In his bedchambers, Sir Guillemagne Lysandrios de Lothaire combs the tangles of yesterday out of his too-thick, too-long clumps of hair. He never enjoyed maintaining it, but when Damali was present it was, at least, less of a chore and more of a pleasure. He remembers when she brought him gifts to lessen the monotony of this daily task; a bottle of rose-water perfume, a scented soft lye soap, a long-handled lacquer-wood brush. The brush especially is a splendid thing, intricately carved with curving motifs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl — it must have cost the Saintess quite a pretty penny, but it is worth every last copper coin.

The Saintess! What a wonderful friend she was. Guillemagne thinks of her fondly as he excises the last snarls of tangled hair. She was always ready to help others, to give selflessly and humbly… She wanted nothing in return, demurring her rewards as much as she could, never asking for more; despite her many eccentricities, Guillemagne always knew Damali was a good woman at heart.

Perhaps one day, upon his deathbed, Guillemagne would see her again, and they would laugh together once more like they did at the beginning of his strange, strange adventure… but that would be a long, long time henceforth, and thinking about it now would do him no good.

Guillemagne sets the hairbrush down. He runs his fingers through his newly-detangled hair, and finds it satisfactory. He stands up and continues to inspect himself in a full-body mirror. His armor bears no stains, and his face is, happily, neither paralyzed nor petrified by any curses. He stretches each limb until he is sure that they are moving properly. Thus, his morning routine is complete, and he is free to go outside.

During the morning’s patrol, Guillemagne purchases a pastry from a nearby bakery, taking this opportunity to break his nightly fast. It is a flaky, buttery horn filled with a nutty, sugary paste, and he savors every bite of it. He tips the baker an extra gold coin, which she accepts with gratitude (after he refused to take it back when she asked).

Guillemagne continues making the rounds through Lothariton; the rest of the routine continues uneventfully. After changing shifts with the Mayor’s guard, he heads to one of the local outposts of the Blacksmiths’ Guild.

“This may sound like a strange request, but…” 

Guillemagne details his unusual desires to Mimir the blacksmith, the only person not yet off for lunch. The blacksmith scratches her head. 

“A four-pronged eating-pick?” Mimir looks back to the forge and anvil, knowing not to refuse a client. “As thou wishest, Sir Lothaire…”

And thus he obtains a “fork” with which to eat his lunch with. Guillemagne takes his new procurement into a nearby restaurant, and orders a hearty meal of mushroom pasties and sauced steak. He finds that the “fork’s” stability aids him muchly in the eating process; for this, he inwardly thanks Sir Clark for introducing him to such a thing.

After the meal Guillemagne ventures back outside, into the golden afternoon light. Lothariton looks more beautiful than ever. He smiles at his handiwork — he hopes the Goddess, wherever in the afterlife she is, is smiling back with pride for him.

The village is so safe, in fact, that parents aren’t against allowing their precious children to roam the streets unsupervised. Usually, they would be gathered in large groups, but today there is only a solitary boy playing with a stick-and-hoop on the cobblestone roads.

Guillemagne engages in idle talk with the boy, a paternal feeling rising within his breast. This is the peace that he has worked so hard to defend. This is…

A sudden acrid smell explodes into the air; a cloud of smoke whirls around Guillemagne and the child — it takes him too long, far too long, to realize what is happening.

“Get back!” 

Standing in the smoke before Guillemagne is a pointy-eared man a few inches taller than him, sporting ash-white hair, sickly blue skin, and silver-framed glasses with retainer chains drooping from either arm. His robes are thick, flowing over a lithe and spidery body in sinuous, weeping layers — doubtless he has imbued each and every piece of clothing with some powerful enchantment. In the noon daylight, his spectacles acquire an otherworldly sheen.

This bespectacled elfin is none other than the Demon King’s left-hand-lackey, Karmellan Tarantz — the highest strategist in the demon army, and a fearsome fighting force in direct combat. Why would this fiend be anywhere near Lothariton when his master had no more need of it? The bastard in charge of him was long-dead, and Tarantz could have absconded as soon as the news spread — why, in fact, the daemon’s intelligence should have compounded upon any pre-existing cowardice!

