Day 152

Day 152

“Dear Victor,

I'm afraid I can't answer that question.  The armor is utilitarian, true, in that it can turn away blows.  As well, it's a symbol, also.  The breastplate, like the shield, has always symbolized protection.  And, of course, the seals and medals upon it speak of rank, station, honors, and so on.

I can certainly understand your position.  My own armor is something I don with pride whenever there is a reason for it, such as the occasional function I'm asked to attend.  The parades, I'll admit, would not be quite so satisfying without the looks filled with wonder cast toward the collection of honors I've accrued over a lifetime of service.  More than that, though, are the warm smiles and nods – the sort of passive, socially acceptable thanks that are offered from those who remember the war, and want me to know that they're grateful for the part I played in giving them their current lives and livelihoods.  Thirty pounds still feels as light as a feather with that sort of knowledge bolstering me.

Perhaps this isn't really relevant to your question, though, and there is no one there who truly appreciates your service.  I cannot say.  As well, perhaps the civilian garb is better able to help you in fulfilling your duties in Min.  I cannot say.  Forgive me – it seems to me a waste that I've lived so long yet, at times, it feels I've so little wisdom to impart.

I was speaking with Ember this morning.  Sharpest edge in the armory, that girl.  It seems to me that her energy is rather infectious, or else perhaps seeing her about, smiling at her work reminds me of the time when I had such a spark in me.  If she doesn't surpass me in time, I shall be as shocked as anyone.  She speaks of you often, and insisted that the next time we communicated that I tell you that she intends to visit sometime.

I daresay that she fancies you.  It's not my place to say, I know, but a fellow could do vastly worse.

If pressed (and I feel I ought to be, as I can't say that I've helped you at all in any of my rambling thoughts). I'd say that it's not about them.  Monsters will be what that are no matter what any of us do.  Over my many years of living, a sort of thought has ever been at the back of my mind, slowly forming.  It's the importance of humanity being on a sort of journey.  That we are on a path toward a perfection somewhere between personal and racial, and that it should never be denied or hidden.  We proved around the time of your birth that we are greater than the obstacles placed before us on this path.

So then, my advice is this: If the truth is an obstacle, do not avoid it, but overcome it.

I can only, and sincerely, hope that any of this has helped you at all.

Adrian Moore”

“Why do you come here to read your letters?”
I fold the paper and glance at the pink-haired fey.  “I just feel like it, I suppose.”
She smiles at that.  As though I'd said some droll joke.
“Anything interesting?”  The succubus doesn't bother looking up from its meal to ask.
“Not to you, no.”
“Fair enough.”

The dessert, a sort of honey-soaked cake with walnuts, clings to my fork seemingly more out of stickiness than any sort of structural integrity.
“So what's on your mind, paladin?  You've been looking thoughtful all meal.”
“I'm deciding what to wear tonight.”
The two of them both snort in amusement, and the succubus finally looks up at me.  “What, are we meeting someone under the full moon?”  Barely a half-second passes before its amused expression shifts into a cringe, and it adds “Gods, I hope not.  That'd be uncomfortable as all hells for the poor girl.  Romantic meeting under the moonlight with no chance at all of getting any?  I'm getting blue ovaries just thinking about it.”

I stare at it for a moment.

“What color would they normally-”
“It's an expression,” the bright blue monster answers, tersely.

---

“I swear, if I had the time I'd only ever eat at the hall.  I haven't seen a single eatery that isn't chock full of monster.  And nothing's worse than having to look at that when you eat.”
I watch James as he idly rambles on.  I can't say that I mind, but it does seem that talking is just what he does to pass the time.  I doubt even he's paying too much attention to what he says; if he did, he wouldn't have time to focus on anything else.  “I've seen you eat out, though.”
“Well, yeah, I can do it.  I can eat at a crime scene, too.  Doesn't mean I wanna.”  He looks over my way.  “I guess it's easier for you, though.”  I can't tell if it's a question or not.
“Not really, no.  It raises my blood pressure.”
“Bad for the digestion, is it?”
“Something like that.”

“Still,” he starts after a while, “I think it's gotta be somewhat easier, right?  Just seeing pretty women everywhere?”  His gaze is cast out around the various sidewalks where a handful of monsters are getting from point A to point B, and glancing warily my way as they do.
“Thinking that the grass is greener on the other side?”
“Not really.  I wouldn't give this up for anything.  Just wondering.”
We continue walking for a while before I answer “Maybe it is.  Maybe it isn't.”  It's not really an answer at all, but I guess I don't have one.

We return our attention to our meals for a brief time.  His eyes wander throughout the meal, constantly if passively keeping track of the various monsters in the room and what they're doing.  I wonder if he's better about that than most.  I wonder if, perhaps, I'm worse than most, and if so if it's because I have nothing to worry over.  Healthy fear can sharpen your wits, after all.
Another question appears in my mind, as though it had bubbled up from some quieter, less noticeable thought.  It seems somehow more important than the others.

