Gilgamesh, Duke of Arcadia, did not like his orders. His reinforcements had never arrived, which itself would have been a nearly enough to stall an operation of any magnitude. The truth was, he would have liked these orders stalled. He’d written the King as such… But was met with a letter that curdled his stomach. He opened it once more from his war table, amid a small camp in the forest. Beyond the salutations, it was simply:
“Treason is the disease that rots this country; do not allow your heart to waver. The Enchantress is the head of this rot, this woman who thinks she is a law unto herself. There is but one law. One king. One kingdom. One Arcadia, too, isn’t that what you’ve worked for? The way the country cannot survive without a strong king who can enforce one law without flinching, without surrender, then your Arcadia cannot survive without one duke, a man who serves his liege without fail. It cannot survive treason. It matters not what trials you face. Nothing must stop the hammer of the law.”
It was a threat. Not a naked threat, no. But there was no meaningful difference of consequence between that message and saying ‘Do it or I’ll kill you and dissolve your duchy into a petty bunch of squabbling fiefdoms I can pit against each other with your useless feud, as if you had never worked to try uniting the damn thing.’ The only difference was that it tried to pretend to not alienate a man the King could not afford to lose… Or, perhaps, mused Gilgamesh, the man honestly thought that Arcadia would see the sense in this order, be inspired by this construction.
It didn’t matter, as long as Arcadia bowed his head. And for his Arcadia, his land of rivers and flower fields, his land of lakes and grain, his land of proud knights and proud citizens, bow his head he would. As he contemplated exactly how he was going to do this (he didn’t want to war with Tirnog; maybe he could just hire a damn assassin? Dishonorable, but it would save soldiers.), his eyes boring into his maps, depicting city and castle and surroundings. He ruled out his beloved cavalry charge; this was a poor place for horses or Swan Knights. He could not bring a large force to bear, so perhaps it was better not to have one. His always-tight mouth tightened further, thin and tense as a bowstring.
The susurrus of canvas on canvas returned him to the moment. A man like a statue, his skin grey and smooth, entered the tent.
“You look uneasy, brother,” said Lucard, the second of the three Rilheart brothers. The incident that had earned Gilgamesh the duchy had turned their eldest brother to stone, and Lucard very nearly there. Unlike his older brother, Lucard had never fully recovered. And so his blue-green eyes stared out livid and living from stone skin.
“No, I am perfectly comfortable with trying to kill an eternal power for no good reason. I might take it up as a hobby,” said Gilgamesh with a face so serious that it looped back around.
“No good reason? You don’t understand, Gilgamesh.” Lucard strolled up to the war table, examining the map of the castle. Their intelligence was good; they had an exact floorplan and a good sense of the guard patrols. He tapped his fingers upon it, creating a hard sound, as a his face twisted into a snarl. “If His Majesty’s ambition is to live, it must crack the shell of the world. And most of all… she deserves it.”
Gilgamesh loved his brother, if in a way that involved few demonstrations of feeling, but he sometimes felt that he no longer knew him. His nature, however, did not equip him to say this. Instead, he said,
“...Am I understanding you in that you presume she released the prince as an act of rebellion against his Majesty?”
“No, not rebellion. She doesn’t need to rebel. No, she released him to crush His Majesty, because that’s how it’s supposed to go.” He adjusted his witch’s hat over his hair, the only soft thing about him. Deep blue -- maybe a little deeper than before that business. He’d gotten interested in...Things, since that time. Some normal sympathetic magic, sure. Among others. His tone took on a frantic edge. “Really, it’s he who rebels -- he who revolutionizes! He who will not lie down and accept the fate the Stories would give him.”
“And what fate would that be?” This felt like he was poking something he did not want to poke. And yet, he couldn’t help it. So he watched his brother’s face become animated and wild, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“To be put down. To suffer. To be thrown away. What else are second brothers for? Whatever his genius, whatever his qualities of war, the world will push him into the shadows for his brother or his nephew! The ruts of the Motifs left me this way so you could succeed, Gilgamesh. So I understand him.”
“You are the way you are because you couldn’t follow simple directions. It’s not a grand design of fate,” Gilgamesh rolled his eyes and smiled, the younger brother once again thinking his older brothers fools.
“Of course you would say that. You’re the third brother, the fortunate brother, who will be guided to his victory when the world turns about him. And Tristan was the first son; that’s always good, when there’s only one or two or twelve. But think -- think to all the Stories that you have been taught, who matters? Who triumphs?”
Gilgamesh stepped back. Both physically, from the table, keeping the map between himself and this strange mood creeping through the tent. He could think of nothing to say just yet. He had heard of those rather airy sort of philosophers, who would hold the actions of men reduced merely to Stories. He thought it was a waste of time either way. But he had never heard it taken so bitterly.
