Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 18

Too Late to Wait

“Sir Fely? It’s time,” the cold voice of the guardsman said.

After a good thirty hours without sleep, the Head of Medicine was made to rest in a chair beside Alpha, unable to doze even if his head bobbed and his eyes bagged. Fely felt almost drunk when he tried to focus on the woman in the Nynx suit that called from the entrance.

“I was hoping… I wish to spare a few more minutes with him…” Fely just about uttered, his head beginning to teeter to the left before straightening up again.

“I’m afraid we can’t afford that, doctor.”

“Right… Of course… Onwards we march.” Pressing his knuckles into his knees, the physician in pure white clothing forced himself to stand despite his pleading body, practically sleep-walking towards the soldier with stumbling steps that kicked a wheeled metal table, knocking several tools off it in the process.

“You haven’t slept?” the soldier asked, taking Fely’s arm to help him not lose his balance, leading him out of the room and into the halls.

“No, it appears…” Fely yawned, “that duty precedes me in these trying times.”

“Once you’re done with the meeting, you should consider taking off to your chambers. The Saintess knows the days ahead will be tiresome enough.”

“While I appreciate your suggestion, I assure you that I will be well. I will be. I know it,” the Head insisted, brushing his face with his hand. “Does the situation look dire?”

“Very. I’m afraid your… advice, may not be heeded,” the guard said, looking off to not be forced to look at the disappointment in the authority’s eyes.

“I see… Well, who is foolish enough to listen to a tired old doctor?”

“Please, don’t say that. You are neither old nor mere. Your status is equal to the other Heads, even if the other lackeys might not see the same,” he said.

“You respect our work, do you?” Fely asked, giving him a smile.

“Of course. You keep us alive.”

“Have you ever called one of us a midlet?”

“Only to impress my peers,” the guardsman jested. “Of course not.”

“Hm, very well,” Fely sniggered. “It’s good to know there are some at least whom I may call decent.”

Never so loud yet so quiet, nor so full yet so spacious had a board meeting felt in the last few decades. All the strategists except those elderly enough to demand to be spared the stress had gathered in the room. Even the Sixth Brigadier, Willow, whose age and wisdom had converted into a tactician, was present. The only Head beside himself was Hephaestus, and judging from his grumpiness, he was just as useless to the conversation as ever, instead allowing a ceaseless banter to overwhelm any senses.

Fely slumped down in his designated seat and did his best not to look utterly sunken. “Comrades,” he said.

“Head of Medicine, Fely,” a woman of firm expression said.

“Merean,” he said in kind. “I assume this has something to do with the latest report?”

“That, and something else,” she said with a respectfully lowered head. “It’s of great sadness for me to report that the coastline has been wiped. Brigadier Erica is presumed to be a casualty.”

“Dear Vicks…” Fely said, covering his mouth. “However will we tell Corvus of this tragedy?”

“In time,” a senior chief strategist, Hoern, said. “For now, let us focus on the matter at hand. We can worry about grieving when we’re certain we’ll even be able to.”

Willow cleared his dry throat, taking a sip of water. “The enemy is of untold proportions. Our only communication on their end told of three men; the Harbinger of Famine being among them.”

“That said, we have reason to believe that a horde was also dispatched. We don’t know what they are, yet,” Merean explained, watching sharply as Hephaestus’ lack of interest lulled to sleep. “Assuming their march is intended directly for the Guardian, they’re likely halfway here already. However…” She pushed up her glasses, letting the shine of the glass burn into the Head of Arms’ skull. “It’s not inconceivable this all was a preliminary attack.”

“Yeah, that’s far-fetched,” the Gygant finally spoke up with a grumble characteristic of him. “Our situation’s in the pits, and if Conquest’s still alive, that means they know to exploit this weakness.”

