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Chapter 13: Hope's End
The adventurers walk up to the castle doors, two enormous stone slabs just slightly ajar on massive rusted hinges, set in an imposing stonework wall, the masonry on its last legs. At this range, Hope’s End blots out even the mountain behind it, finally allowing its true size to register: they can’t even see the second tier from fifty yards off, the monolithic superstructure dominating their field of view and inexorably sidelining every other feature of the landscape. There is no moat, the castle being situated on a solid rock plateau jutting out from the foot of the sharply-angled mountainside behind it.
“Good thing the way’s already clear,” Pannych says in a half-whisper. “There’s no way we’d be able to get that open on our own.”
“At least not without making a huge ruckus,” Vector adds, similarly quiet.
“Or burning a good chunk of my mana,” Phyr mutters.
Vector takes out the speaking stone and whispers, “Hey, Warner - we’re heading into the castle. Calling for radio silence - we’re gonna see what we can see without being… y’know, seen.”
“Roger that,” Warner whispers over the stone. “I’ll shut my trap until I hear back from ya.”
“Good deal, over and out.” Vector stows the stone again.
They enter through the opening, weapons at the ready: Phyr is in the lead, Righty aimed ahead and his trap detector held close; Vector brings up the rear, sighting down The Final Word as he rotates through their blind spots; Pannych stays between them, Hawkmoth held vertically in the ever-ready hassō stance. They pass through a long gatehouse, its narrow murder holes showing the signs of hard-fought battles beyond counting, the wind whistling as it whips against the entry behind them. At the far end of the gatehouse stands another double door, this one only twelve feet high, made of rotted oak beams that look like they would crumble at a touch, barely held together by warped and flaking rusted iron bands. These doors, too, stand slightly ajar, and appear to be entirely immobilized as well.
Their eyes adjust easily to the darkness, Vector’s flashlight doused for the sake of stealth. They can see cold moonlight oozing from between the massive rotted doors ahead, lighting their surroundings just enough to see by. They pause before crossing through, staying out of view; Phyr consults his trap detector and whispers, “Clear so far.”
“Use hand signals,” Pannych whispers back.
“My hands are full, dumbass,” he hisses. Pannych winces and gives him a conciliatory nod. “Let’s go, then - eyes up.”
By architecture, the next room is an entry hall; but the sheer size of it would suggest a great hall in almost any other castle. A few worn scraps of weathered-gray cloth connected by near-invisible threads give the suggestion of what used to be a floor runner dividing the high-ceilinged room. Moonlight pours in through the collapsed ceiling, pillars and buttresses standing dutiful yet exhausted amid the boulder-like rubble strewn hither and yon. In the middle of everything stands one long wooden dining table, rotted like everything else but no less sturdy, perpendicular to the remnants of the runner. And atop this out-of-place dining table, glittering defiantly in the moonlit ruin, there is a pristine tea service upon a tarnished silver platter, the fine china pot steaming placidly in the cool night air.
After processing the absurdity of it, the adventurers scan the room more thoroughly. There, dead ahead but just outside the moonlight’s reach, sits Nathanael Thorn: legs folded cross-wise, naked blade upon his lap, fully armored and statue-still in the shadows. Phyr and Vector adjust their aim as they step to either side to fan out; Pannych gives a brief growl and moves her sword down to gedan, the deceptive stance of earth. There is a tense moment of silence, as the wind howls outside and the teapot’s steam dances on the current.
“Welcome, heroes,” Nathanael says, his quiet voice projecting powerfully in the cavernous entry hall, carrying a metallic twang from his helmet. The adventurers are taken aback, and their stances falter for a tic. “Oh, did I spoil your little ‘stalk through the castle unseen’ moment? I’ve known you were coming for weeks.”
“Wait,” Pannych says, “Did you think you duped us or something? You invited us here, to your fuckin’ tournament!”
Nathanael tilts his helmeted head to one side and asks, “Is that what you were told? There was never a tournament. You have been duped.” Phyr and Vector resume their fanning out, gaining distance from each other and also trying to advance on Nathanael without escalating. It seems to be working - the spellbreaker makes not a move, save for the undulations of his torso as he laughs. “And not even by a very good lie! Tell me, what fool would host a tournament when he was embroiled in a war?”
“But darkness said…” Pannych trails off, and the wind picks up, as if to emphasize her confusion. It seems to occur to her for the very first time that a shadow servant who snuck into their headquarters to send them racing halfway around the world might not be the most reliable source of crucial information.
“Ah, darkness. That explains it. Clever fount of Devil’s lies, that one.” The adventurers halt their advance, again struck by confusion. Nathanael continues, “You know - tell the truth, but in a way that makes the mark believe a lie. Very well, then. I’d hate myself if I disappointed such... worthy opponents.” He rises to his feet in one smooth motion, levering himself straight up off the ground in a way that makes Phyr fear for his ankles and knees. He then drives his sword, Usher, straight down into a crack in the floor, and spreads his arms wide. “I hereby declare this The Tourney of Wasted Ends, and you three are the guests of honor! I don’t have much here by way of a purse, but if you win, then you can have all the gold and mana potions I have stashed away on Moristella. I don’t know if Dara or Mephistopheles holds the island these days, or if Asha’s still in the library - but I’m sure you can find a way to claim your presumptive prize. You strike me as resourceful little shits.”
“But wait,” Phyr says, having resumed his slow flanking maneuver, “If you didn’t invite us to the tournament until just now, then how did you know we’d be coming?”
