Sweat dripped slowly from his forehead, his deep black fringes of matted hair sprawled wildly along the canvas of his frontal lobe like the roots of an enormous oak tree. The baying crowd roared like inhuman monsters, bloodlust in their voices and madness swimming like fell leviathans in the pools of all their eyes.

“Kill him!”

“Decapitate him!”

“Tear out his throat!”

“Impale him!”

He was their puppet, their plaything. The slab of still-struggling meat beset by a deliverer of death and carnage for no other purpose than their collective entertainment. Damn them all. Damn them all to the darkest pits of Hell! He would not falter. Not here.

The monstrous beast flung its arm wide, the impact driving itself deep into his torso, blood and saliva bursting forth from his mouth and nostrils, the air that once filled his lungs leaving him for dead. He felt the wires of the cage’s fencing dig into his skin with all the eagerness of a starved dog searching for its interred bone before they flung him back forward akin to a lifeless ragdoll against the canvas covering of the ring. Coughing, choking, on the verge of vomiting the breakfast he hadn’t had, he rolled onto his back dazed. The world became nothing more than an indistinguishable blur all around him, time seeming to decelerate, disembodied voices shouting in muffled tongues he couldn’t comprehend. He needed not comprehend them, however, for what better interpreter could there have been in that moment than the serrated, bony, purple limb of that creature’s appendage diving down straight at his throat, clawing its way out through his foggy vision to appear so clearly before him to remind him of where he was and why he was fighting?

His blood raced like devil stallions stampeding across an open prairie, mere seconds ticking away as he disappeared from the appendage’s path and manifested once more upon his two bare feet at the creature’s side, his teeth clenched, hands trembling, and pupils dilated so as to eclipse the unyielding frenzy, the tireless rage, beating, throbbing, pulsing just behind them. The monster looked into the beaten and bloodied boy’s eyes and, for a mere moment, stood still. It stood still as if pondering if mayhaps what it was seeing was itself or something far more sinister.

The boy threw himself back to the farthest edge of the cage and sprinted at top speed back toward the skeletal monster. It moved to try and meet him, but was immediately reminded of its serrated appendage with which it had moments before failed in taking the young man’s life and which now lay impaled in the wooden planks of their fateful arena. It mattered not, for what was this mortal, this son of man, that he should think of himself capable of being able to charge at a being so mighty as it? Enraged as he might be, he was no more than a plain child, a naïve brat throwing a callow temper tantrum for no other reason than because he hadn’t gotten his way. It had plenty more extremities at its disposal. What difference would one stymied leg make? It would not have to wait long to find out the answer.

The boy’s feral footsteps resounded through the wooden floor like a death bell tolling its final farewell to the watchers around them. Three more scythe appendages sprang forth from its sides, flailing themselves toward the boy to slice him to bloody ribbons; but it mattered not. He weaved through them like the spectral shadow of the grim reaper himself, his clenched teeth resembling almost a smile. He was taunting it! Outrage and offense fueled the monster's final attack as it lunged its neck forward, maw gaping broad as falcon wings to swallow the boy whole; but when at last it brought together the two halves of its mouth to bite down, it was met only by the force of its own jaw with no cushioning to soften the self-inflicted blow.

Violently, its head whipped back, leaving it dizzy and wholly unprepared for what was to follow. The spectators all scooted to the edges of their seats in anticipation. Some raised eyebrows in suspicion, some shook their heads in disbelief, some simply smiled at the spectacle of it all, and some laughed heartily in approval of the young lad’s madness. In the end, they all trembled in amazement at what followed thereafter. His pace unbroken, his charge undisturbed, he broke through the monster’s stuck arm as if it were rotten wood hollowed out by the ceaseless indulgence of insatiable termites. Yet better, bigger, and sweeter than the sight was the sound, the smell. A deep, violent, ageless boom echoed forth from the impact, bits of dagger-sharp bone flying in all directions like fireworks, the hot and dizzying smell of bleeding marrow seeping through the air and violating the nostrils of everyone present. He had done the impossible.

The monster’s shriek shook the earth, it rattled the cage as though it were but an insignificant toy! Wine glasses were reduced to dust, beer bottles were smashed to countless pieces, and numerous watchers soon found themselves writhing on the ground from the blood dripping down their ears! Those who were able to cover their own ears in time, though not suffering from blood bursting from them, nevertheless had the world around them turn to thick fog as vertigo robbed them of whatever contents their stomachs may have been carrying at the time; some from the same way through which they had entered, others out the other through which they would’ve left.

