air. The young man it rode astride paid it no mind, even as it began to descend the pack. Instead, everyone else focused on the conversation between John and his guest.
"Welcome to my home," John began, bowing from the waist as best he could while clad in armor. "I invite you to make yourself comfortable, to stay as long as you like. Whatever you require, whatever food or drink you wish for, simply let me know and I will see to it immediately. If you should wish-"
"I'll be," the old man interrupted, his voice thin and reedy, "how ever did you find such a convincing doppelganger? Such a remarkable likeness for a fake." He smiled, not at John, but at Ceann, who gaped back mutely in surprise.
"I, ah… I'm not a doppelganger, or a fake. I'm John Foster- you remember, from-"
"Oh, I remember John Foster. You look like him! Same nose! Same scarecrow body! But you don't sound like John Foster." Walking forward, his cane tapping with each step, the old man threw out his elbows and puffed out his rib-lined chest. "He's always, 'I know better than everyone and never listen! I like explosions and mayhem! But no one should care for me because I'm dangerous and damaged!'" The old man's grin somehow, impossibly, grew even wider at his own sardonic mockery.
John's cheeks colored, but he still kept his tongue blunted for the moment. "I, ah, admit I may have been brash at times in the past-" The crinkled tapestry of the old man's face warped as he arched a white eyebrow. "And still, from time to time," John revised, "but I took to heart what you told me when we last met." At this, John looked to Ceann, who nodded. "You were the one who found me when I was trying to recover at the Demon Queen's castle, and told me there was still work I needed to do. You were the one who let me know what the Orders had become, and sent me west to see for myself." John breathed out a shaky sigh. "And I did. I saw what they had become after my work there decades before, teaching them the magic to make their barriers. I saw their 'Field of Glory.'" Venom dripped from John's pronunciation of the last words, and Simon's head lowered as he thought of that as well, the grisly trophies that lay just beyond the edge of Olympus City. Now that Simon knew the truth behind the lies that the Orders preached, he could understand John's anger. "And I saw the empty temples of the Vanished, and the way the Orders are starting to take an interest in them But what I don't understand is-"
"Oh, if we listed what we don't understand, we'd be here all day!" the old man declared with a chipper wave of the cane he carried, walking now at an angle towards the stairs that led up the tower. "Let's find somewhere to rest for a moment - butts are for sitting on, after all!" The young man followed dutifully behind, but let John cut in front of him as the former Hero hustled after the chortling figure of the wizened elder, so Simon drew alongside him instead. As he did, the Far-Eastern young man glanced at him curiously.
"What is your name?" the man asked, his tone just a shade sharper than polite, his voice faintly accented.
"Simon Hopkins, former Purifier-Errant, now assistant to Mr. Foster," Simon explained. "Yourself?"
"Kenji - just Kenji, please." His eyes narrowed as they began to climb the stairs. "I am… well, a hostage to this old man, really." At Simon's alarmed expression, Kenji offered a weary chuckle. "For my own safety, he would tell you. I am an amateur historian of sorts - scholarship runs in my family." At this, his smile turned rueful. "Too much so, because a great-something uncle of mine published a series of books about monsters that were something of a bestseller back in my home country. But when the government became strongly anti-monster, my entire family was cast out and threatened with arrest. As things worsened, they even sent people hunting after us, to use as examples of what happens to those who defy the government's position. The old man found me running from their agents, and I have been with him since."
Simon nodded, frowning. "It sounds like things there are no better than they are here," he mused, his mood darkening.
"I have seen your Orders, and they feel familiar, yes," Kenji replied as they passed the doors that led into the library. "The cut of the cloth may be different, but fanaticism wears the same cloak of righteousness wherever you go. But there, the monsters are a bit more entrenched, and the lines of battle are less defined. That conflict is subterfuge and propaganda, while here, war is on the horizon."
Simon was quiet for a long moment as they approached the tower's summit. Finally, he replied, "Then does that explain why a historian has been brought to our part of the world? One who might have sympathies with monsters, or at least an understanding of both sides?"
Kenji nodded as John opened the door leading into his chamber at the top of the tower. "It is said that Truth is war's first casualty. He," glancing here to the elder tottering after John, "says that Ignorance is a cudgel to oppress the weak, while Truth is the keenest sword, but with a brittle edge that must be maintained. And so, he, ah, asked me to record what I see on our travels."
As they entered the chamber at the top, Simon smiled at Kenji. "Then I hope you get a chance to look around New Haven. It is a very different truth than that of the Orders, and one that is worth being recorded for history."
Kenji returned the smile, his demeanor relaxing somewhat. "I look forward to experiencing it for myself, then."
"As you can see," John was telling the old man as the pair fell silent, "I've been working, along with some of my partners, to investigate the Orders' movements and interests in those ancient temples." He picked up a map to show to the old man, and Simon recognized it as a map of the continent with the major leylines sketched in blue. From what Simon knew, those leylines were veins of leyfluid deep within the earth, a viscous form of mana that carried the ambient magics of the world like arteries. Hardened leyfluid was excellent for containing bound spells, like the crystal Simon had given to George, and so Simon had expected that the Orders were seeking out these leylines as a means of obtaining leycrystal as a resource, but according to John they weren't doing any excavation. Instead, they were seizing areas where the leylines converged; John had been unable to explain whether the temples had been built atop these places for a reason, or if they tended to draw the leylines to them, but the answer seemed moot. "And here are the sites that I have been able to find," John continued, showing another map.
