When Heroes Die

“Wisdom is the anticipation of consequences. That’s why whenever I burn the enemy’s fields, I make sure to salt the ground.”

– Dread Emperor Terribilis I, the Thorough

We had been on the road for five days now. Communications were still a problem. On the first day, we had stopped in a small town. Once there, Olivier had helped me negotiate for some ill-fitting clothes.

That stopover had convinced me that the Earth I was on was one stuck sometime in the past.

Dirt roads, ramshackle buildings and the pervasive smell of shit was enough to sell me on the idea that I wasn’t going to be seeing a city like Chicago again soon. Actually internalizing that was likely to take some time.

Since then, we had passed through some larger hamlets on the way to our destination. It was, according to Olivier, a town called Beaumarais. When I had asked him why he was going out of his way to help me, he had grown frustrated trying to explain it. It had something to do with the condition in which he had found me. He didn’t have the right words to explain why.

Being stuck in a place where I didn’t speak the local language had instilled an ugly sense of loneliness in me that I hadn’t felt since Winslow.

Either way, I had decided to place my trust in him. He had an easy-going nature that made it hard not to like him. I had learned a little about him, as we journeyed on. As far as I could tell, he worked as a peddler of some kind. He travelled around and sold goods in the many small villages that littered the countryside. He was also fortunately literate and had taken to teaching me the written word using handwritten texts in his possession.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do now.

For years, I had had the end of the world as something to work towards averting. Nothing I did now would ever compare to that in importance. In a sense, it felt to me like my life was already over, and now I could have some peace.

It was both stifling and liberating at the same time.

Being stuck in a place still hundreds of years behind Earth Bet with one arm, left me feeling even more lost. I wasn’t sure what job prospects I even had. At least this world didn’t seem to have as strongly engrained gender stereotypes as I would have expected it to. That was one relief I hadn’t been counting on.

Perhaps, I could work as some kind of teacher or scribe.

Unfortunately, that would rely on me having time to learn the local language, both written and spoken, in much greater detail.

The countryside gradually became more rugged as we journeyed onwards. We were no longer surrounded by featureless plains. Small hills and valleys were the norm now. They were coated in green, and looming in the distance were much larger mountains. The roads were much busier here, and we were no longer the lone travellers on the country path. I wondered what it was that made this place more lively.

The closer we came to arriving, the glummer Olivier seemed to become. His shoulders seemed to hunch in on themselves, and his responses to questions became more terse. I wondered what it was about his home that caused that kind of reaction.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, in broken Chantant.

There was a pause before he responded.

“No, I just don’t like being home.”

Water vapour frosted the cool morning air as he spoke. Each day we travelled, the sun rose just a little later. Winter was on its way.

“Can you tell me why?”

He turned his head my way and glowered. “It’s a family matter.”

I felt my face flush and I turned away.

Of course, whatever problem he has at home is private, Taylor. Think.

I was about to try apologizing, when he started to talk again. “I’ve been fighting with my brother about a girl.”

That was my interpretation of what he said. It was spoken in Chantant.

It took a few tries explaining for him to get his meaning across. The actual wording was more flowery. It was something about their connection being bruised. Olivier had a way of talking around topics without ever stating what he meant directly. It both amused and frustrated me at the same time. It meant I was receiving a crash course on the local metaphors, but each sentence took minutes of explanation to deconstruct.

The meaning was still the same.

A gnawing feeling of guilt welled up in my chest at the thought of his issues at home. A reminder that I hadn’t properly said goodbye to my dad. A reminder of how I had left matters unfinished with Brian. Before I had even realized what I was saying, I had begun to talk.

“You should try to talk it out with your brother,” I told him quietly.

He looked like he was about to argue. Then he paused, examining my face carefully.

“My mother died when I was young. Several years later, I did some things that made a bad break between me and my dad. We never managed to fix our -” I cut off, not knowing the right word. Frustrated, I tried to come up with an alternative.

“Relationship,” he added sombrely.

“We never managed to fix our relationship before I ended up here. You never know when things will end, so it is better to try to mend them early.” I finished, stumbling through my speech in half mangled sentences. I hoped I managed to convey my meaning properly.

He remained still for a moment, then nodded his head. “I will think on it.” The matter was left there.

The journey continued. The rattling of the wheels on the uneven ground and the plodding of the mules being the only sounds to break up the silence. It was restful in a way that I hadn’t truly expected it to be. Time continued to pass. The sun reached its zenith, then started to wane. We came to a stop. We halted in the shade of a gnarled tree, its canopy shielding us from the light.