The young boy stumbled, kneeling forward a bit with his hands over his ears, but only drooling. One can’t throw up a meal they never had. Adrenaline still pulsing through him, he quickly regained his composure and lifted the snapped appendage over his shoulder. One last time, his feral footsteps echoed solemnly through the air, heavier now with the weight of his adversary’s severed limb on his back, beating against the canvas like the war drums of an unstoppable army. There was its chance! Its opportunity! Resisting the pain, it lifted one of its other legs to retaliate, slicing through the air to behead the damned urchin that had harmed it, that had humiliated it, that had--

 

CRACK

 

--used its own parted limb to slice through its neck and bring an end to its life.

The world became nothing more than an indistinguishable blur all around it, time seeming to decelerate, disembodied voices shouting in muffled tongues it couldn’t comprehend. It needed not comprehend them however. For what better interpreter could there have been in that moment than the small, skinny, defiant boy which had just beheaded it using a part of its own body? The monster looked into the beaten and bloodied boy’s eyes and, for a mere moment, knew. Knew that what it had been seeing this entire time was something far more sinister than it could have ever been.

His anger subsided, melting away like frigid snow before the engulfing heat of a lively sun, dissipating back until all that was left was exhaustion and the deep satisfaction of a well-earned victory. The ringing of chains echoed behind him, the cage door flinging wide open, and there before him he saw the lively sun. Rays of light, bridges of brightness, pathways of shining radiance outstretched before him as open, loving arms inviting him to take the very first steps. The very first steps down the walkway of freedom.

“Go now!”

“Be free!”

“Be happy!”

And why not? He had fought like a beast, like an inhuman monster. Why shouldn’t he be free, be happy? One foot after the other, he calmly walked towards the light, the warm voices of hearty encouragement still speaking to him.

“You’ve earned this!”

“You’ve won this!”

“Now march forward!”

“And don’t look back!”

“We’ll be okay, all right?”

“So forget about us!”

“Forget about what happened!”

“Go and live your life without us!”

His legs stiffened rigidly as stone. Those voices. Those words. He knew them; knew them well; knew well whence they’d come; knew not whither they’d gone. He turned around and there they were. A cloud of sad faces twisted and warped in front of him as endless tears flowed from their fading eyes. Outstretched hands grabbed desperately at the air all around them only to decay into dust before being able to extend themselves completely. Pained wails and dreadful screeching rang out from their broken mouths. They were monstrous! Yet he remembered them; yet he pitied them; yet he yearned so earnestly to help them; to save them.

Terror taking hold of him, he disregarded the sun and its open arms, ignored the egress victory had afforded him and ran toward them whom he’d left behind. He would not lose them now! He would save them this time!

“Leave us!”

“Abandon us!”

“Go forward!”

“Don’t look back!”

He bolted toward them quicker than ever he’d bolted before. The sweat from his pores, the tears from his eyes, the blood from his wounds, even the spit from his mouth: they all were torn from their places as he raced like a madman to save those unfortunate spirits.

The canvas of the ring stretched out and expanded under them, increasing the distance with each passing moment till it felt like he’d sprinted a thousand miles only to get no closer to them. The ring canvas turned to mud under his feet, pulling him in, dragging him down, slowing him even more. His knees bent under the pressure and he fell forward, still trying to drag himself toward them with his hands. His body failed him, his breath left him once more, and he was reduced to nothing more but an immovable slab of still-struggling meat in the middle of an endless ocean of all-consuming muck. And then, there it was! Heat! Burning, ardent, crackling, thunderous!

He turned his head one last time and bore witness to the ghastly apparition which had been approaching him, hidden just out of view by the sunlight. It too was made of fire. Vivid red fire as if spawned from the mouth of Hell itself. It tore through the skies like a harbinger of calamity, covering the bright blue hues in an impenetrable black through which only lightning cut and thunder boomed; but no rain poured. It stopped itself before him, wings spread, tail curved, and eyes scintillating in anticipation of what was to come. Try as he might, the sludge fixed him firmly in place. Though he strained and strove as best he could, it was already too late. The beast was upon him now.