"Ohh, such nice artwork - a steady hand! Let me see that," the old man mumbled, his eyes wide. As Simon watched, he inspected the maps, before setting down the one labeled by John's own hand. His focus remained on the one depicting the leylines. "Yes, yes - oh, no, that's off a bit - let me see here." Before anyone could object, the old man snatched a quill from the desk, and, dipping it into the inkpot, set down the map and began doodling upon it. "Can't forget this one, and over here… this is different now, since you reshaped…"
"Ah! That map is several ages old! It-" John cried out, raising his hands helplessly. "It came from my master's library! I…" John paused, marveling at the new lines and confluences the old man had added to the paper. He blinked slowly, then regarded the senior with a mixture of respect and frustration. "How do you know about all this?" John's eyes traced the new lines hungrily as he spoke, the gears in his head clearly spinning out of control. "Who… are you? Please."
"Ohh, 'please.' Now that's a new word for you, John Foster." The old man turned his perforated smile towards the former Hero. "I have seen these places, and I know what lies there, but there is no point in telling you. Eyes are for seeing, and ears are for listening, but yours never seem to work right." Doddering over to a chair and plopping himself down upon it, the old man stared upwards, as if bemused by the other question. "As for who I am, I am… I… Hrm." He searched the empty air for answers. "Eli. Yes, yes! Eli! That is what you can call me."
"I see," John said dubiously. "Well then… Eli…" John took a deep breath, readying himself for the barrage of questions he wanted to have answered. "Why did you-"
"Soup."
John blinked, caught off-guard. "W-what?"
"I want soup. You offered to get me whatever food I want, and I want soup. Good soup - with meat in it." Helplessly, John looked from Eli to Ceann, who had entered the room at the back of the pack. She nodded, though she was clearly torn about leaving the old man with John. Saluting, she turned on her heels and went towards the stairs, heading for the kitchen, where Claude would bring the stew that he had been sent to retrieve - a stroke of good fortune or planning, Simon thought, that John had sent him out for it. "Don't worry, miss! We've already traveled a great distance! We'll go nowhere today!" Eli shouted to the knight, and she paused just a moment before continuing on. "After all," the old man continued, looking at John with a mischievous smile, "just yesterday we were nearly on the other side of the continent. We were in a little town, in the shadow of a mountain - a mountain that had disappeared just the day before."
Simon was distracted from the conversation by a scrabbling feeling on his pant leg, but even as he glanced down, something small rapidly scrambled across the hand that was holding his crook-necked staff. Simon looked at the end of the staff to discover the squirrel standing there, its head tilted to the side as it inspected him. Silently, he stared back, and after a moment, the squirrel looked to its feet, sniffing the wood it clutched to, and then back to him. Simon forced a smile onto his face, and greeted it. "Hello, there," he offered genially, and the squirrel stared at him for a moment more before dashing back down the way it had come, leaving Simon with the awkward feeling that he had just made a fool of himself by speaking to an animal.
"So, here, then?" John asked. In the meanwhile, he had gotten the leyline map, and was showing it to the elder, who had extended a single bony finger to point to a place north of the southern peninsula, where many of the leylines converged. John's face was oddly pale, and he glanced to Simon with alarm. "That's… Videre."
Stepping forward rapidly, Simon checked the map. Indeed, the fingertip rested upon the familiar spot - Simon had stared at its place on the map many times, after it had been assigned as the location of his first mission as an Errant. That mission had gone considerably different than Simon ever could have believed - had completely reshaped the course of his life. He could still see the cathedral on the mountain - "Gone, you said?"
The old man nodded at him, with a knowing smile aimed at Simon specifically. "Cut off smooth as a mirror, just at the first bend in the path going up it."
"The whole mountain…" Simon's stomach sank, and a memory returned to him. "Athena. She took it… she knew that the Orders were coming, and rather than risk what they would do to it, or them finding the laboratories underneath…" He looked at John with wide eyes. "It's in Pandemonium. I've seen it, in a dream…"
John's expression was deadly serious. "Be careful with dreams like that. She could take you, too, even more easily, especially when your mind is separated from your body." He shook his head, his eyes still wide. "But, a whole mountain? And she's supposed to be the least powerful of the gods…"
"Once, yes," Eli commented blithely. "But things change. All of her power is turned to protecting those who love her - and that place, too, is saturated with her love. And her love for one who loved it, long ago." Simon didn't notice the eyes on him, lost in his own thoughts. "But it is the others you should concern yourself with, for now."
"The others? Do you mean…" John looked back at the old man, frowning. "The Vanished have all given up on humanity, even the Chief Goddess. Some of them had alliances with the Demon Queen after the war - the sea goddess, the love goddess, the war goddess - but most of them have disappeared, or tend to their own affairs. Even my own worthless god." John leaned back against his desk, rubbing his chin. "To be honest, it's been so long, I barely remember all of them…"
"Fourteen, there were," Eli reminded him gently.
