CHAPTER 1 - PART 4

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.”