With one great flap of its immense wings, the creature raised itself higher into the skies to whip its body forward and dive straight towards him, its maw opened wider than any beast he’d ever seen before. Scorching, enkindled heat pressed itself against his body as he trembled helplessly at the beast’s unstoppable advance. One last time, the world became nothing more than an indistinguishable blur all around him, time seeming to decelerate, disembodied voices shouting in muffled tongues he couldn’t comprehend. He needed not comprehend them however; for what better interpreter could there have been in that moment than the racing monster flying promptly toward him to end his life? And in that brief instance, the boy looked into the nameless beast’s eyes and, for a mere moment, stood still. He stood still as if pondering if mayhaps what he was seeing was truly a monster or simply himself. He would not have to wait long to find out the answer.

Realizing his fate, he closed his eyes in anticipation and--

 

THUD

 

--awoke to find he’d fallen onto the floor of his private chamber, the first rays of the morning sun slipping through the window curtains of the monastery and placing playful, gentle, waking smacks across his face as Blaise, his favorite and most frequent cardinal, pecked him gently on the nose.

“Not again,” he sighed out, rolling onto his knees as Blaise sprung back a bit from him. “Every night with this.”

Desperate knocking reverberated from the door in front of them, a concerned voice calling out to him.

“Clément? Clément, my son, what was that screaming? Art thou well, my child?”

Screaming? He’d been screaming? Never mind that now. He needed to let him know he was alright.

“I am well, father. Thou needest not worry. ‘Twas only a dream.”

“Thank God Almighty. Please hurry down for breakfast, my son. Remember that today is the selection and, as an ambassador, the academy needeth thee thither today more so than ever before. So tarry not long, alright?”

“Yes, father.”

Fading footsteps disappeared into the distance, a hearty sigh of relief parting from his lips. The clock was ticking. He quickly made his bed and, once having recited his morning prayers, made his way to the convent washrooms. The mural of Saint Guillaume le Paisible stood over the archway as an ever-watchful, ever-present specter welcoming him and many more believers into the spacious bathing spaces with open arms and a gentle smile, inviting them to partake of the refreshing waters the river provided.

The sunlight was hitting him directly now, beating down on him mercilessly, its touch on his skin softened only by the freezing cold water from the Saint-Guillaume river running through the tubes of the monastery. The winter season had slowly been taking its leave from the capital, the cool mountain waters of the river being its parting gift, and a most welcome one at that; but that was of little importance now. This half-decade was fast approaching its end, and with it, the promise of many new beginnings.

Having cleansed himself as best he could, he continued to the looking-glass to dress himself and brush his hair. His hair was a deep black, not unlike his right eye (the other was blue just like his parents’). The spitting image of his father from the hollow cheeks to the slim jawline, but having inherited his mother’s unruly curls for hair. He stood at about a meter seventy-nine (five feet and eleven inches approximately), svelte, yet of well-defined muscles; and was pale, even by their standards.

He diligently took to his task, pausing for a moment to chase away the lingering thoughts of the night terror that had stirred him up so violently from his slumber.

“It’s behind you now, Clément,” he told himself, calmly brushing his hair as best he could to try and straighten the unruly, dark curls; but alas, they never did. No matter how hard he strained, they always warped back into their original shape, not unlike…

He stopped, remembering the image of the fiery phantom.

Not unlike the flames of that beast.

“Clément, breakfast is ready,” came the announcement.

“On my way.”

Stirred from his deep reflection, he finished brushing and promptly made his way to the lunch room where Father Michel was waiting for him dressed in his morning gown.

Father Michel had two blue eyes, graying hair, and was a few centimeters taller than Clément when he could stand up straight and didn’t have to use his walking stick. His face was rugged and a bit weathered, the tone of his skin slightly tanned from his travels, and with noticeably big hands; and though he wore a lively smile, a mere glance would tell anyone his best years were already behind him.

“Come, come, my child,” he said, motioning to the black wood chair at his side. Clément swiftly obeyed and sat down, a plate of fresh bread covered in strawberry jam, two slices of cottage cheese, and a swig of coffee with cream awaiting him. To say he was not eager would have been a lie. No sooner had he sat down, he recited the gratiarum actio--quickly enough so as not to tarry, but slowly enough so as not to be impious--and avidly began to dig in.