"Yes… yes, that's right. The great temples had thirteen statues, I remember that. The Dark God was the fourteenth. But they're all gone now, right? The Fallen Goddess, Athena, is in Pandemonium - we can avoid her. The Dark God is dead. The only active ones I can think of are the sea goddess, who is forbidding anyone to cross the oceans, especially anyone connected to the Orders, and the Quiet Child, who obviously is still doing her work."
"Who is that?" Simon asked, curious. All of this was new to him - the Orders had erased all signs of the religion that had predated the Church of the Holy Martyr, even the statues of the goddess the Hero himself had worshiped. In the Barrier Cities, even curiosity about the lost deities was a quick route to uncomfortable discussions with a priest about the price of unorthodoxy.
"The goddess of death," John explained. "When someone dies, she comes to them to take them to the Underworld. She appears as a little girl in a fancy black dress, with a veil. When she gets to you, she lifts the veil, and…" John shivered. "Not many people can tell you what happens then, but that fact is all you need to know."
"Hel, she calls herself," Eli told them, and John looked at him with quiet surprise. "I realize many men don't say her name because they fear she will hear and come, but that is simply a superstition. She is just part of life; no more sinister than the sun rising and falling."
John shrugged, but clearly didn't seem ready to test that perspective. "So, that's… four." He glanced down to see the squirrel at his boot, staring up at him. He blinked at the creature. "Umm…" In response, it stared back, and then leapt onto his leg, climbing him like a tree to stand upon his shoulder even as he flinched and tried to subtly brush the creature off.
"One hidden in shadows of lust, one guarding what lies beneath the seas, two in the realm of the dead - his power shared, her mind distracted. One wanders the fields, one keeps the old fires - they will find you. Another shares a table with the crimson queen, supping on madness. Six are gone and waiting to be found, kept from their proper thrones."
Still distracted by the squirrel, which seemed determined to climb onto his head, John called out to the old man, "Could you repeat that? I'm a bit-"
"Ah, the soup has arrived!" the old man interjected, a moment before the door below opened and Ceann's footsteps could be heard. She brought with her a tray, loaded with two steaming bowls, and she bowed her head as she walked up to the ancient wanderer and offered him his choice. He scooped one up with a courtly bow of his head. "So elegant, my fair lady; you'd make a fine wife," he told her, and she blushed, her eyes darting to where John was still trying to get ahold of the squirrel, which was making laps around his torso, chittering in either amusement or irritation, or both. "Patience is a labor of its own, that makes for a slow but plentiful harvest," he continued, dipping his spoon into the bowl and raising it to his in-curled lips. "Ah, hot! But good!"
Bowing, Ceann next walked over to Kenji, who also took a bowl and allowed her to lead him to another seat nearby. He lowered his bulky pack to the floor before sitting, then lifting the bowl towards his face and spooning it a shorter distance to his mouth. Simon could see his shoulders relax in appreciation, and for several long moments the room was quiet aside from indelicate slurping, lips smacking, and John's frustration with the squirrel, who had somehow made it inside the collar of his armor.
"I think your beast has gone rabid!" John growled, as the squirrel finally extricated itself from his apparel and ran back across the floor to ascend Kenji's pack. It scolded John from there, and the former hero glared daggers back at it. Finally wrenching his attention away from it, he turned back to Eli. "So, you've come here-"
"A social visit! I do those, sometimes." Eli laughed, setting his empty bowl and spoon to the side and, slapping his thighs, standing with a cacophony of protesting joints. "And to offer a bit of guidance, of course."
John nodded, his attention fully locked onto the old man. "Very well. I'm ready." His stance added evidence to his words, as if this moment was something he had been preparing himself for over the past weeks. He leaned forward, his eyes wide as if he intended to engrave the moment into his memory.
"Oh." Eli waved to Kenji, who stood as well, reaching for the straps of his pack. "Well, I already told you."
"But- wait, what-?"
"Ears are for listening, but yours never seem to work right - I'll say that again, instead. But I want to go see this town of yours! We will drop by again before we leave." He bowed his head again to Ceann as he marched towards the stairs. "Thank you again for the excellent soup." Dutifully, Kenji fell in behind the old man, the squirrel wobbling atop his looming pack.
"No, wait - I didn't understand!"
"Then try to think." Eli turned to glance at John, waggling his staff as he walked away. "You're a hero - heroes are for helping those in need. Do that, and you won't go far wrong!" In a moment, the elder's voice was all that was left of him as he descended down the stairs and opened the door leading further down the tower. Kenji turned back to bow to the trio remaining in the chamber, the squirrel scrabbling to hold on as the pack leaned dangerously forward, and then he, too, turned to descend the stairs.
"Every single time, he leaves me feeling like I've lost my mind," John groaned. He leaned heavily onto his desk, his face in his hands. "I don't… what did he even tell us?" Imploringly, he looked up to Simon and Ceann, searching for answers that had slipped through his own fingers.
Simon took a long moment to consider, trying to go back over what the old man had said, though the exact words felt hard to remember. Ceann, however, blushed, swaying back and forth as she toyed with the edge of her cape. "You've said that he's always right, haven't you?" she asked, eyes on the floor as she smiled. "He did say I will make an excellent wife…" At this, she shyly raised her eyes to look at John. A note of heat crept into his cheeks, but he looked away, his face grave.