“An all-out attack might not work in their favour, however,” a young man with a raised hand added. “If they mobilised such great forces, it would take them too long to arrive, and we would have been replenished and prepared. They would experience swift action from the Celestials, too, and all while we send volleys of fire their way. Our long-distance artillery, combined with the city’s mortars, would crush them in mass.”

“Especially now, when we can afford to manufacture,” added another.

The old Hoern exhaled. “This being said, we’ve never suffered a loss like this before. Yanksee grows ever-stronger. If we continue to ignore them during our times of crisis, we’ll be flattened long before we can recover.”

“Props of hosting the Guardian… Why should the Crimsoneers be of our concern alone? The Celestials should protect that which they value of their own accord, the useless dregs!” a woman butt in with a shout, putting a hand on her chest as she stood up to make herself heard. “I mean, here we are, grasping the grass by our heels not to fall, and those heavenly twats are doing what? Waiting around for our destruction, so they can swoop in last minute and claim victory among the mass of our dead? They rob us of even our pride!”

Standing up to meet the volume, Willow protested, “So you want to sever our connection? Without the Celestials, we are doomed to the wrath of the Reds! Split in two, we lose our mutual benefits, and we’d be as much a stepping stone to them as Zwaarstrich was!”

Fely looked away in shame, his usually excentric grin replaced with a tense frown. “Brigadier, mind delicate topics, please.”

With a grunt, Willow took his seat again, taking a handkerchief and coughing into it for a good few seconds. The drag of his throat was wince-worthy. Age had certainly caught up.

Merean locked her fingers together in contemplation. “Either way, it wouldn’t serve us. As we know, the Guardian’s purpose, if not to endanger us through the rise of the Jewel-Eyed, is to serve as a barrier between us and the enemy. While the latest inheritor is far from ideal, his abilities should not be discarded in favour of comfort.” The veteran commander stared daggers at the woman who spoke. “His shielding abilities have protected our troops on numerous occasions. Will you denounce the Guardian’s name?”

“N-No, I’m just saying, his being here guarantees the enemy targets us—” the strategist tried to say, dropping to her chair.

“Will you take away our soldiers’ right to live?” Merean asked sternly.

Slapping her hands on the table, the lady boomed, “Absolutely not, Madam! You know well enough that we here serve only to ensure their survival!”

“Then understand we cannot risk losing our alliegence with the angels. Not when dealing with these devils.”

“Yes, Madam Merean. But please, realise that in doing this, by accepting the role of patrons, we place the target on ourselves. Is our position not compromised enough? Will we endure, even with the dulled morale of our men?”

The room became quiet momentarily as her questions sunk deep into the chiefs’ minds to stew. Although her slander was uncalled for, the reasoning wasn’t entirely faulty.

“Eh, don’t get so bothered,” Hephaestus, strangely enough, broke the silence. Scratching his head, the giant continued. “Emris is a tough bastard, and it’s not like the Crimmies are going to change direction now. Forget hypothetics and focus on what we’ve already got ahead.”

“But, assuming Conquest used his ability, he would most likely have checked if the Guardian was relocated somewhere else!” the prior voice added.

“Maybe, or maybe Sagittar bit the dust already. And if we do move the old man around, assuming he gives enough of a shit to cooperate, we’d be leaving Em’s life up to chance. Bit of a gamble, if I’m asked.”

“Good heavens,” Fely chuckled, his frown turning to a little grin much more pleasant on him. “It’s almost as if you can say something useful every once in a while.”

Hephaestus smirked back. “Only every once in a while.”

Hoern cleared his throat, taking a sheaf of papers into his shaking hands. “If we can move on from that, I’d like to bring our attention to something our young affiliate here mentioned. The matter of morale.”

Willow nodded, his arms folded. “Indeed. We can’t well make plans expecting scared, demotivated and drained soldiers to heed our orders. They need a figurehead.”

The man with the beard, Hoern, hummed, looking at Fely from the corner of his eye. “Head of Medicine, can you determine Alpha’s condition? Will he awaken any time soon?”