“Slow down now, Clément. Thou wantest not to dirty thy robes.”

“Forgive me, father,” he said through a half-devoured slice of cheese, washing it down with a sip from his coffee. “I’m just a bit famished.”

“I can tell. Those night terrors of thine must leave thee ever so starved.”

“‘Tis nothing, father.”

“Nothing, thou sayest?” asked Father Michel, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Clément. “Well, ‘tis a nothing that hath been tormenting thee now for a full fortnight, my child; and my concern only groweth with each passing moon, Clément. I think ‘tis time thou wert honest with me. What is it that aileth thee and disturbeth thee so that thou flailest and screamest every night now?”

“I insist, father. ‘Tis nothing.”

“Thou oughtest not lie to me, Clément. I can tell from a glance thou art still shaken up. Speak, my child. Speak, if only to lessen thy burden a bit.”

Clément looked into his clear blue eyes, scanning him like a mortician would a cadaver, recording each and every minute detail his eyes came across. He took a deep breath and folded his hands over his lap.

“I see myself back there.”

“Back there?”

“In Chantin. In the underground. In the cage.”

“Where first we met.”

“Yes. I’m back there and I see myself fighting horrible creatures. They’re never the same; sometimes they’re ones I don’t think I’ve ever seen before in my life, at least not face to face.”

“And what transpireth in these dreams?”

“I win. I win and I’m set free. But then I see them. But ‘tis not really them, ‘tis only their voices. And they’re encouraging me. They’re telling me to be free, to be happy; but then I turn around and look at them. I see them suffering, I hear them crying, and I run after them. I run after them to try and save them.”

“Thou leavest not?”

“I never do. I can’t bring myself to do so. So I run after them; but ‘tis always in vain. I never reach them. I never reach them and a strange phenomenon occureth. I then witness a beast of red flames that chargeth from the East at me to consume me, to devour me. It taketh to the skies and diveth straight at me, but just before it killeth me, I awaken.”

“I see. Thy conscience. Thou feelest yet guilty for the ill that befell thy companions that day. Thou blamest thyself.”

“Still to this day.”

Without saying another word, Father Michel rose from his seat and began to gently massage Clément’s shoulders.

“‘Tis been almost a year now, hath it not?”

“Almost, father.”

“And thou hast still not forgiven thyself for the tidings which did transpire on that regrettable day. Art thou afraid, my son?”

“Afraid? Mayhaps. More so I am regretful. Had I been as strong on that day as I’d been in the cage, I might’ve saved them all. I might’ve spared them the cruel fortune that awaited us all back at the orphanage.”

“Some things rest not in our hands, my child. Notwithstanding, to not be always in control is no folly of man, Clément. For all mankind, though he may think of himself a god, cometh eventually to the harsh truth that, for all his toiling, he cannot wholly control his fate nor his fortune. And that, my dear Clément, is why we exist. To show compassion to those whom luck hath downtrodden and to console those to whom this world hath shown neither mercy nor grace. Such as did I with thee so long ago.”

“And I am grateful for that, father. Sincerely, I am. But now I ask thee: what of them whom we cannot save? What of them whom mercy never reacheth, to whom grace cometh too late?”

“Therein lie our limits, my child. That in a world so wicked as this, we cannot save all the broken, cannot console all the miserable. For each individual life we may help in sparing, in bringing out into the light, we know nought of the countless others which still suffer quietly in the dark. ‘Tis why we pray, my child, for just like those who thought of themselves gods, we too, for all our toiling, despite our faith, are nought but men.
“Nevertheless, Clément, I ask that thou not let these tidings dispirit thee. I believe there is good reason for which thy conscience tormenteth thee after this manner. ‘Tis so that thou mayest not forget them, Clément. ‘Tis so that thou wilt fight forever the good fight. To save them who have suffered and do suffer even now what once sufferedst thou. That they may be ever in thy thoughts and in thy prayers.”

“Truly thinkest thou so, father?”

“I know so, Clément. That is why thou art here, now, my child. That is why I made thee a disciple. So finish eating, my child. Allow thy spirits to be revitalized, go today, and do well thy work at the academy with a cheerful heart and with peace of mind; that thou art not only alive, but living, and livest to make men free.”

“I thank thee, father.”

With renewed enthusiasm and sense of purpose, Clément swiftly finished his breakfast, grabbed his prayer cowl and satchel bag, and was out the monastery doors before the bells could chime the hour.