"I meant, about what we need to do from here. Building New Haven was my idea, but he was the one that convinced me that the Orders were a threat to more than just a few cities. You remember that he was the one who took us out of the Demon Queen's castle - I'm glad that Mephis is out of the tower today at Le Cygne, or she would have given him an earful for that." John sighed, glancing at the maps on the table, his brow furrowed.
"He did talk about the Vanished Gods," Simon offered. "He mentioned where some could be found-"
"Riddles and vague nonsense," John groused, taking up the map the old man had drawn upon. "Still…" He frowned, inspecting the paper closely. "I think he gave me a couple of places to look." His eyes lifted to find Ceann. "Our agent on the western peninsula, the sea warden - is he still near Olissipo?" His finger tapped a place on the map, far to the western edge of the continent.
Ceann frowned, her face serious. "Yes, but he's reported an increase in Order presence there. We took it to mean they might be trying punitive measures against the monsters in the sea around that area, but apparently it's a substantial force."
Staring back at the map, John nodded contemplatively. "We need to send him reinforcements." He raised a hand to forestall her immediate objection. "I know how tricky that will be, and I know that we can't go personally this time. We would have a much easier time going by sea, but I know our influence with monsters there is far more tenuous, and leaving New Haven unguarded for that long is…" He stopped to think for a long moment, his frown descending into a scowl. "As much as I want to go, we can't. Not until we know this area is safe, and with Goslar and the other local towns in the hands of the Orders, we have to buttress our defenses - that is going to take a while."
"We have agents we can call on, John," Ceann insisted. Simon glanced at her, noting the change in her tone. Gone was the blushing maiden of a few moments ago; in her place stood the competent, stern lieutenant that he was used to seeing from the knight. "You need to get used to that. Your responsibilities mean you aren't the roaming hero you were before. You're a commander, and that means trusting others to do what you can't do yourself."
He arched an eyebrow at her. "You can't go either, you know. No heroics for you."
She frowned, caught off-guard. "W-well, yes, I know… I have to guard you."
John's laugh was genuine. "Maybe from Mephis," he admitted, his smile teasing and sharp. Glancing to Simon, he returned to the business at hand. "The old geezer talked a lot about the realm of the dead. That's an issue I'll talk to you about later."
Simon blinked in surprise. "I would, ah, think that such a place is somewhat out of reach…"
"Well, yes, obviously, except…" John paused. "It's fair enough that you wouldn't have heard about it; we didn't know about this either, until after the war." He looked to Ceann, giving her a chance to explain.
"The Underworld, the realm of the dead, is unreachable by mortals, except through one place: the Gate of Hel." Ceann stepped closer to John, who handed her the map of leylines. She turned it around, giving Simon a chance to inspect it. She tapped their location, not terribly far from a tangle of the blue lines, then slid it far to the northeast, to a greater knot. "This land is touched by death, and since it is on the other side of the Great Veil it is where many undead monsters have settled. The gate to the Underworld is there, but is kept locked by a key that the strongest of the undead monsters holds."
"Fortunately, there is an event held every few years where the key's keeper is chosen," John added. "And the next one, coincidentally, is in a few months. If we need to reach one of the gods, we might want to look into that contest, to see if there is someone we can support that wouldn't mind giving us a line to the Quiet Child. We'd, ah, actually considering asking you to go, along with our representative."
Simon nodded, filing that information away. "Makes sense, though… will it be an issue that I am connected to a different goddess?" Unconsciously, Simon's left hand flexed, and that motion caught John's eye.
"I don't think so. Those two goddesses never really had an issue, as far as we know - and who can tell the politics of gods? Especially ones that tend to be hermits." John sighed in disgust, but he looked to Ceann with a serious expression. "That does remind me… I think it's about time Simon and I had our little chat." Simon tilted his head in confusion at that, but Ceann nodded in reply, pointing to John's breastplate.
"I should make sure that our guest is staying out of trouble. Perhaps Simon could help you get out of your armor, and change your wrappings?" Her words brought a cloud across John's face, but he nodded, swallowing, his hesitation apparent. Ceann turned her attention to Simon next. "Thank you for your help with this. When this all started, it was just John and I. Now, we have you and Roger, and Mephis, and all the others here in town that want to help. That means a lot to us."
Simon's awkward smile was born out of his self-conscious humility. "You all saved me, not just from Lecter Themras, but from life in the Orders. You opened my eyes to the truth of the world - working to make it better is the very least I can do to repay that."
Ceann nodded with a smile, exchanging a glance with John. "I'm glad you feel that way," the former hero said, stepping closer to him. "Ceann, be careful to keep our guests safe; I still have questions for the old man, if he'll actually answer anything." She nodded, turning towards the stairs. John turned his attention back to Simon. "Let's go down to my quarters," he suggested. "We should be comfortable, because you will want to sit down for some of the things I have to tell you."
Simon nodded, his stomach full of fluttering butterflies. The past weeks had taught him well the price of wisdom, and so he knew whatever John had to tell him would disrupt his life once more. Still, he told himself, following John out of the tower's upper chamber, it would be better to know the truth and to face it, than to hide in a comfortable lie. Bracing for the revelations to come, Simon descended the tower in John's footsteps, nervous yet unable to quiet the curiosity howling within him.
