Chapter 66: Parting Gifts

"Surprise me."​

"I'm pretty fucking glad it was you that made it this far."

"Most humans that come to the ruins— we do so to die, Yech. I've never once heard of a person who thinks this all can be saved— that any of you can— but we're wrong. We've all been wrong. Will you help me? Will you lend me your protection? I need your help, too, Yech. I need to get home. I can't come back for you if I— if I never make it out alive."

"I can't take shit from anyone, Richard. I can't take. I gotta give—" The demon's face tenses. The corpse around your fingers strains with conflict. "—and I can give you my fucking respect. I'll do my best to help you out, okay?"

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I want to be better, Yech. I don't want to disappoint you all again."

"You won't. Here—"

Your hands part, and the demon lord stands up fully. With a series of erratic gestures, he starts to cast a spell. Three items are slowly congealing from the soil before you.

"You're going to need some protection." There's an outline of a large shield pulling up from the earth below you.

"As much as I hate it, you'll need a weapon." Beside the shield's outline is a handle, though you cannot yet see a blade.

"...and I want to give you something to remember me by. I'll stick with you as long as I can, but I don't want no sappy good-bye's. We've had enough of that shit already." A final item remains unformed, though its shape is small enough to be carried with ease.

"I know you've lost a lot down here, Richard. I want to try to give you a little bit to go home with. This might take a minute, and I don't want you trying to get rid of any of this shit. So you got any preferences? Don't you dare fucking say no."

"I sincerely appreciate it, Yech. Would you ensure the shield will hold? Something— something strong. Something to withstand any arrow, or dagger, or spear?"

It's impossible to not recall blade after blade sinking into your back. All that has carved across your limbs. Relief. Agony.

Stained glass across an abandoned church. Relief.

Agony. Swarming with dozens of demons. Relief. Agony—

Your trauma is interjected by the large, glistening shield handed to you. Nearby torchlight flickers off of its glossy black surface, casting your reflection back at you.

​

Though you are unfamiliar with the dark metal, you are less familiar still with what stares back. This is the first time you've seen yourself in weeks. The green of your eyes sinks deeply into bags, providing little relief from your emaciation and pallor from weeks underground. The sickly absence of color is so intense that it's visible even off of the nearly matte substance before you. All remaining light vanishes within pockmarks, your hollow cheekbones, and a hint of not even having had time to shave in days.

But what takes you aback is not your skin, your mop of hair, how tidy your new robes look, or the way that the cloth mercifully conceals your gaunt frame. It's not the glint of the holy Relic in your hand, the gold around your neck, or the slight tremor that radiates through your frame.

It's the obviously unhinged expression across your face. It's one of weeks of impossible torment, starvation, abuse, the blessings of the Gods, and an alliance that has you questioning everything you've ever know. Your frown comes back instantly. It further skews your appearance away from anything befitting of your achievements, your position, or your kindness. You can't help but resent it.

It's no wonder everyone has mistaken me for a demon.

Yech pauses his incantation. "Oh— shit. I wasn't thinking." A skeletal hand is placed on the top of the shield, lowering it from your sight. "Fuck, here—"

He does more than pull you out of reveries and self-loathing. The surface of the material becomes entirely matte, soaking in the light before you both. "A lot safer this way, too. Won't catch on any torchlight, right?"

You don't reply, and stare vacantly back at the flat, black surface that now conceals your face, the hunger, and all of your unmistakable neuroticism.

"It's really not that bad." He's still trying to reassure you.

"Don't lie to me."

"For fuck's sake, Richard—"

"Is this why you tried so hard to help me with Remigius—"

"I mean, I fucking hoped you'd have realized, but yeah. You're really not a bad looking guy, Richard, you just need to take better care of yourself. Scared the shit out of me, first time I saw you. I'm guessing you don't want anymore of that, though."

"Not at the moment, Yech." You can tell even at a glance that the surface is hard— harder than you're even being on yourself. You test the surface of your newest defense with the side of a nail, and are utterly incapable of scratching it. "...but thank you."

Though you long for the face of the shield to depict an emblem of the church, it is completely blank of all heraldry or symbols. It's common knowledge that demons are unable to speak of the Gods, and you realize they may be unable to draw or depict them as well.

It's a miracle that Remigius was able to gift me something resembling my holy vestments.

You tug nervously at your neatly pressed collar, and take another long drink of champagne before Yech snaps you once again out of your reverie.

"Alright, speak up, Richard. Don't make me give you a feather duster."

A small part of you longs for something more gallant. Something reminiscent of a King, of heroes, and of fighters. The weapon of a champion.