The courtyard of the Monastery of Saint Guillaume le Paisible was ornamented in only the finest architecture. From the depictions of angels, demons, monsters, and humans in the midst of fierce battle to the astounding faces of young monks praying and pleading, the complex and full-bodied sculptures were nothing short of a large and expansive mural interpreted in stone instead of paint. The main bridge, Le Pont de la Paix, was made completely of stone as well, numerous arches supporting it as it stood over the head of the Saint-Guillaume, acting as an aqueduct as well as a bridge which fed “blessed” water into the very city of La Soleille itself.

The capital was shaking that day with the hustle and bustle of the numerous townsfolk when Clément at last finished crossing. The anticipation of it had been brewing within them for months now, not a day went by where they weren't reminded of it; but now, it had finally come. People were talking about it, posters could be seen on every wall, the thought was on everyone’s mind: the Domain was upon them.

“We need to win this time.”

“The other factions’ve had their way with us for far too long.”

“Forget it. The past half-decades’ selections’ve given us nothin’ but regret; this half-dee ain’t gonna be no different. Mark my words.”

“Hey now. Let’s not throw in the towel just yet.”

“Thirty years’re thirty years, mate. That’s not called ‘throwin’ in the towel’, that’s called ‘lookin’ at the facts’.”

These words and many more emanated from the mouths of the townsfolk as Clément quietly began to make his way to the academy. They spoke angrily, regretfully. It was hard to tell if the grudge they were holding was against the other factions or against themselves; and truth be told, he didn’t very much care to find out.

“Care for a paper, fire Cœurbon? Just a coin.”

Stirring him from his passive listening of the townsfolk’s conversation and stopping him dead in his tracks, Clément looked down to find a young blond-haired boy with a wide smile pulling on his robes with a bag of newspapers at his side.

“Gabriel, how many times must I tell thee? ‘Tis not ‘fire’, ‘tis ‘friar’.”

“Toss a coin and I might just remember that for next time,” responded the young boy, shooting Clément a hopeful glance. He rolled his eyes and plopped a coin in the paperboy’s palm who swiftly handed him one of the newspapers from the stack and ran off cheerily.

“I’d better get back to that myself,” thought Clément; but no sooner had he begun walking that a voice cut through the citizens’ chatter.

“Clément! Clément!”

Turning around quickly to see who was calling him, he found a big, burly man with brown hair, a stout body, and thick beard waving to him from atop his horse drawn wagon.

“Mr. Dubois?”

“Clément, it is you. I mean, of course it’s you. Don’t no one else walk around here dressed for mass on a weekday.”

The horses’ gait was brought to a stop right at Clément’s side, their rider looking down and offering the young man a warm smile before asking:

“Where to? You on your way to the academy?”

“That I am.”

“Hop on. I’ll give you a lift. I’m headed that way anyways.”

Without so much as a word of protest, Clément took his seat next to Mr. Dubois and, with a whip of the reins, they were on their way. Clément shot a look back and took note of the sizable sheet behind them, the silhouette of something unusual detailed in every fold.

“It’s for today’s selection. Your academy commissioned it and I’ve been entrusted with takin’ it there.”

“I see.”

“Will you be at the selection, Cœurbon?”

“Most definitely. I have to be. It’s my duty after all.”

“That and keepin’ us in your prayers, right?”

“That as well.”

“Then do us both a favor, Cœurbon, and start prayin’ this selection goes well for us, lad. I don’t know how much longer I can take havin’ to answer to those other factions.”

“Ye sound...desperate.”

“I am, mate. Six half-dees’ll do that to you. You bought a paper, right?” he asked, motioning to the newspaper still in Clément’s hand. “Read it aloud to me. What’s it say?”

Clément unfolded the paper and immediately had misgivings about sharing any of its information with Mr. Dubois. Tracing the words with his eyes, he bit down on his lower lip in reluctance, his eyebrows pressing down on the space between them.

The Domain of Kings is here! Another half-decade of second-class citizenship for Humanity?

“Nothing ye would like to hear, I’m afraid.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mr. Dubois let out an exhausted sigh.