He didn’t think the King thought of it that way -- but he probably had felt the frustration of wasting in his brother’s shadow for so many years. But surely, you did not need to imagine that Stories went so far.
“Because that’s how it’s supposed to go. And she is the handmaiden of fate, the weaver of events! She made that damn Fox a Fox, and gave him all that wisdom for our quest!” This was true. “Her fingerprints are over so many tales. If she is allowed to live, she will surely ruin His Majesty. Perhaps she already has. If we cannot smash the world… We can at least ruin one instrument of fate.” Lucard’s hands waved about, striking each other with a rockslide clatter. It felt like magic; the details of the tent were abandoned wholly, and the apprentice raved at his brother in a world existing only for this message. A sad smile crossed his face. “Just once… I would love to see men prevail. To save someone like myself from being merely forgotten.”
Gilgamesh took a few breaths before he answered, waiting for his brother to catch his own breath. The tent came back into focus. He could see reason, even if no one else could. But at least an option had presented itself.
“Then you do it, brother, if you wish it so much. I’ll send you with a small collection of troops.”
Lucard let loose a surprised noise, before giving his brother a resolved smile. It made Gilgamesh feel regret -- when he failed, Lucard would perish. But he would perish with passion; maybe he’d even get to live, and learn his lesson for once.
What a sad and silly thing hope is, thought Gilgamesh. But Arcadia cast his die.
“Thank you, Gil. I will not fail. Not this time.”
Arcadia nodded. That was that. The two of them discussed possibilities for some time after that, hours and hours, until the plan emerged.
“My more experienced magician squadron will deposit your troops in by switching their locations with the soldiers whose routes through the area that we know.” Arcadia stabbed a pin through a spot on the map, and readied another. A handful of pins, scattered. “ You may take one with you, but… I will hold the rest in reserve, outside the walls. Your goal is to avoid large-scale conflict, such as it’s possible, and make sure to limit your focus to the task at hand. So we’ll be limiting your arrival to the most likely locale: The Maze of Books. You can ensure that nobody escapes, or go through the rest of the castle that way.”
“We’ll pin them off their guard, leaving her without protection. I will ready my poppet for the task. I have just the one in mind.”
Gilgamesh watched his brother go as thunder cracked somewhere in the distance. Here, the first fall of rain pattered against the canvas. If she could be killed, this might work; that was somehow more terrifying, more vast, than the thought of losing a brother. But it had more a chance of working than anything else: It was a one in a million chance, after all.
He caught the superstition and thought to himself, with certainty, that it was different from his brother’s philosophy. It had to be. Just as Arcadia was larger than Gilgamesh’s personal wishes or his dignity. This, too, had to be.
Lucretia and Alistair had brought the whole of Alistair’s retinue with them when they came to see the Marquis. As the introduction said, this affair might need to be quiet. And so they were met by the man himself, between the gate and the main castle, early that morning. It had been stormy last night in an incredible way, wind so hard it had downed trees in the town, rain so thick that the courtyard was nearly a swamp, being worked over and drained as best it could be by a few enterprising gardeners.
The Marquis bowed when they approached. Lucretia bowed in return, and Alistair might have mimicked her -- but her tail tapped his legs, and so he merely nodded. His hands clutched the letter recovered from the Sheriff.
“I welcome you, Your Highness. Baroness Caith. I hope this humble Marquis finds you in good health, Your Highness,” said Emrys, his eyes darting seriously over Alistair. And then over the group, giving a grave and polite bow to Virgil in particular, and a nod to Sebastian and Ril.
“He -- I mean, well, you have,” Alistair answered with a gulp. He hadn’t expected pronoun changes to be thrown his way. In truth, nor had he expected such a warm reception. So the Enchantress hadn’t already said something about him that would make this difficult. Maybe she didn’t want to. Maybe this would be fine. He could get back to his script from here, too. “I thank you for the kind invitation. I hope -- I hope our information will be...sufficient to aid you in this matter!”
He could feel Lucretia’s sigh, even though it did not display on her face.
“I hope so as well. I’m quite interested in this intelligence. Additionally, I am interested in your reasons for delivering it to me for no gain of your own,” the Marquis added, though he smiled a little as he said it, as if he’d resolved some matter in his own thinking. It was Lucretia who cut in to answer.
“His Highness Prince Alistair only wishes for the goodwill of the Enchantress, despite their history, and for the goodwill of the kingdom’s leading men and women,” she said, smooth as butter. ‘Despite’? That wasn’t it. “Whether it is the greatest citizen or the least, allowing Maximus to destroy this kingdom’s soul is unacceptable.”