I am man of the Gods. I should be harnessing the might of the Storm, the power of Flesh, and the hands of Mercy.

You may be weak now— but more than anything, you want to change. You want to do better. You think back to your old weapon. The clergy had to practically force it onto you, and you scarcely made good use of it. "A mace, Yech. Something sharp. Something devastating. Something to fight with alongside my friends— and my shield."

"How's this for you?"

Extended towards you is a weapon so lethal and bladed that you are almost afraid for the archdemon. What should be a blunt head has been sharpened to several points. They're brutally simplistic. Shaped to catch a blade and to carve into your foes, the design is clearly made to kill with as little effort as possible.

He spins the decorative handle around. A pattern of vines reaches up the exotic, darkened material. The base is adorned with a simple pattern of the same interlocking metal, and is extended towards you.

You accept his invitation to violence. There's a familiar and reassuring weight to it. The item is so well-balanced that you can't help but want to stand, to swing, to test it against the open air.

Yech takes a few steps back, watching you with a bemused smile as you get a feel for the gift. Though you can tell the item was obviously made of a light metal— far more forgiving than iron or even a solid wood that you're so used to— it's still too heavy for you to use with much effectiveness.

You admire it for a few more moments, and turn to Yech earnestly. "Thank you. I know you didn't have to."

​

"Don't mention it. You want anything else?"

"This is all more than I could have ever asked for, Yech. Surprise me." You have nowhere on your person to fasten the mace, and set both your weapon and your shield in the soil as Yech sets about finishing the last incantation. It's taking much longer than the rest. "Is— is everything alright...?"

The demon lord holds up a single finger, obviously unable to speak as he pours a great deal of himself into the small item in the dirt between you both.

You try to get comfortable, ease into a little more of the champagne, and watch as the torchlight flickers. It gives you enough time to loosen up, to properly relax, and to stop beating yourself up quite so hard for how terrible you look. You get up for a few minutes, practice with your new mace, toss a few rocks from the soil at your shield (it cannot scratch, so far as you can tell), finish a bottle of the champagne and ultimately just sit and watch your friend.

Yech's spell casting is terribly unpleasant to watch. He makes no effort to exhibit all of the grace you've come to expect from Celegwen, nor the brashness and spectacle of Remigius.

After what feels like half the night has passed, an item finally materializes from the soil in full. The demon lord takes a knee.

"Yech—" You rush over to the sorcerer's side, making sure that he's okay.

A flask is shoved into your hands. Yech beams up at you. "You can thank me for this one."

Music

He sits down properly on the floor, and gestures for you to toss him one of the bottles of champagne. You happily do so— realizing he's merely exhausted— and look over the gift in your hands.

It's a discreet, unassuming wooden flask with a gold cap. It's small enough to fit in a pocket without being seen, and you instantly realize that it already has something inside.

You uncap it. A vague smell of a fruity liquor hits you, though you're not entirely sure of what it is.

Yech motions with one of his hands for you to take a swig. "Ask for something, first."

"...something fruity?" You really aren't sure what to expect, but take a pull on the flask anyways.

It's easily the best thing you've ever tasted. There's no burn— only smooth relief, and a trace of apples. The cider isn't nearly as heavy as everything else the demon lord has plied you with, and you have to stop yourself from taking more than a few drinks.

You realize that it feels just full as when it was first given to you. Looking into the flask, you confirm your suspicions. It's endless.

With absolute amazement, you put the top back on, and start looking over the item in far more detail. The entire surface is utterly blank, until you flip it over.

On the underside are thirty-one blackened marks, all etched into gold.

Yech beams at you, as you pull him into a hug and try not to cry.

"Thank you so much."

​

"You're welcome. Now get off of me. I had a wife, Richard. You're making me uncomfortable— oh, don't give me that face, you know I'm just fucking with you—"

Prying yourself off of Yech, you help him back over by the table and your gifts. With a little effort, you get him situated with three bottles of champagne and a seat. His joy is evident as you sit back across from him.

Looking to your flask, you softly utter two words: "Something relaxing."

The demon lord— leaning hard over the table— raises his bottle of champagne to you as you uncork the drink and knock it back without any further hesitation. A warm, spiced, apple-laced mead hits you. Your frown dissipates. Anxiety and tension washes away with a few pulls.

There's no need to say anything between you two for some time. Resuming your game isn't necessary to enjoy one another's presence, but it's a welcome distraction. Without any stakes or conversation, it's hard to tell how long you both go back and forth for, and you don't mind in the slightest. The soft haze that envelops your mind, the taste of honey, and good company is so long overdue that you don't want it to ever end.