Olivier unharnessed the mules, giving them a chance to rest. I helped bring out the tools to cook our meals, although I wasn’t much involved in the process itself. I had tried to help once, two days before. After tasting what I had made, the glare he had sent my way had convinced me to drop the matter entirely.

Apparently, he didn’t believe I could cook properly. Having had to cook for myself for years, I felt somewhat affronted by this. We didn’t have any proper ingredients around, so I couldn’t prove him wrong.

“What did you do?” He asked me in patchwork English.

He had been making the effort to learn it as well. When I had asked him why, it was apparently because he liked to learn, it didn’t really matter how useful what he was learning was.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“What work did you do?” He elaborated.

This was the first time he was asking me a question about my life before he met me. I thought for a moment about how to answer it.

How do I even translate law enforcement?

Talking about powers was out of the question. I didn’t have the right words to explain them and even if I did, I didn’t think it was a smart idea. How would I even explain something like the unwritten rules or the reasons not to unmask capes to someone living in a society so different to my own?

Even if I wanted to tell him about powers, I could no longer demonstrate my own. No, better to leave powers out of it entirely. After some consideration, I found something that I thought would work.

“I was paid to use tools like this dagger to stop people from cutting others,” I explained, pointing towards the dagger in question.

He nodded, as if he expected the answer. Then he said a word I didn’t recognize. Soldier or guard, I guessed. Considering all of my scarring, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had guessed something like that already.

“Tell me about some of the fights you fought.”

I grimaced, thinking about which ones I could talk about without making them sound implausible. Noticing that I seemed to be unhappy with the topic, he changed it.

“What was your home like?”

This was a much safer topic. He had struggled to explain where he had found me, although it had sounded like part of a modern city. I had no idea how it was transported to this world, but that was a question for later. However it happened, it made explaining what Brockton Bay was like much easier. And so I started to talk.

It was nice to talk about the bay with someone who had absolutely no frame of reference. Someone who, when I described the sights on the boardwalk or gave little anecdotes about the best places to go to avoid trouble, had their face light up with interest. On Bet, it didn’t matter who you talked about the Bay with, it was seen as an example of a herald of what was to come. A bell that was tolling the inevitable coming of the collapse.

I didn’t mention the portal to Gimel to Olivier. I wasn’t even sure how to describe it. Although it was seen as an important milestone for our survival, I didn’t feel like it was an important part of who we were as Brocktonites. Eventually, I trailed off wistfully. Clouds overhead blocked out the stars, and the fire was the only light we had to see by.

“How many people lived there?” He asked.

I frowned. We had covered basic arithmetic already, although I didn’t know the words for these numbers in Chantant. I picked up a stick. In the dirt on the ground, I scrawled three-hundred thousand and four-hundred thousand, respectively.

“Between this,” I pointed to the first number, “and that,” and then I pointed to the second number.

“Is this one of the larger cities to exist where you came from?”

“Not really. It was one of the smaller cities where I lived,” I replied absently.

Olivier went still at that, that topic of conversation dying there.

“That stone, what is it?” I asked, pointing to an engraved rock he was holding right before we went to sleep.

Every night he performed the same series of actions. He would take it out and go through some sort of ritual. When dawn came, he would put it away again. I suspected it was a part of his religion. I didn’t want to offend him and ask about something everyone was expected to know here. However, my curiosity had finally won out.

He paused. His face scrunched up the way it did when I knew he was trying to think of a way to explain something to me. Then, he pointed about forty feet away, “Walk there,” he instructed.

“Why?” I inquired, puzzled.

“It’s easier to show you, than to talk.” He replied.

Intrigued. I did so. He finished performing the same sequence of actions he always did, then he told me to move closer. Thirty feet away from the stone, it let out a shrill scream.

What was that?

I suppressed the urge to react, completely taken by surprise. Clearly it was an alarm of some sort, designed to warn if someone came too close. Was this some strange form of technology? Suddenly filled with questions, I began to interrogate him.

The more he explained, the less it made sense. My first thought had been that they had some form of parallel technology to Bet. Unfortunately, the descriptions he used for how the stone functioned didn’t seem to fit. It sounded more like magic than science to me. In my mind, that put it firmly in the realm of something made by tinkers.