“Do you see when they bleed?”
He looks up from his meal, and for a brief moment there's a sort of incomprehension.  “Oh.  Yeah, I do.  Never know what color I'll get when it's coming out.”
“When it's coming out?”
“Oh yeah.”  He forks another piece of fish into his mouth and only barely chews before adding “Once it's just blood on the floor, the sight doesn't change it anymore.  It's just red, then.”

The rest of the meal is quiet, though we find random topics to amuse ourselves with.  Halfway through my fish filet I remember my focus word and focus my sight as I look around myself at the  twisted and horrible forms of the abominations.  Black lumps of clotted blood  force their way through veins that rest on, rather than under skin.  Eyes – too many to count – shift slightly as the maggot-like masses in and around them squirm.  Gelatinous flesh grips a fork and lifts a piece of meat up and into a blistering wound on its necrotic flesh.

I set the fork back down on my plate for a moment.  James doesn't, though.  He continues on, idly enjoying his meal, in spite of seeing that.  Perhaps it's all just acclimation.

I briefly wonder if I'd be the same, if the purity of sight had become permanent for me, also.

---

I stare at my open closet.  The same ritual I've gone through every other full moon.  Deciding.

The silver shield bearing the image of a palm tree gleams in what little light shines past me and into my closet.  The service emblem telling all who understand its meaning that I am dedicated to restoring the paladins of this age to the glory of old.
Do I want to satisfy my own desires, or do I want to more effectively cleanse the blight from this land.  Is it pure selfishness on my part to want to be seen for what I am.  Is it a form of laziness, or worse, weakness, to take the path of less bloodshed.  These aren't questions anymore.  They were when first I'd considered them, but now they simply pass through my mind.  Present more by rote repetition than by some belief that I might find an answer by considering them.

It's fatiguing just to go through the well worn mental paths, and ultimately I reach for the hoodie simply because of inertia.

---

The rounds are relatively quiet tonight.  By which I mean I'm afforded at least a half-hour's stroll on average before something tries to ruin my existence for its own appetite.  I drew the long straw; the interior of the wall furthest from the docks.  I suppose it takes the things longer to walk here, is the reason they're relatively fewer.  Either that or the humans are less used to having to look at them, so they're made to feel as welcome as they are.

House after house slips into alley after alley, and little cul-de-sacs barely travel three houses' distance before circling back around.  It's inefficient, but there's a pleasantly homely quality to the chaos.  These homes were made before anyone thought to plan out cities, so there's no overarching layout or order.  Just people who've made their lives in what they'd thought would be a peaceful fishing village.

It's as I walk down the sidewalk in the quiet, pleasant side of Min that I look down one of the smaller roads and see the corpse.  There's no denying that's what it is, no moment's pause to see if there might still be some chance of saving a life.  No, the shredded piece of wing and feathers that's been separated from the body tells me that I'm looking at a harpy.  Bloody gobbets of meat and bone have been strewn for yards in each direction.  It's like it fell from a height – but it wasn't.  It was simply forced into the ground at the same speed.

Leading away from the body is a trail of red, ending barely three feet away at the sitting, curled-up figure of a werewolf.  The fur on its forearms is matted down with blood, all the way up to the elbow.  The stains cover its midsection and have seeped fully into the shreds it wears.  It looks at me, not with fear or lust.  Light glimmers off of her cheeks in thin lines.

“You killed it?”  My voice is flat.  Confusion doesn't suit me.
It shudders violently.  Its breath comes and goes either too deeply, or else in the shortest bursts, but not inbetween.  It finally nods its head.
“Why?”
It falls silent again, curling up more tightly into itself.
“You know what comes next, don't you?”
Silence, for a moment, but then it nods its head.  In the light of the full moon, I can see it shivering.

There's a pneumatic hiss, and it starts.  “I'm issuing you a summary exile, miss, for the murder of a citizen of Megalos.  You have been tagged, and now have twenty-four hours to gather your belongings and make your way to a gate.  After that point, you will be found and you will be forcefully taken.  Any men accompanying you will be thoroughly inspected for coercion, magical or mundane.”  It stares at the tuft of red sticking out of its arm, and then at me.
“But, I,” it trails off.
“You betrayed one of your own.  You're a monster; it's what your kind do.  Or do you think I should kill you all for your own foul natures?”  I pause for a moment as it stares at me.  “Trust me, I've thought about it.”

“I didn't want to do it,” I hear, faintly, as it whispers into its knees.
“But you did.”
Silence, then “I didn't have a choice.”
“Really.  Well, I wish I could use that excuse.  'Yes sir, I had to kill all eighty of them.  No choice at-”
“He said he'd love me!”  For a second her face is turned fully toward me.  The salt stains have spread to cover the whole of her cheeks, and her sobbing has forced drool down her chin.

And then I recognize it.

“You poor, disgusting thing.”  Its body is wracked with another quiet sob at that.

“He could never love one of you.”