“Just what you’d expect. Bad enough we’ve been on a thirty year losin’ streak, but now they gotta make sure we don’t ever forget it, either. Even the townsfolk around these parts’ve lost all semblance o’ hope. How do you do it, Cœurbon?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Face them. The angels. The devils. The mystics. The other factions, basically. How’re you able to so easily just coexist with them in the same place, able to just accept how they look down on and mock you?”

“It cometh with being a disciple, I suppose. Humility is par for the course, which is why I believe Father Michel insisted on my enrollment as an ambassador instead of an alumnus.”

“You wouldn’t’ve wanted to be an alumnus anyways, right?” he said, motioning to Clément’s right eye.

He took a moment to put a hand over that darkened pupil, reflecting back on his night terror from this morning.

“Truer words have never been spoken.”

“I don’t blame you. Still so surreal to think ‘bout it was only a year ago that Father Michel brought you here; but I think you’ve adapted quite well to it all, innit? Still, I just wish someone’d come along who could give those other factions a mighty good thrashin’. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“Someone from the academies?”

“No, not them. No offense to you, Clément; but those academy lads just ain’t cut out for nothin’, you know? They’re all snobs who think they’ve won a lot in life just ‘cos mummy and daddy paid to have’m learn how to prance around with a sword and shield in hand. They talk plenty, but talk’s cheap.”

“I see. Then whom would ye have redeem us?”

Mr. Dubois looked up into the sky, a sparkling glint of joy and hope gleaming in his eye.

“Like from stories of old.”

“What say ye?”

“You know the kind, Cœurbon, you know the kind. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the kind o’ lads you’d read ‘bout all the time in old tales. Humble folks from small, insignificant hamlets. The kind who go ‘bout their day, never doin’ nothin’ to no one, gettin’ stepped on and pushed around by everybody else, till one day: bam! It turns out they’re the chosen one! It turns out they’re the one who’s been called by fate to save the day and free the people! And they do it! They defeat the oppressors and mock those conceited, pretentious rich folk right in their stupid faces! That’s the kind o’ person we need, mate! Someone who could rock this whole status quo nonsense right to its core, flip the table over, and turn the whole world upside-fuckin’-down!”

His blood racing and his hair standing on end, he looked back to Clément and found him staring back at him with a surprised gaze and a wide smile.

“You’re laughin’ at me, innit?”

“What? No, no. I would never.”

“Yes you are, Cœurbon, don’t lie to me. Everyone does.”

“Then ‘tis a good thing I’m not ‘everyone’, hm?”

“D’you think I dream too big?”

“Better is it to dream too big than not to dream at all.”

“Ha ha! See? That’s why I like you, Cœurbon. Nevertheless, maybe I’m just crazy after all. Maybe I should just accept things as they are. At best, maybe my hero’s only ever gonna exist in my big dreams.”

“Well, I’d not say all that.”

“Oh?”

“La Soleille is a big city. Lérèves, an even bigger kingdom. And the world beyond, even bigger than that. Who knoweth truly? Mayhaps your hero truly is out there somewhere. Mayhaps they are already here amongst us; watching the world; waiting to answer the call; biding their time until destiny bringeth them forth.”

“You think so?”

“With all my heart, Mr. Dubois. As I said: the world is huge; expansive; infinite in all its possibilities; and we know not always what surprises lie in store for us.”

“Hm. I s’pose you’re right, lad. I s’pose you’re right. I always do like havin’ a chat with you. Makes the time go by quicker. Speakin’o which: we are now arriving at The Mixed Academy of La Soleille. Please check your surroundings before exiting the vehicle so as to ensure no personal belongings are left behind. Thank you very much for choosing Dubois Transport. We wish you a pleasant stay.”

Clément couldn’t help but chuckle as Mr. Dubois gave him his best steward send-off and, following his recommendation, made sure to leave nothing behind as he stepped off toward the hallowed gates of the esteemed institution.