“Simple: darkness told me that Pannych here was on the warpath, gunning for me with a pair of lackeys in tow, and that I should prepare.”
“So… you… brewed tea?” Vector tries to keep him talking as they creep across the room. Another howl from outside, and Phyr stifles a chuckle.
“They said I should prepare, and I interpreted that obliquely, as one does when dealing with Devil’s lies. So yes, I am ready to fight - but that is not my goal here.”
Pannych halts her advance and stammers, “W-what? It’s not?”
“Indeed. Instead of barreling headlong into a training montage, I thought hard about what I want in life. And I realized that we don’t have to fight for me to get what I want.”
“We… don’t?”
“Come. Have some tea. Let’s leave our weapons, meet on neutral ground, and discuss this like civilized folks. After all, violence will not settle our differences; it will only leave one of us dominant, and the other dead. What good does that do the world?”
“For the incarnation of my self-loathing, you’re making a disturbing amount of sense right now.”
“I am the incarnation of humility, first and foremost. You would do well to remember that no matter who we become in this war, we yet remain who we were before. New identities build on, but do not erase, our past selves - I’m sure you, of all people, understand that.”
Pannych winces and says, “Yeah, that’s more in line with the insidious bullshit I was expecting. But fine, if you think we can sort this out non-violently, then let’s have some fuckin’ tea.” She sheathes Hawkmoth, removes the sword and scabbard from her belt, and sets them down on the floor. Phyr and Vector exchange a skeptical look, but then follow her lead and do the same. They approach the table slowly, all four of them taking synchronized steps, trusting but cautious. They reach the table, and sit in each of four chairs.
Phyr takes out his tablet and has Pannych read that the tea is fine, not poisoned. “No offense or anything,” he says to Nathanael as he replaces the tablet in his utility belt.
“None taken. Trust - but verify.” Nathanael reaches up to undo the clasps on his helm, then removes it and sets it to the side. He runs a gloved hand roughly through his hair, shoulder-length and almost black at the roots, red-brown from halfway to the ends with faded dye. His freckled face is gaunt, his brown eyes heavily bagged. Two stainless steel studs adorn his earlobes, one more in his left cartilage. He sets about pouring tea for the four of them, serving each of them before himself and lowering his head to do so.
Phyr breaks the silence: “Uhh, Pan? How come he looks like you used to? Except a little more buff… and a lot more… haunted?”
“Because,” Nathanael answers, “I am him, except buffer and haunted, as you say. Oh, did I spoil your little plot twist? Anyone with an ounce of genre-savvy could’ve seen it coming: he looks how he wants to look, and I look how he actually is.” Pannych declines to correct him.
Vector says, “Who, Pannych? You mean her.”
“No,” Nathanael says flatly, “I mean him.” Pannych looks briefly at Vector, then just shakes her head and sighs. “You do know that this isn’t fooling anyone, right? All this? The silly little bob, the bullshit bitch-tits, the lame-ass skirts. Polite as some might be, everyone can see right through the act.” He calmly sips his tea.
“I’m not trying to fool anyone,” Pannych says quietly, looking down at her teacup. “And it’s not an act. I’m just being myself. This is who I am.”
“What you are is a man - and you always will be. I’ll bet you still have your dick, don’t you? Or do we call it a ‘girldick’ now, as if that’s somehow better? You think anyone’s gonna wanna touch that, if it doesn’t even work?”
“It - it works just fine. It does what I need it to do.”
“Hmph. ‘What you need it to do.’ Even when we lay on our belly to rub one out ‘cuz we can’t even jack off right?”
“Hey, whoa,” Phyr interrupts. “I don’t need to hear about this.”
“He’s right,” Nathanael presses, still speaking calmly and evenly. “Nobody does. This whole thing,” he gestures to the wide world around with a hand, “Is completely fucked. The solution here is simple: just stop. Stop trying, stop writing, stop making an ass of us.”
“I’m just… trying to tell my story…”
“Well, nobody wants to hear it. We may as well not even be doing any of this. There’s what, a hundred thousand words by now? For what? For whom? Who could possibly even follow this disjointed, trauma-addled nonsense excuse for a ‘narrative’?” Pannych glares at him, trying to stop her lip from trembling. “It’s all just wanking onto a page, at this point. Except we can’t even really wank, now can we?” He takes another sip of tea; the other three haven’t yet touched theirs.
“Dude,” Phyr says urgently, “Quit talking about your bits. You’re starting to sound like an exhibitionist or something.”
“What’s exhibitionist is this little half-memoir here, trying to be six things at once and sucking at all of them,” Nathanael continues, his voice firm but still quiet and calm. “So stop writing. And then we don’t have to fight at all. The bullshit ends, and we can go back to keeping things nice and low-key. No more putting our life under the microscope, no more hubris, no more drama, no more inflated self-importance or indulgent self-flagellation. Just a nice, quiet life, like we always wanted.”
“But… this…” Pannych stammers. “This is what I want! I’m doing it for me. And the pieces all fit. It’s got adventure, self-discovery, jokes, layered meaning-”
“Vanity,” Nathanael interrupts, slicing a hand through the air. “Pointless vanity. Want to make something meaningful? Concentrate on our teaching. Oh, but we can’t-” Phyr winces “-because we don’t even have a job.” The wind howls again, and a single pebble falls from the ceiling, clattering upon the floor in the momentary silence.
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