Fely fumbled about and fidgeted in his seat trying to find the words. Even speaking felt troublesome with a throat swollen with sadness. Wiping any tears away, Fely did his best to snigger while talking, not wanting to break down in such a professional environment.

“Yes. Well, no, not really,” he said. “The thing is, he’s in a comatose state. We can measure his likelihood for survival; it’s fairly high, in fact. The worst of his symptoms may include chronic migraines. The problem lies in whether he wakes up.”

“And how soon,” Willow said, much to the doctor’s displeasure. Sighing, he brushed the hairs on his moustache with a thumb. “It seems to me, now might be time to elect a new Head of Men.”

Fely almost jumped off his seat upon hearing that, slamming a much too angry palm on the table. Sweating from all his pores, Fely laughed a fake chuckle, his eyes bulging and pupils needles. “N-Now, let’s not get hasty! We know his condition isn’t ideal, but we have time to——”

“We don’t,” Willow said, earning a nod from the two seniors. “We’ve exhausted all the time we have. It’s over, Fely.”

That’s all it took for the doctor to explode.

Jabbing an arm his way, his eyes turning pink in seconds, Fely shouted, “Watch your fucking mouth, Brigadier! Don’t go running your lips just because you’re here among us! You are very much inferior you piss… ant…” Looking around him, the Head watched as the younger strategists flinched and reeled back; the seniors raised their brows. Hephaestus smacked his face. “W-What I mean to say is,” Fely said, clearing his throat and padding his clothing, “that that is a very aggressive and hasty conclusion. We should see first how our soldiers respond to an empty throne; at least during the opening operations.”

“There is no such mission,” Merean, displeased by the doctor’s outburst and showing it through that prickly gaze of hers. “Head of Medicine, with all due respect, perhaps your mind isn’t in the right place for this type of meeting.”

Fely’s mouth opened and hung, unable to retort a look so deadly. The way she said it wasn’t even a question. She was affirming his inability. Fely was among the four—now two—lead authorities in this institution, and yet here, his subordinate, was almost ordering him to vacate the room.

Fely stared coldly at the elite tactician and exhaled an astounded breath. “I am… in perfect condition… to attend.”

“When did you last sleep?”

“Irrelevant question.”

“Sir, when——?”

“Irrelevant, question.”

Hephaestus grimaced at the sight of Fely losing his mind, earning complete silence from the rest of the staff. Those of more modest position were paralysed with something akin to fear; having never seen such a terrifying outburst from the normally calm, albeit peculiar, physician. Those of higher brass, with experience to measure, understood that this was merely the culmination of a great deal of stress. The Head of Medicine’s role was, admittedly, much too suffocating for the average person.

Folding his arms on the table, Hephaestus called his name.

“Fely.”

The doctor shifted to look his way.

“Come,” Hephaestus said, standing up from his seat with a moan and taking loud, thudding steps towards his fellow authority.

“Where to?” Fely asked, skittish as the Gygant’s imposing size challenged him.

“Somewhere there’s no pompous shitheads trying to talk us down.”

With that, the Gygant walked off to the door, ducking his head as to not hit the frame and standing just outside. Fely breathed deeply, looking to his friend and the warm lights of the outside, and then to the cold, unamused or unnerved expressions of his strategists; his hands on his collarbone.

It took a moment, but after weighing his options, his arms dropped down to his sides, and he submitted. Who was he, a midlet, to assert himself here? And with that, the door to the office closed — all four Heads absent.

“I still insist,” the Brigadier said.

“We’ll decide on this later,” Merean retorted, pushing up her glasses. “In the meantime, Willow, if you would, ask to send for the Maddened Magician.”

“Oh, you’re joking…”

“We’re pretty desperate,” the grey-hair added, his eyes closed and meditating.

