Azrael was roused out of sleep by the smell of stew.

“Wakey wakey,” A voice said “time for breakfast.”

“Go away Alena. Five minutes more.” He grumbled.

“Alena, who’s that? Your girlfriend? Do you even have a girlfriend?”

Azrael cracked open one eyes, as he was assaulted by a barrage of questions in a male voice that was most definitely not Alena. James’ massive form loomed over Azrael, the muscle head giving him a goofy grin.

Azrael wasn’t sure when, but at some point he’d lost the image of a grizzled, crazed battle junkie. James had more of a golden retriever kind of personality, though that image was partially encouraged by James’ blond hair. Azrael opened both eyes and looked up at the massive man’s enthused grin. Maybe a hamster was more of an accurate description. He wasn’t sure why, but he just was.

“No, Alena’s, my…” he tried thinking of the best way to describe their relationship.

Slave? Servant? Maid? Student? The situation was kind of more complicated than he’d ever given it thought. She had been the scrawny annoyance that had slept on his doorstep, then she’d accepted a slave contract that he’d hoped would deter her from visiting. After that, he’d sort of foisted all of his daily chores onto her and then finally he’d accepted her as a student.

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my… never mind” he finished lamely,

“You want to talk about it?” James asked, clearly misunderstanding.

“No, I don’t.”

James passed Azrael a bowl of stew and a spoon, before seating himself besides Azrael.

“Do you know what I find helps when I’m feeling down?”

“No.”

“A fight. A good old-fashioned fight. One on one, macho el macho.”

“…”

“Do you know who you should fight?”

“…”

“Me.”

Azrael took a spoonful of his stew. It was left over from last night, letting the simple flavours really soak through.

“I think I’ll pass.” He said, declining James’ offer. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been asked to now.

“Aww, come on. Just once. One good fight? Please?”

Azrael took another sip of his stew, not looking at James. He watched the travellers around them either sitting down for breakfast, or already packing up to leave. It was a stark difference to the rowdy crowd from last night, which had all been eager to arm wrestle James.

“Why? Why me?” He asked.

James answered without hesitation, “You? You’re strong. I have a skill which lets me know when there are strong opponents. If we were to fight seriously and I were to underestimate you, I know that I would be dead. You are strong. The skill, it is like a trumpet, calling me to battle.”

Azrael looked at James. The big man looking him with big pleading eyes.

“So, fight me.”

Azrael leant his head back, resting it against the wagon wheel he’d slept against.

To fight.

He’d fought. He had fought. It was a loaded word.

He’d fought to raise money for his father. He’d fought hundreds of monsters for items in games to sell online. He’d fought to live on, he’d fought to survive. He’d fought to protect his peace.

Azrael looked at his fist. He’d fought to protect his father.

The feeling of his fist traveling through the air, watching it fly almost against his will, fuelled by a desperate anger, an deep burning rage to protect his father. The feeling of teeth breaking under his fist. The senseless violence, the anger. It was intoxicating. It was frightening. It was powerful and made him feel so out of control and powerless. He’d lost himself in that power, he’d hidden himself away from reality in that anger.

And he had lost.

He’d lost his father. He’d lost his mother. He’d lost his friends, his hopes, his dreams, his future and his trust in others. He’d fought and he’d lost. When he’d woken it had been too late. He’d fought and he’d lost. He’d quit fighting, but he’d fought again and lost his peace.

“Why fight?” he asked “Why?”

He hadn’t actually asked James, the question had just slipped out of his inner turmoil. The question hung there, between the two of them. Surprisingly, James answered, though there was a deliberate care there that the happy-go-lucky warrior usually didn’t have.

“Because… I can. Because it lets me know that I’m alive. It is fun, yes, but it also pushes me to my limits… no, it pushes me beyond them. The only way you can grow is to break past your previous limits. I… I don’t… I want to be more than I am. Everyone has something that they fight for. Me? I fight for the belief that I am stronger today than I was yesterday. But to do that I have to step forward and embrace the risks. Each fight is proof that I can do more, that I am more than I was. It shows me what I am capable of. That I am capable of more today than I was yesterday. So, that at the end of the day, even if I failed, I can say I have tried.”

James let the fire in his voice die down.

“What do you fight for?” He asked “ And what did you fight to become as strong as you are?”

Azrael didn’t have an answer, but that was ok, because James didn’t seem to expect one.

The two of them sat there, Azrael continued to eat his stew, while mulling over James’ words. Neither of them spoke again for the next while, simply enjoying the companionable silence, as everyone else packed up around them. They didn’t need to. There was no reason to.

In the end the two of them were forced to rise, as the wagon they were leaning against needed to move.

“Gud Soup!” James said to Azrael, gesturing to his own empty bowl with his usual ever-confident grin.

“Yeah. Good soup. Thanks.”

“Will you fight me?”

Azrael laughed, slightly less annoyed at the question than the last dozens of times he’d been asked.

“Perhaps another time.”

“It’s a promise!”

“…yeah. Sure.”

James simply waved and sauntered off, going to return the borrowed soup bowls. Azrael watched him head off, before turning his gaze westwards. The massive looming mountains were visible from here. They had been for a few days in fact, but there was something about the blue skies, the wide plains and a welling sense of optimism that reminded him of the time he’d first logged on.

So much had changed, but still it felt like so little, too little. He was still voiding people, avoiding strife. It was the same as when he’d first opened his eyes in this world. Except, this time he was returning home. Home, to his peaceful cabin in the woods.

Alena would be there, the village chief Cairn, Hugh who had made him his wolf figurine, the men and women that he’d trained, the ever critic Nolan, the two dwarves Darj and Durkov and the rest of the villagers who’s names he’d forgotten. They were people who were waiting for him, who looked up to and relied on him.

The nostalgic feeling of something just starting redoubled, but this time it wasn’t because of the scenery. It was more. He had a chance to stand up and fight again.

Maybe he would lose, or maybe, just maybe, he would succeed. But at least he could say he tried. He could say that he stood up and took the chance. This time he would make use of this chance. Afterall, he was their [Lord], and a lord was there for his people.

“Lead on.” James said, having returned, “Let us go.”

Azrael touched the soul link, the link that to home.

“Yeah,” he said, “Lets.”