The gates were at least four meters high and seven across, forged in sparkling silver as to emulate the very doors of that heavenly paradise reserved for solely the most pious of persons. Nevertheless, what caught the eyes was neither the doors nor the sacrosanct location to which they alluded, but rather that which laid beyond them. On the other side, in the academy’s courtyard, stood the statues of the school’s three greatest alumni: Reinhardt von Eisenzähnen with his ferrous fangs and massive claws, the harrowing harbinger of ceaseless bloodshed to the mystics who drew out the ravenous cries of carnage and brutality from within the spectators’ hearts when his fearsome dances took place; Cynthia Flameheart, the angel she-warrior of legend whose mighty wings could turn the air around her person to fire and shining embers with nought but a swift motion and for whom the angelic choirs of her sisters sang songs of war and holy victory; and lastly, taller and greater than any of them, Sébastien du Léviathan, with his flowing sapphire hair and impressive stature, his massive shield and satan-lance which pierced the ribs of thousands, a devil as gorgeous as he was deadly to each and every foe across which he came, with his. Yet beyond even these, standing under a humble arch in the very back, confined to but a small box, was the statue of the academy’s very founder and patron saint of La Soleille, the same patron saint from whose monastery Clément had stepped out only a few moments earlier: Saint Guillaume le Paisible.

At the feet of the three warriors, many alumni and fans had laid gifts before their marble memorials, each one pertaining to the customs and norms of their factions. Halos spun in the purest of gold for fair Lady Flameheart, the fangs of fallen comrades at the pedestal of the iron Reinhardt, the finest of jewels and perfumes all about Sébastien; but it seemed there was no offering of remembrance for the humble, little Guillaume. Nought was at the pedestal of his memorial save for the empty air and shallow atmosphere of a long and hated streak of defeats and humiliations. Had his spirit abandoned his people? Was the saint now doomed to have his name rot away in a cold and unforgiving oblivion? Yet feeling a weight of pity growing heavy in his very heart, Clément looked into the mortal’s marble visage and spoke with none other than the wind around to be his audience.

“Thy people cry out for a deliverer, Guillaume. Their hearts are troubled sorely and have grown stiff as stones with the weight of thy death. Nevertheless, ‘tis only just that thou shouldst find now respite amongst the company of the Most High and his saints; but please remember us from atop thy perch in the heavens, to pray for us and keep us, that we may be granted peace and that men should be spared such fates as are so gruesome and violent as thine own was. Always was it thy wish solemn that we should forge a future free of our own spilled blood and to look forward in love and brotherhood. Oh, good Guillaume, may it please the Lord to see thy dream incarnated upon our world, that we should be joined in the sanctity of our One and Common Father.”

“Well, aren’t we the lordly poet?” came a voice from beside him. She was indeed no statue, yet it would have been pardoned of any and every man to think she was first forged of marble or gold before flesh. She stood a head taller than Clément, crimson hair flowing like a living cascade around her, yet her eyes were as green and vibrant as meadows, and upon her visage she wore a smile to dazzle even the fiercest of monsters. A beauty such as hers was not something ever granted to the human species. No, hers was a higher lineage; and theirs was a more personal history.

“Good morrow, Dominique.”

“Good morrow, good disciple. Findest thyself well?” she asked, chuckling at him. “I hope you’ll take no offense to my banter, Clémy. I’m still just so fond of your manner of speech, after all. Not to mention that it’s a most uncommon sight to see anyone, even a human, praying at the foot of this little fellow.”

“No offense taken. I thank you for your kind words.”

“Always a pleasure to give credit where it is due. And judging by your appearance, you’ve just arrived from the monastery, haven’t you?”

“I am.”

“If you’ll not mind my inquiry, how’re you feeling about this afternoon’s selection?”

“Our faith resteth on the souls. Besides, ‘tis not my place, neither as an ambassador nor as a disciple, to have an opinion about such an event.”

At this, she could only let out her playful laughter.

“No wonder the others call you ‘Cœurbon’. Appropriate, to say the least. And an ambassador no less. I suppose of all the people who should seek to establish a halcyon connection between the factions, a disciple would be the most fitting for the task; but I nevertheless question the chances of success of your mission. After all, we’re both well aware of the fact that we’ve not gotten along since the day our worlds crossed.”

“Yet we’ve made great strides, have we not? Were this another time, another day, under a different sky and a different sun, a conversation such as this would never take place. In this, we bear witness to our progress.”

“I suppose that’s a fair assessment. But I often question just what forces push said progress.”

“What are ye saying?”

Another chuckle escaped her lips as she took a step closer to Clément.

“I’m saying that the facts speak for themselves, don’t they? Knowing victory is completely and utterly out of your grasp, the only thing left for you to do is to kneel and pray from the very bottom of your hearts that the factions can one day learn to live in peace before your very own is exterminated. It’s quite a sad sight to see, I must confess. To watch as humanity’s drive and tenacity are torn from its very chest and tossed to the wayside.”