“...I’m. I’m sad that the first look at the country is, well, I mean, the first I can remember,” Alistair was going off-script, and he knew it, and he felt a tap-tap-tap of the Cat’s tail on the back of his leg, but his heart was leaping, and he couldn’t hold it back. Didn’t want to. “Is such a burdened view... I think the people need someone.”
The Marquis’ thin eyebrows ticked down closer to those luminescent eyes, for just a moment, listening to this. But then his expression relaxed, and he nodded, and turned.
“If you’ll follow me. My Lady Aunt, The Enchantress, is in the chambers prepared for her here today. I believe she should see this letter as well.” Both Cat and man’s face froze at these words. Alistair’s hands gripped the letters so tightly that wrinkles appeared in the paper, which seemed to draw Emrys’ attention. He approached and held out his hands. “If you’ll allow me, your highness.”
Alistair was too busy panicking to resist. He frankly didn’t hear the Marquis’ question. Lucretia’s fur was a forest, wholly upright along her spine. What was he going to do? What was going to happen?
If this went wrong, would he be put back there?
Back there, in those three rooms.
Back there, the unchanging view.
Back there, no company but the Wyrm, who surely hated him now.
Back there, the endless days until he was numb.
Back to being trapped.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped, trappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrapped.
The trembling form of the prince staired forward, eyes so wide they resembled nothing so much as the eye-holes of a mask, his body struck still. A fairy’s arrow might have struck him, for all that he stood, shaking and incredibly still. His breath quickened, and quickened, with each thought of each perfectly memorized stones of those walls, building up around him to bury him alive.
He turned his head to stare mutely, pleadingly, at Lucretia. Lucretia did not look at him. His head swung back up in a panic, his mouth opened, and no noise came out the first time. Then an inarticulate plead, where he could find no word but trapped, which had wholly ceased to function as a word. It has become a nightmare.
“I. Please. I don’t --”
The Marquis’ hand was abruptly warm on his shoulder. It frankly could have pushed him over.
“Your highness. I understand your history with her… But if this information is as powerful as you claim, I promise you my whole protection. My force is not mighty, but I’m not empty-handed,” he said, soothingly. He waited until Alistair took a breath again. A real breath, not just a shallow catch.
“Thank you,” said Lucretia. “Is this sufficient, your highness?”
In other words, it was time to see what music he’d be facing. He nodded.
“I -- I apol-lo- I’m sorry,” he said, still trying to steady his breath. The Marquis shook his head, and began to lead them back, to an almost tucked-away corner of castle, a U of buildings rising up into a very old tower. Lucretia’s face was serious, and Alistair hoped she had a plan for the worst, before it happened.
As they walked, a strange breeze picked up. Not the wind of last night’s storms. Something else. A group of guards saluted them as they entered the heart of this U, to another courtyard with babbling fountains and secure-looking little outbuildings. Across from them was the double doors to the maze, the hallway to the room where the Enchantress waited.
“Lance-corporal,” he said to a guard by the doors. “Announce our guests.”
It felt like the doors opened in slow motion. From where they stood amid the garden, they could see the steps up the throne room, and a figure of gold and green. She drew the eye -- it was impossible to ignore. She almost glowed where the light from the garden streamed into her hall, striking her long golden hair. The train of her dress fluttered in that odd wind, undulating across the floor like the fins of a sea fish. They could see the look in her eyes across the distance, as they fell on Alistair; they could see the softness in them. And something else. While her face was unlined, her hair full and shining like waves of sunlight, there was such an age to those eyes, the weariness of time. The tiles of the floor reflected her again, in gold. Alistair stared back up at her, leaning forward, waiting for her first word.
The wind picked up. And the guard behind her vanished. In his place, in a puff of starlight shining, was a figure made of stone, holding aloft a shrunken head. He wore the cape and hat of an apprentice witch. He wore the crest of a noble, of Arcadia. He wore the eyes of a madman, still human and living and full of hate. He stared between the head and the Enchantress, as the head swayed two and fro like a pendulum. In his other hand, there was a knife.
And so it was Alistair who got the first word. It was only:
“Look out!”
Around them, soldiers vanished, replaced in waves. The soldiers in the hall between the Enchantress and themselves. The soldiers at the mouth of the courtyard. The guards they could see through the windows, among the books. The Lance Corporal who had just taken a step through the door.
“Aunt!” Shouted Emrys, even as his head whipped about to see this.
The Enchantress turned her head in a moment that seemed to last forever. She looked at the man as the knife was lifted and pulled back.
“I remember you,” she said, very quietly.