To my frustration, he admitted that making objects like the stone was a skill that could only be learned by people with the gift. I wasn’t sure what that was. He didn’t have this gift, although his brother did. If I wanted to learn more, I would need to speak with him. Eventually, I got the sense he wanted to drop the subject and put it off for later.

“There is always tomorrow,” he told me, amused.

“If you’re worried about people, isn’t it better if we take turns awake?” I asked.

“This part of Bayeux has been left alone by the civil war,” he replied dismissively. That wasn’t as reassuring as he seemed to think it was.

“And you are sure we will be safe?” I was dubious.

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” he reaffirmed.

Against my better judgement, I decided to trust his opinion on the matter.

We turned in for the night. Him, asleep by the dying light of the fire once more, and me on the wagon. When I had asked why he chose not to sleep on the wagon, he informed me he preferred not to.

I was awoken by the wail of a banshee.

Enbringer attack?

No, this wasn’t Bet. It was the alarm, I realized.

Struggling to come to my senses, I opened my eyes. Looking around for something to use, I spotted one of those fancy engraved poles that seemed to sell so well. I grabbed it just a few fingers short of the base. I didn’t have time to fumble around with the sheath of the dagger in the dark if we were soon to be attacked, so it would have to do.

Then I climbed to my feet. Stumbled my way to the front of the cart. Dismounted, then looked around, careful not to look directly at the remnants of the fire.

Three figures approached. They dashed towards us with weapons drawn. Shortswords, by the looks of things. The one in the middle carried a torch in their other hand. Had that been different, I may have responded without immediately resorting to violence. Considering the circumstances, I couldn’t afford to hesitate. Olivier was still coming to his senses and, as much as it stung, I was likely to need his help.

My pole had longer reach, and I couldn’t allow them to close. I swung from right to left, aiming for the leftmost figure. He was the shortest and the one I figured I was most likely able to do something about. I couldn’t put much force behind the attack with only one arm.

The figure paused. My attack went wide as a result. Then he closed in on me. As he approached, he said some words I didn’t recognize to his companions. They laughed in response. Rather than moving in to support him, they stood back instead.

Probably making sport of me, rather than taking me seriously.

The idea grated on my nerves. Now that he was closer, I could see he was clad in a chain shirt of some kind. Hauberk, I thought vaguely. Both armed and armored. No wonder he considered me no more than a passing joke. Despair bubbled beneath the surface, but I shoved it down. I had plenty of experience with that.

Behind me, I heard Olivier finally drawing his blade. I didn’t believe it would help.

The figure continued to close, then he jabbed. I pulled back and as I did so, Olivier moved in. The other two figures stopped spectating and started circling. This wasn’t going to end well.

The rightmost figure, a tall, broad shouldered man, swung from behind. He was just outside Olivier’s line of sight, and I doubted he would react in time. Desperately, I swatted at his wrist with the pole. I hoped to deflect the strike. I missed. Instead, it collided with the blade. After penetrating part way, it found itself stuck.

Choosing to see the outcome as an opportunity, I pulled hard, stumbling backwards in the process. I was hoping that the sword would come with me. Instead, the pole had slipped out of my grasp. I found myself with my back pressed against the wagon and empty-handed.

The figure seized the rod and pulled. Olivier let out a cry and threw himself to the ground.

What?

Moments later, there was an understated whoomph. I found myself pushed hard against the wheel of the wagon. The three who were still standing had been thrown apart. Their weapons had been dropped in the process. Olivier climbed to his feet and I moved as well, making to claim one for myself.

Picking it up by the hilt, I closed in on the tall one. He was struggling to his feet still, but I wouldn’t give him a chance to recover. Putting aside any misgivings I might have, I rammed the blade deep in his throat. There was a slight gurgling as I made to pull it out. I let go hastily and threw myself to the side as I felt one of the figures approach from behind.

I felt the whistle of air as the blade narrowly missed my head. Then I turned. Olivier and the first figure I had engaged with were fighting further back, both of them armed. The last assailant was focused on me and unlike the first, he was treating me like a real threat.

I felt his body tense and another strike came my way. I dodged again. Right this time. They were slow and lumbering, relative to me. Whilst I could keep this up for some time, eventually I would flag or make a mistake. At that point he would land a strike.

A jab this time, I pulled back once more. My heart was running a mile a minute, I tried to force myself to think. I needed a weapon, some way to hurt him. I tried strafing right in such a way so that I would end up near the sword again, but my foe caught on and was having none of it.