John's chambers were decidedly simple, which didn't surprise Simon in the least. Considering how spartan his office was, Simon hadn't expected John's bedroom to be much different. What was unusual, to him, was the size; the room Simon shared with Gina and Sarah was easily twice the size, and John's bed was little more than a cot. The room sported a small closet, which featured several versions of the shirts and vests that John was fond of, as well as a selection of robes that were pushed off to the side. A wide-brimmed conical hat sat atop the highest shelf there, dusty and forlorn. He also had a few personal items - a handful of knickknacks strewn atop the small desk that rested against one wall, including a hand-carved bit of bone that looked like a snake wrapped around a branch, and a collection of medals with ribbons dirtied by time. It was a larger item, and a familiar one, that drew Simon's attention the most.
Above the desk was a painting, and Simon's eyes went wide as he recognized it. Even as John sat in a small chair below the wide window, he noticed the direction of Simon's stare, and smiled. "It's a reproduction that I had made as a gift, from when I worked in the laboratory under the cathedral," John explained, his tone warm. "I was happy when I discovered Norelle's original had survived the destruction of the chapel that stood atop the mountain near Videre, before the cathedral was built in its place. We had sent it there since it was the closest any of us had to a home - we were all orphans, and most of us had even lost the places we had grown up in because of the war. I'm sure the original painting is still in that office where I left it."
Simon stepped closer to the painting. It was just as he remembered it, from the sealed office within the cathedral: seven young men, captured in a moment of casual camaraderie, with bright smiles and the undying energy of youth. The faded pigment struggled to restrain the personalities of the group, who seemed ready to tear themselves free of the painting and head out on their adventure, and the image was so clear to Simon that it felt more like a memory. He now knew it showed the Seven Heroes during their adventure, the war that had ravaged the continent and changed the world forever. Six of the seven had become the figureheads of the Holy Orders, but their individuality and personality had been scathed away by the choices of the clergy. Here, they were vibrant and breathing, no stone statues locked in place. Christophe the thief, lounging against the bulky knight Theo. The archer, Percival standing alongside the proud spearman, Alex. The swordsman, Adam, and a much younger John, dressed in a wizard's robes and with his arm thrown across the shoulders of his closest friend. And finally, the young priest, Paul, off to himself, but still happy, still alive.
"The painting is there," Simon confirmed. "Like I told you, they kept Paul's things in a sealed office, like the tome I carry, his diary." Unconsciously, his left hand slipped down into one of the deep pockets at his side, touching the cover of the slim journal.
John nodded, a deep-rooted melancholy tangled in his nostalgic smile. "I'm glad. That was the best place for it, probably - it should have gone to Christophe, considering the girl who painted it was the person he loved most, but…" Sighing, he leaned back in the chair, turning his eyes upward. "This is going to be a tough one. There are things you need to know about the Heroes - and me - before I can ask you, honestly, to do any of the things I am hoping for."
"You know I am willing to stand with you against the Orders, and to defend the people of this town," Simon protested, stepping closer, his voice raising slightly in his insistence.
"I do." John's shoulders slumped as he leaned harder against the wall behind him. "And I wish that was all this was about. But you met the old man - you know my mission is bigger than just one town."
"Well, I know it involves the gods - and I've already stood up to one of them," Simon pointed out gamely.
At that, John laughed, his armor clanking a bit from the motion. Since that drew his attention, John began unbuckling the clasp on one of his gauntlets as he spoke. "True, and you did a better job of it than I did, that's for sure." Pulling the gauntlet off to reveal the glove he wore inside it, he began to repeat the procedure on the other side. "But I want to show you the price of messing with the gods, too. But before that, we need to have a little refresher on some basic concepts… Tell me what the Orders taught you about mana."
Simon frowned, wondering if this was John's way of postponing the part of their conversation he was obviously dreading. Still, if it led to a new understanding, he would play along. "Some people - human males and monsters - create mana internally, while human women absorb it from the environment. Casting spells takes mana, which replenishes naturally but slowly. Mana can be imbued into objects and released later, and even some people who can't cast spells can use mana to enhance themselves or their abilities."
"A decent basic summary; the things that are wrong are really complicated, and are close enough to right for now." Seeing Simon's displeasure, John waved his now-unarmored hands for peace. "A discussion for another time, on the exact nature of monster mana - and, to be honest, what I have there is more theory than fact. And, I know you are aware by now, people can exchange mana."
Simon's cheeks burned bright enough to light the room. "Ah, yes, we had to, ah, use that method to empower Sarah enough to cast the spell to summon you…"
John chuckled, but his humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just know that it happens every time you, ah… do that. A little bit of their energy infuses you. Yours infuses them. You are changing, Simon, as monster mana becomes a part of you."
"Does that mean that I will change?" Simon asked, alarmed. "Will I-?"
"Get scales? Horns? Grow a few extra feet?" John laughed. "No." Then his eyes narrowed, and he paused. "Well. Usually, no. There are certain kinds of monsters that do strange things to the mana of their lover - but liches and kobolds are safe, relatively."
"You're not very reassuring, John."