She directed her eyes back toward the memorials of the three warriors.

 “What you lack isn’t the proper soul to pick the proper person. No, what you lack is someone determined to be the hero with the drive, the tenacity, the sheer will to take what this world isn’t willing to give you. You need a messiah of your own. The mystics have Reinhardt, the angels: Lady Cynthia, and we devils: my great grandfather Sébastien; but you? All you have is a pitiful, little martyr standing wearily in an unmarked box, forgotten to time, and never to be remembered, not even among his own kind despite his sacrifice. It’s a sad sight to see, you know? To think his life and ministry should now be met with disdain by all save for a chosen few who still cling onto it. As for the rest of you, Heaven knows there’s nothing more pathetic than a dog whose fight has been beaten out of it.”

His eyes traveled from her face and back to the empty floor of Guillaume’s pedestal.

“The fight, mayhaps. But not yet the hope--no, what beateth in the chest of my people cannot be called ‘hope’. My people cling steadfastly to their spite, to the chance that glory and rulership may be ours again. Yet if such a thing, born of so cruel a sentiment, should come to pass and we should find ourselves once more on the throne, I would ask that we put an end to our disputes. After all, if verily we are all the work of that same loving and caring God, I would think it only right that we should strive for peaceful cohabitation such as has never been known by us.”

“Work of the same God, yes; but I’m afraid you’re mistaken if you think he is either loving or caring. So long as determination exists, there will be war. So long as two sides want the same thing for different reasons, there will be battle and blood; but this, Clément, is neither evil nor sinful. It’s simply the way things are, the nature of our very existences; and the sooner you accept them, the sooner you can start taking back what belongs to you.”

In a way, he had to painfully admit she was somewhat correct. Putting so much reliance on the selections was foolish. If a good soul wasn’t ever going to pick one of them, then better to compensate in another area. It was just more logical that way. But, oh, how logic escapes us when we have our backs against the wall.

“In a way, I see your point.”

“Of course you d--”

“However, whether war be simply our nature or our response to nature itself is a separate matter entirely. For I will certainly tell you this much, Dominique: if the fight can be beaten out of a dog, it can be beaten out of a myriad of other things as well; and for all their size and grandeur, the legacy of those warriors--even that of your very ancestor who standeth taller and prouder than any of them--is too relegated to nothing more than a statue. Eventually, their youth left them, their bones became brittle, their flesh waxed old, and even their fight was beaten out of them. This fate share we all: that death respecteth neither devil, angel, mystic, nor man. Whether conceived of flesh weak and doomed to decay in time or of higher elements which we mortal men are unfit to decipher or understand, this much has been shown to be true: that the grave consumeth all unto perfection with neither prejudice, preference, pomp, nor predilection.”

It was now her looking into the eyes of him, his stare turned to steel as it seemed his pupils were gazing at something behind the statue of little Guillaume.

“I suppose I will agree with you there. Though we are higher beings, I guess it’s only a fair observation to say we all die the same. But,” she interjected, raising a finger and breaking his gaze to make him look at her, “context is everything, is it not? Some of us die nobly, idealistically, in splendor and handsome glory,” she said to him, turning to the statue of her great grandfather. “And others die sadly, with their knees bent, tears in their eyes, fear in their voices, and hands over their hearts,” she added, now gesturing to Saint Guillaume. “And If you ask me, that makes all the difference. Yet, if you will still disagree with me, I will ask you this: if you were an alumnus instead of an ambassador, if it was you out there on the sand with your life on the line and you knew you were beyond all hope, would you go out fighting until your dying breath, refusing to give up until the life had been torn from within you, or would you resign yourself to the sepulcher and die quietly?”

“...”

She chuckled at his wordless response.

“You needn’t answer me now, of course, or ever, for that matter. After all, unless you could prove it on the battlefield, any answer you give me would be, at best, a hopeful--or I suppose in your case: spiteful--guess, would it not?”

He thought back to the dream he had had that very morning. But no, that life was behind him now. And he would never return to--

 

DONG, DONG, DONG

 

--the bell chimed thrice.

“Three times. It’s for you,” she responded, looking at Clément.

“Aye, that it is.”

“A pity, and the conversation was getting good, too.”