Willow sighed, standing up as well with a crick in his bones. “If this is what we should resort to, your words could be omitted, Hoern.”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The sound of shuffling fabric roused Emris back into the world of the workers, turning his heavy head slowly in Holly’s direction. His vision was blurred from sleep, but he felt his hand get lifted from the armrest and taken into a warm, fuzzy embrace. The tug on his shoulder wasn’t too comfortable, but he didn’t care. If the Twins of Existence descended right in front of him, he wouldn’t budge. The Lypin held his palm against her and sighed.

“Is he asleep?” she whispered drowsily.

Emris tried to pry his eyes open wider, turning his head the opposite way to find the boy snoring away on the chair he had taken after Holly rudely sprawled out her legs mid rest. He forgot how it happened, but Emris’ right hand had its fingers dug into the lad’s scalp.

“Aye,” Emris said raggedly, “he looks like he’s tuckered out.”

“I heard you two talk.”

“Ye felt like kickin’ him off the sofa, too?” Emris joked, trying and failing to nudge her with his hugged arm.

“I did that? I must’ve still been asleep. These legs would’ve cramped, either way,” she jested, giving his wrist a stinging squeeze. “You know, I had a bit of a memory flash when you talked about the First.”

The Brig turned her way again, his body numb from just how heavy he felt. Goddess, he had been tired down to his last lick of juice. “Is that right?”

“I don’t know if you remember, but you used to tell me those stories too. The First Guardian Kalazan. You used to ramble for hours. I think,” she guessed with a shit-eating grin, “he was your role model when you were younger.”

Emris laughed, shutting himself up before he let the others wake. “There weren’t a single Guardian that didn’t look up the old man, sug. He was somethin’ else entirely. I mean, look at me. I came out all crooked. He was handmade by the Goddess her fuckin’ self.”

“You did say that, yeah. Victus’ favourite child.”

“Supposedly. But I don’t think a good mother has favourites.”

Holly raised a brow and grinned like a mischievous child. “So you’re saying Victus is flawed?”

“Everyone’s flawed, buttercup. From the stars to the rats.”

“I like you more this way, Dad,” Holly said, pushing her head into his palm like she had done when she was just a young little thing. “You’re humbler. It’s almost like you aren’t the living embodiment of Pride for a second. Also, you’re not gnawing on my boyfriends.”

The Guardian almost sprung to his feet when he heard that. “That sleazy shitestain weren’t right for ye, lass!”

Holly giggled, putting a paw on her lips. “Shh, keep it down. Take the compliment and go back to sleep, you crazy.”

Emris breathed deep, chuckled and sunk back into the comfort of the decrepit armchair. He stared at the ceiling once more, contemplating one and a million different things at once. For some reason, he wasn’t the least concerned with how the rest of the world was fairing. The Syndicate could bite the dust and he couldn’t care less. The appreciation of his daughter and this mesmorising scene was enough to call perfect.

Once he heard her soft breathing become rhythmic, Emris too smiled. “Thank you, Holls,” he muttered, closing his eyes for the third time that night.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

That lonely little pub in the middle of bumbleduck, encroaching and incrusted into a tiny dirt town in the center of nowhere, a person worth nothing stumbled inside with shrunk shoulders, a battered hip and a bruised eye. Just as with every place of this sinful nature he had visited, he strolled up to the bar looking at and speaking to nobody, and then drank, drank, drank until his life might one day wither away.