The former hero's laughter was genuine. "Monster mana is naturally transmutative - I have theories on that, but those are for another time. But the changes in their lovers are usually minor, reflecting what they like most about the male: they might get taller, or a bit stronger, or their face may change just a bit - they may even grow slightly younger-looking. The trade-off is that they, too, will change to fit what you desire even better."
Simon's frown grew. "I don't want them to change."
John shrugged, standing from the chair. "Then they won't. It's typically nothing drastic, and often, in cases like yours, nothing happens. The exceptions are people who take in greater amounts of ambient mana-"
Simon started, his eyes wide as his mind made quick logical leaps. "Mary." He had almost turned towards the door when he noticed John extending his hands in a calming gesture.
"Yes, but she's fine. Most human women would change due to prolonged exposure to monster mana, whether they wanted to or not, but Mary has access to something most women don't." John pointed to a square case sitting along the wall. "Will you bring that over here?" Simon complied, his doubts not yet addressed, but as he set the case in front of John and opened it he realized where John's surety came from. Inside the case were row after row of bottles, each filled with a clear, faintly glowing fluid. "These are purgation potions that Roger made," John explained, lifting one and holding it in front of himself, checking its clarity. "They don't affect your own mana, but the fluid bonds with foreign mana and helps flush it out of your body naturally. As long as Mary drinks the potions I've had Roger take to her every few days or so, and doesn't come directly into contact with a huge source of monster mana, she'll be fine." John smiled, his eyes reading Simon's mood, but the other man seemed placated by this explanation.
"So why do you have so many of them, then?" Simon asked, glancing at the rows within the case.
"Because I use them more frequently," John sighed. "Care to help me with these buckles?" He turned, indicating the belts that held his breastplate in place, and Simon stooped to comply, pulling at the straps. "Just a moment more for that explanation," John insisted, turning more to give Simon better access. "Next question: what is the difference between spells cast by a priest and by a mage?"
Simon hesitated, then answered readily. This was something he had discussed with Sarah, long ago. "Mages use their mana to cast spells directly. Like, pouring water out of a cup - if the cup gradually refilled itself, I guess." John nodded, accepting the analogy. "But priests offer their mana to their gods, through faith, and the gods grant them miracles when called upon, like pouring that glass into a bucket that you use when you really need it."
John considered that as Simon lifted the freed breastplate over his head. "Ye~ees, with the addition that the mana from the bucket is different: divine mana, from the gods themselves. Now here's the tricky part: how do the Orders use magic?"
Simon paused, thinking. Now that he had gotten used to using arcane magic, he could tell that what he had once used was much different. He had been a very weak spellcaster before he had turned against the Orders, and now his talent was growing by leaps and bounds. The exact reason for that difference, however, eluded him. "They use mana, but it feels… like…" A memory came to him. He remembered a spell he had cast, a shield, that had come from somewhere else entirely, its energy flooding into him as he had stood his ground against Lecter Themras. He had expected to die then, but in his desperation, he had called out to the goddess of the priest Paul… "A miracle."
As if relieved, John breathed a deep sigh. "You are possibly the only person that could answer that question that way," John acknowledged, smiling at Simon. "You're a born mage, but you have the blessing of a goddess that treats you like a priest." Simon glanced away from him, to his own left hand. At the moment he had cast that spell, back in Videre, standing between the Lecter's murderous magic and his friends, a sigil had appeared on his hand: the mark of Athena. John saw where he was looking, and his smile became gentle as he reached out to rest a gloved hand on Simon's shoulder. "Let's come back to that one, okay?" When Simon glanced back at him, John's face became serious. "So, here's my perception: the Orders cast miracles using internal mana." Simon nodded, but that reaction was not as extreme as John had wanted. "That's impossible. Something is changing their mana, and it feels profoundly wrong. They worship without a god for the mana to go to. To use your analogy: something we can't even see is drinking their cup dry, and filling it back up with piss." When Simon blanched at that metaphor, John pressed on, "The mana has been changed by something. I just don't know what that something is."
Simon nodded, frowning. "I was always told my faith was weak. But you're right: we were kept from worshiping any kind of god. Just… the Seven Heroes."
"Who, I can tell you, aren't gods." John's grin was self-deprecating. "So, now we get to the thing you really want to hear about. Help me pour some of these purgations potions onto those wrappings in the drawer, there, and I'll finally share some war stories with you. Just, don't be too disappointed at how they end, okay?"
Frowning, but still unable to quell the giddy curiosity within himself, Simon walked over to the chest John had indicated. Inside one of the drawers was a wealth of long linen bandages, and as Simon scooped up several, he turned to see John pulling off the shirt he had worn under the armor. On first appraisal, John was exactly as he had seemed - a lean young man, perhaps well-defined for someone who had once been a warlock instead of a fighter. It was his arms that were strange: both were wrapped in the same bandages as the ones Simon held, from just below his shoulders all the way to the gloves he was pulling off. His right arm, too, looked different from its twin: the left arm was normal, but the right arm was considerably bulkier. As Simon watched, John began to unwind the bandages, though they seemed well-layered.
"Where to start? The creation of the Great Veil is the obvious place…" At this, John turned an appraising glance towards Simon, who shook his head.
"Earlier, if possible?"
John laughed in good nature. "This has a point, so for today I am going to have to give you the barest details until we get to it. One last time: what does the Order tell you about our journeys?"