Guillemagne manages a cordial smile as the child cowers behind him. “What brings ye here, Sir Tarantz?” 

“Spare me the games, Guillemagne de Lothaire.” Tarantz stretches out a bony hand, pointing at Guillemagne’s face. “I have an ultimatum for you.”

“Oh?”

“You are planning to flee this world; I will accompany you.”

How does he know that? Quickly, Guillemagne, quickly — he must not know of your plans! Say something!

“Dost thou think me mad, Tarantz?! Are we not still enemies? Why would I ever allow thee to follow me?” Guillemagne shakes his head, staring firmly at the pointed hand.

“My superior is dead. No reason remains for us to continue quarreling. I simply wish to advance the pursuit of my studies, and a new environment would be the most beneficial place to do so.” Karmellan’s pointing hand flexes outward, into a beckoning gesture. “I advise that you accept this offer.”

This damned rat! No doubt he would betray anyone above him! “Sir Tarantz, what will ye do if I reject thine proposal?”

Karmellan retracts his outstretched hand. 

“If you deny my offer, de Lothaire,” says Tarantz, reaching for something underneath his cloak, “I shall resort to more extreme measures to achieve my goals.”

“Such as?”

“If I cannot escape this dying world — naught else can be allowed to.”

Guillemagne pushes the child away and leaps forward; attempting to tackle Tarantz to the ground before the sorcerer casts whatever insidious spell he has in mind. Tarantz grunts as he fires a blast of silver light, which glances ineffectively off Guillemagne’s armor. 

“Some foul, insipid wretch, thou are’st!” Guillemagne shouts, drawing his sword. “Fight with some chivalry, at the very least!”

The mad sorcerer Tarantz says nothing; he is busy whispering another curse under his breath. 

Guillemagne interrupts his enemy with a sword slash to the neck, aiming to decapitate the maniac and end the battle swiftly. The slash, like Tarantz’s spell, glances off a hard surface — a layer of condensed magic.

The sorcerer smirks. “I’m surprised you fell for that again, Guillemagne.”

“Bastard!” 

Again, again, a flurry of slashes from the infuriated knight. His ward, the young boy, has long since sensed the danger, having run back to safety at the earliest chance.

Guillemagne stumbles backwards in a daze. That damned mage! None of the hero’s blows can reach him. He must remember to bring stronger equipment during his patrols — such weakness cannot happen again!

“I will be merciful. Your end will be swift.”

Tarantz holds out both his hands. He’s preparing another deadly spell — this time, however, Guillemagne knows just how to counter it.

A rapid swing hacks off one of Tarantz’s hands. Blood spurts out of the open wound, splashing onto the cobblestone road and seeping into its cracks. “Impressive,” says the general. “But not enough.”

Thus begins a deadly dance; both combatants improvising the steps, rehearsing as they perform. Tarantz may be strong, but Guillemagne will, once and for all, vanquish this demon — for once and for all!

Left, right, left, right. Strike, guard, dodge, repeat. Both of them are tiring of the constant pressure. 

Sooner or later this war of attrition must end — Guillemagne must ensure he emerges as the victor — else everything he has strived so hard to defend will crumble to dust… but if he must, he shall create the opportunity to strike for himself. He feints to one side, leading Tarantz in that direction —

This! Seize the chance, Guillemagne — this is your only opening!

The hero aims his sword at his opponent’s chest. With great force, he drives the blade into Tarantz’s chest — through the fabrics and the magics, past the skin and between the ribs, striking true all the way down to the heart — 

Guillemagne’s sword pierces through the elfin as if skewering a piece of meat.

Karmellan’s eyes widen, showing stark white. “Fool,” He mutters. A thin stream of mana dribbles down his chin. “You remind me too much of him.”

Him.

“My king, I…” Tarantz’s eyeballs loll backwards. 

The elfin’s sentence goes unfinished as he dissolves into concentrated mana; particles dissipate through the air and diffuse into Sir de Lothaire, penetrating every inch of him through the armor. 

Guillemagne hears exactly what the dead mage would have said —

“My king, I have failed you.”