There was a different reason for coming this time, however. It was that enchanting little melody that filled and silenced the chaos — those quaint stories told through tongue that mesmerised him so. Tales of anything and everything held close to mortal folk’s hearts. Anecdotes of the mythical Wishmaker Fortuna’s many clumsy mistakes; gags held at the expense of the great Guide Deities of the land; songs that made beware of the Witch that walked the world without end; poems of the Four Seraphic Archangels and their Harbinger counterparts; and, most captivating to he, dramatic tellings of the very first Guardian’s own adventures. How he slew and took pity from the world, replacing it with hope. How he alone stood above any Crimsoneer that dared intrude in his path and those of they he protected. A Guardian through and through; his merits endless, his Pride tamed, his humility and diligence and wariness and victories unchecked. His name was Kalazan. A king among kings whose reign, if there ever could be one again, would spread warmth and security and love and prosperity to every man, woman and child, human or beast regardless, who was dignified and worthy of such sanctuary. Even in his death, his sacrifice was dedicated to the masses. He died so that the world may live. And every anointed Guardian afterwards did the same in his image.

The perfect shield crafted into a single, wingless Celestial.

These tales should feel crushing to the miserable, unaccomplished, lacklustre pretender that was the newest Guardian born. But he wasn’t born. That was part of the problem. During a time of great strife, he was melded into a bodiless soul in a hurry, crafted by hands volunteering as protégés for the Saintess; mirroring a miracle only She could ever perfect. All this to create a farse who should live with the title: ‘Guardian’.

And still, he did not hate himself. He did not feel sorrow. Even the beverages wouldn’t dull his image. The reason? Her voice. The sweet bells and chimes that voice made. A sugary nectar spoken in words, blessing his ears with something he didn’t deserve. And it was magical. Truly magical.

Once her performance had finished, the lady gave her guitarist and violinist a kiss on the cheek and removed herself from the tiny stage that had been squeezed into this place with a hop to her step and a faceful of the liquor she’d reward herself with.

The gentleman— sorry, the sir in rags, scrapes and mud felt his mouth hang agape as she waddled up her stool; a single empty seat separating the two. She gave the bartender, her father, an order of cinder. The eavesdropping Guardian noted how giddily she spoke, rolling a coin on the desk with her finger.

“Forty-six Zeds, Pop!” she said with a giggle, flicking that silver coin in the air and catching it with an excited fist. “This’ lookin’ to be our best night since o’ one!”

“Excellent work, Moonie, but don’t get too cocky now. No need to tempt poorer fates.”

The old man in a lovely brown, tailored suit who was working the counter and cleaning the dishes leaked wisdom in a way even the Guardian found fascinating; a gentle smile always adorning his working frame. At such age, he should long have started enjoying the benefits of retirement. But in doing so, in this day and age, would be to renounce bread on his and his daughters’ table. No can do.

The woman with a voice befitting—perhaps surpassing—angels themselves pouted with an over-the-top, animated personality. By rolling her eyes at her grandfather, she caught wind of how deeply the smacked up man stared. Instead of feeling uncomfortable, she just gave a smile full of teeth and glee and waved enthusiastically.

The Guardian was dumbfounded, shaking himself back onto the planet’s surface and returning the gesture all too awkwardly before shifting his gaze down at some newspaper with a headline that could say the world was ending tomorrow and it still wouldn’t rob his attention away from her. From time to time throughout the rest of the night, he would subtly watch her, hiding his eyes by taking a sip of his numerous beers. This creature—this human woman—was simply fascinating to watch. So much so, that only when her last show was over would the Guardian pay his tab and take his leave. And the next business day, he was back in once more, swiftly becoming the pub’s most consitent and loyal regular. There was just something about this singer that left him puzzled with a question he had to figure out an answer to. Her boundless joy despite living in a dump and off a flimsy, rickety locale confused him to no end. She had everything he hadn’t in heaps; so much that it cascaded from her lips each time she sung. She had enough to share, and anyone could tell how much it helped the place thrive. The people who came here never heckled, no matter how ruthless the place became. Everyone, regardless of how confrontational, had made a solemn, unspoken vow that when the lady sung, the world must be quiet.

Every single day he came, the Guardian never said who he was. In fact, he said nothing at all. The most he’d put into words would be ‘pour me a drink’. It took the bartender to speak first for little waves and grins to become something new. Something valuable. To the faker baptized as a legend, the beginning of something real.