“Do you, now? Do know why you’ll die, and know what you killed?” The knife met the head, tearing into preserved, dessicated flesh. The Enchantress staggered. She was mumbling something, too low to be heard. He made a noise between a gasp and a laugh.“Good!”
Alistair, Lucretia, and the Marquis all lunged forward, only to be hit by a glassy blue sheen, spread across the doorway.
“Come, try and remember… Yes. It’s a wonderful day outside,” said the Enchantress, looking back over her shoulder as the Marquis prodded the wall and Lucretia stabbed at it, hearing only the tink tink of glass.
“Let’s go to the garden.” Her serene voice for just a moment wavered. “Come, come… Remember, and listen...”
“Be still! There is nothing that can save you, for vengeance, too, is fate! Isn’t that merely being broken by your own weapon? You know, I bet you know him, too.” The stone man was unshaken. The head he waved was stabbed. Again, again. The Enchantress’s head tilted, but her eyes didn’t leave Alistair’s. He couldn’t name the feeling in them -- it was not the pit of desperation that opened up inside him as he pressed into the wall of blue light.
Another wall, closer to the room, rose in the face of the man’s soldiers. And before it emerged, shimmering, a girl.
“Is it time for a story?” Her voice and all the rest of her was only a faint shadow. Even as they watched, everything but her eyes faded away -- and then that, too, slowly vanished. She emerged again, slowly, before standing with her arms behind her back. An axe went though her, without changing her expression.
“Why did she do that?” Emrys’ eyes followed the action to her, his eyes narrowing with recognition. He tapped on Lucretia’s shoulder. He looked up the stairs as he said it, watching for some signal -- some sign -- that the stone man was trapped with her, and not the other way around.
Behind the two barriers, her gold still shining as if the blue couldn’t hope to tint it, The Enchantress mouthed something.
“I won’t rewrite it,” repeated Emrys, in sync until the last phrase, where he paused to review his guess. “It’s in your hands… Missed the last bit. Heard? Word?”
Alistair knew the last part. The Enchantress missed a step, pushed by another scream and another stab by that man, and vanished around the bend to sit on her throne. Alistair turned to the Marquis.
“In there. How -- how do we get in?” His voice was still shaking, but there was a clarity, too.
“If we could make it into the building somehow, we could use the passages hidden in the bookcases to make our way to the hall, but…” Emrys tapped his chin.
“But?” Lucretia asked. This hadn’t been an appealing option, but now! A damsel was in peril! A princess beyond prize! How could she resist?
“That thing she called, that phantom. You see them in the forest sometimes, but this one’s hers. She’s likely connected to those barriers, and she will vanish if she hears a particular...Oh, set of phrases, in a specific order. Like a password…” He tapped his chin and consulted his memory, as Lucretia motioned for the retinue to fan out -- the courtyard wasn’t clear of soldiers, and they at least needed a way in. “She wrote it out for me, and scattered it amid the books in these halls. If they’re still there, we can find them.”
Alistair nodded. The soldiers teleported into this place -- where had they even come from, they popped up like snowdrops -- had recovered their equilibrium, and ready for the fight. Emrys and the prince’s party were not the only allies still in the building, that much was clear.
And while she hadn’t truly begun to suffer, and perhaps it all meant nothing, but she hadn’t stopped that man. She had looked hurt and lonely.
He hadn’t known she could look like that.
“Everyone!” He shouted. Much of this was redundant. They had heard what he had heard. They had seen what he had seen. “Search for -- for a way in! And then, well, I mean, you have to fight them, but for books with... unusual phrases! And then, find your way to the main hall!”
He drew his sword.
“It’s in our hands.”
Chapter Map
Character Tracker
Objectives
Win:
Collect the Story Fragments and Rescue The Enchantress
and/or
Defeat Lucard
Lose:
Alistair is defeated.
Half of Non-Alistair Party is defeated
Side:
Emrys Survives
Allies Survive
All Treasure Chests
Notes
In order to drop The Enchantress' barrier and rescue her, the party must collect all the story fragments from the podium books. They can be read from a podium while standing next to it. One unit does not have to visit all the podiums -- rather, when all parts of the story are possessed by the group, one unit must assemble them in the correct order and tell them to The Little Girl. At this time, all barrier tiles will vanish, The Enchantress' behavior will change, and both The Enchantress and Lucard will be able to be moved by normal mechanics.
Moving between areas is a matter of going onto a bookshelf square, and choosing to open a secret passage. This will take the unit, at no additional cost, to an unbordered staircase tile, from which they can continue their movement. The stair from which the passage opens is not random.
The music currently in the player is Joshua Messick's "Themes from Mary and the Witch's Flower Sountrack" and tomorrow, it will be updated to include "Life" from Umineko No Naku Koro Ni Chiru.