Simon thought back to the lessons he had been given. "Few specifics. The Seven Heroes faced the armies of the Demon King across the continent… we'd often get stories of how they - err, you - fought specific monsters. Then the Priest created the Great Barrier, sacrificing himself. The remaining Heroes fought to the Castle of the Demon King, where the Conqueror killed the Demon King's queen, but died fighting the Demon King himself. Then, those who remained fought him to avenge their friend, with the Paladin standing alone against his rage until he, too, was killed. Finally, the Martyr killed the Demon King in an incredible duel, only to be killed when his successor, the Demon Queen, emerged, taking advantage of his wounds to kill him, but left so weak she has never shown her face again, ruling from the far East."
John listened to the story with an expression of profound disgust. "'Demon King?' 'Conqueror?' 'Martyr?' Why did that asshole feel the need to rename everything? Your spells, your enemies, - us, - just sound… pompous."
Simon nodded, bowing his head slightly, as though he were the one being chidden. "They say that they make things less specific so it applies to everyone-"
"And I say that is bullshit." John let the bandage he was unwrapping dangle as he reached up to cradle his forehead with his hand. "I understand that little brat writing me out of the story; he had reasons. But they had names. And even the events… pah!" Just as he had before, in the tower's foyer, John began to pace. "Fine. Fine!" His eyes ablaze, he whirled on Simon. "Let's start over," he said, his voice low. "First: we did fight, all across the continent. Back in those days, it was much easier to teleport. Since arcane magic wasn't criminalized, there were beacons in major towns that, for the right price, you could buy a bound spell crystal that would help you teleport to them. Cristophe used to joke that saving their shoes was the best thing I brought to the party." Despite the bitterness in his voice, John still let his lips quirk at the edges. "But we knew worse was coming. This is another topic we will discuss later, but… never before had there been seven Godchosen Heroes. In every other age, when an Overlord would appear to plague humanity, one Hero - one! - would be chosen by the Chief Goddess to kill it. Other heroes would emerge to defend humanity, but there was only one chosen one, and every time, that was the hero that won." As Simon looked down to his own left hand once more, John interrupted his impending question. "Later. Like I said, seven Heroes - four chosen by gods of war, one by the Chief Goddess, and two by… well." John glowered at his own left hand. "Anyways, soon enough we were proven right. It wasn't an Overlord this time. It was the god responsible for creating all of them, and almost all monsters: the Dark God himself. That's your 'Demon King.'"
Simon stepped back, nodding. This made sense; Paul's journal had mentioned this discovery. As he listened, he began soaking the bandages he held in the fluid from the bottles. "That's why it didn't go so easily."
"Not sure any of it was ever easy, but… yeah." John paused in his pacing. "We were winning, at first. Even when the Dark God brought out his Seven Kings: lieutenants or former Overlords that he used as weapons to weaken us." A sly glance to the side proved his suspicion that Simon was absolutely absorbed in this particular point. "Rhuin Witherking. Asacris Pseudepigrapha. The Lord of All Traitors. The zombie of the Sun-Eating Serpent." Not noticing Simon's grimace at one of those names, John motioned to the side, to the painting. "That was when that painting was made, and, believe it or not, those were the good times. Sure, we were terrified; each fight was against something powerful enough to end an age on its own, and each one was a test for one of us in particular. The Dark God was looking for our weak point, and, well… he found it." John slumped. "The Dark Sabbath was the entire coven of his greatest spellcasters, led by his Arch-Warlock. I destroyed them, and the entire castle they were in… except their leader was away. I didn't even realize it… and I paid the price for it." At that, the former hero lapsed into silence.
Simon stepped closer, holding up the medicine-soaked bandages. John glanced at them, and then nodded grimly. Before he could take them, he reached up, and began to unwind the last set of bandages cloaking his right arm. Simon's eyes grew wide as he saw what lay underneath the sullied cloth, taking a step back despite himself.
John's right arm wasn't human. The flesh was wine-dark, bluish, with darker veins running along the slabs of muscle. Those muscles were bloated, yet looked hard as stone, clenched tightly. The fingers were topped with nails that John had obviously clipped short, but from their shape Simon could tell they were red talons, and sharp enough to cut flesh like paper. John stared at his own arm with naked loathing, turning it this way and that.
"My 'trophy,' from the final battle," he quipped bitterly. "But that's moving too far ahead." He looked to Simon, his gaze grave. "You know what happened before the creation of the Great Veil."
Simon nodded. "The Dark God cast a spell that turned your allies into monsters."
"And I killed them all with a firestorm." His eyes were dead as he uttered it. "But, yes. After Adam beat the last of the Seven Kings in a duel, he did something none of the rest of us had thought to. It was the Dark God's own bodyguard… and he spared it." His incredulity brought a bit of humor back to the man's expression. "A dread warrior that commanded the souls of those it slew - Beira the Ebon Knight. That drew the attention of the Dark God, and he appeared to us… and Adam challenged him, too!"
Simon couldn't help but laugh along. "I wish I could have met the Mart- I mean, Adam."