Methodically, they pushed me back. They were trying to force me back against the wagon once more, where I wouldn’t have space to move.

I angled left, trying to move towards the fire pit. The hope was to make use of the coals as a distraction. They caught on and cut me off once more.

Frustration welled up. If only I had my swarm.

It seemed like people in this world had powers of some sort. It sounded like they had tinkers at least. So where was my power? The poison from hundreds of insects making my objections known would have rendered this group harmless. Even just the intimidation factor would have been enough.

I felt a pressure inside of me, as if I was straining against a metaphoric wall. Angrily, I pushed. I felt something give.

Suddenly, my enemy let out a whimper, followed by an agonized scream. The skin on his face bubbled, then seemed to melt like wax. Boils and pustules erupted, then his skin started to turn black, necrosis setting in. He dropped his sword, reaching up in confusion.

I stared dumbly at the scene.

That was a power, but not my power. I shook myself out of my reverie fast, pushing aside my surprise.

Taking the opportunity, I dashed forward, picking up the blade. My foe collapsed to the ground. Not leaving the matter to chance regardless, I cut deep into his neck. I looked towards Olivier and saw their fight had stalled. Both of them had stopped and were staring. Pulling the sword out, I advanced.

Now that they were outnumbered two to one, the figure turned around and ran. I was about to follow and cut him off when I felt Olivier’s hand close upon my shoulder. He shook his head mutely.

“What if he comes back with more friends?” I asked, warily.

“There is no doubt he does have more friends, but he won’t come back.” Olivier denied.

“Why is that?” I pressed, my lips forming a line.

“Because you were seen using the gift, and attacking someone with the gift when they know you are coming is a bad idea.”

So people do have powers then, and they call it the gift.

I considered insisting we chase after, but decided against it. Running around in the dark was an easy way to become lost. The temptation to ask about powers was also there, but I shoved it aside as well. I could find out more later, when the situation was less tense.

We need to strip the corpses and leave, there’s no telling what might…

I noticed then that Olivier was shaking. His face pale in the dim light of the fire that still flickered but a few feet away. No matter, we didn’t have time to slow right now, we needed to act fast. I opened my mouth, about to start pushing things forward, when the thought struck me. Don’t make the same mistakes. I stopped, considering what I could see.

Why is he like this?

“Is this your first time in a fight like this?” I asked quietly.

He nodded stiffly, then shook his head. Gently, I reached towards him, taking the sword from his hands. He let me.

“It’s my first time in a fight where someone-” He said a word and then drew his left thumb from one side of his throat to the other. Ah, first time seeing someone die in a confrontation like this.

“But not your first time in a fight?”

“No, I’ve been threatened with death before.”

“It gets easier,” I told him, meaning what I said.

He averted his eyes from me, I noted, as I said that. It seemed the thought bothered him.

“How do you live with it?”

I considered the question. “The first time I killed someone, what bothered me was the thought that I wasn’t bothered by it.”

“How many people have you killed?” He asked.

I looked at him searchingly. “Do you really want to know?”

He thought about it, then shook his head.

“Do you think you’re a good person?” He whispered.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer. I decided, given the circumstances, he was owed the truth. There was nothing stopping me from simply brushing him off or avoiding the question. The idea tempted me even. That was the path that had ended with me here, though, and I wanted to avoid walking it a second time.

“No,” I replied. “But I think I would like to be.”

He dropped the subject and started examining the corpses.

“Who are these people, should we expect another attack?” I inquired, not really expecting him to know. I had to mime a bit to get my point across.

“No, I already explained why,” he denied, then rolled one of the bodies over and pulled one of their cloaks off. Turning it around, he pointed to a section that have been cut off on the back.

“They were mercenaries, probably in the employ of Arsene, that seem to have deserted. Likely, they would have earned death regardless.”

There were a couple of words there I couldn’t make sense of, but with context I pieced together what he meant.

“So we won’t find trouble for having killed them, then?”

He pursed his lips. “We will need to answer some questions some people will have. I don’t expect there to be any problems, though.”

Gingerly, he proceeded to strip down the corpses. He took anything of value, the armour included, and left them with just their clothes. Then, by unspoken agreement, the two of us hitched the mules once more. Half an hour later and we had departed, continuing on through the night. Just because he was assured they wouldn’t return, didn’t mean it was smart to stick around.