John looked at him, serious once more. "Well… after that, the Dark God told us that he would wipe us, and all of humanity, from the earth itself. That he would bring the mightiest army the world had known to bear against us. So, we went for help to get to him first - one final showdown, to determine it all." Dropping the last of the bandages from his tainted right arm, John stepped over to the window, and opened it. The light of the day flooded in, and beyond, Simon could see the wave-like swell of the eastern hills. "That way," John said, pointing. "That is the Vale of Sorrows. That is where our armies met his, and were transformed, and died. That is where we ended up alone, once more. That is where… Paul cast his spell."
Simon followed the direction that blue-black finger was pointing. "I'd always wondered," Simon mused. "I know I can't see it from here, but I can imagine it…" When he glanced back into the room, John was watching him closely.
"After that… like I said earlier, we fell apart. We argued, and we didn't have Paul to make us come together again. Theo wanted to help set up defenses; Adam wanted to infiltrate the Dark God's fortress in the east, like he had talked about before the battle. For the first time, Alex agreed with him, and I was on their side. Christophe… I think he had seen enough death. Percival was worried Adam was going to just get himself killed." John shrugged. "We split up. They stayed back, we went on, with a little help from our guest earlier. From there, the Orders get some of it right. Alex killed the mate of the Dark God, the High Temptress, but the Dark God found him next. We could barely recognize his corpse, when the Dark God showed him to us. And Adam… he had a new plan, a stupid idea - but he was right, and I wouldn't listen." Here, John's voice carried more pain than ever before.
"The old man got us back to the others. Adam went off on his own, so we prepared. We knew he would come for that mountain - Mount Perun." John pointed again, and, just over the swell of hills well to the north of the Vale of Sorrows, Simon could see a single peak. "That was where it happened… the final battle. He did come there, because it is the biggest leyline nexus on this side of the continent. And, it's just a bit west of the Vale of Sorrows… on the human side of the Great Veil. There, he started a ritual… one that would create a mist that would spill over the whole continent, turning every human it touched into monsters." John glanced down at his unwrapped arm. "He sent warriors against us while he and his Arch-Warlock - that goat-headed bitch - started the ritual. I worked to counteract them, fighting to keep the ambient mana flowing away from him, while the others charged in: Theo, Christophe, Percival. Adam was… nowhere to be found." His voice dolorous, John pushed himself to finish the tale. "Theo did something extreme. Like Paul, he called on his god… he became an avatar. It worked; it would have killed him within an hour or two, but for that long, he fought with the might of the sun itself." John slumped, his hand on the windowsill as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. "And I watched the Dark God run him through."
Simon swallowed through a tight throat. "And… the others?"
"They survived. Barely. But then it was just me, and a god, and a witch ready to unleash the end of humanity… and Adam showed up, with the weapon none of us had expected. With the only weakness the Dark God had."
Simon's eyes narrowed. "What weapon?"
"His daughter. The new Queen of Succubi. Lilith."
Simon blinked in surprise. "She… helped you?"
John nodded. "Together, they faced him. The Dark God was barely wounded, but… with her curbing his sorcery, and me keeping the Incantation of Divine Transformation locked down - mostly," he said, looking to his malformed arm, "and Adam fighting him directly… it shouldn't have mattered. But it did. I'd fought with Adam for years, but I never saw him fight like that. Like he had found… himself." Beneath the sadness, John smiled, as if still proud of his friend. "He fought a god, and he won. They… won."
Simon's stomach dropped. He knew how this story ended, then. "So… after all that, she betrayed him. While he was weak, after the fight. To become the new Demon Queen, she killed him-"
"That's just it, Simon." John faced him directly, staring into Simon's eyes with an intensity that drew him back a step. There was a smile on his lips, but it bowed under the weight of its responsibilities. John seemed half-mad, and fragile, and yet deeply triumphant. "She didn't. She took control of the Incantation, but she didn't turn on him. That's the lie. That's what you don't know."
"Adam Milton, the Hero chosen by the Chief Goddess, the leader of the Seven Heroes, the 'Holy Martyr'... is, even now, the husband and lover of Lilith the Demon Queen."
Continued in "Heroes, Chapter 6"
Author's Note: It is a great tragedy for me as a teacher that, the closer my grades are to being due, the more I want to write. I managed to finish this chapter early, but... I make no promises about the next one. I have the end of the nine weeks coming up soon, and a frightening stack of ungraded papers waiting for me to tend to... wish me luck, because I have to get those done before I can commit myself to the sixth chapter.
With that said... this chapter was the one that I knew would be complicated, since it was inevitably dialogue-dense. I know the old adage about showing and telling - and look forward to the past bits I get to actually show in time - but this was my chance to fill in the major details of some of the backstory, and to introduce concepts that will be important in the stories to come. I compare this chapter to chapter 3 ofNot Alone, which set out the conflict of the story to come... this one does the same, but for three different stories that are yet to be revealed.
Finally, as always, I welcome comments and critiques on my writing. Beyond the endorphin rush that keeps me working, I value questions and comments that give me a chance to avoid pitfalls I've set in front of myself, and with as complex a web as I'm weaving ahead, there are plenty of places I could've messed up. I also say that I may have to make a fifth editing pass over this one, once I am more rested, but... I feel good enough to publish it now. If I do make a pass later, I will specify what changes I make below this note.
But such is a concern for a more well-rested me. And, to get to that, I must sleep...
~Wynn Pendragon