THE APOSTATE SAINT

Alaric's return home was marked by a wave of ambivalence. Despite his accomplishments, an inexplicable sense of unease gnawed at him. It was as if a string on his harp was broken; the song of victory played in his ears, but something was undeniably missing—something only a trained ear could detect. By the time he arrived home, this absence was all he could perceive.

His mother greeted him at the door with a warm embrace. Her gentle kisses and kind words of praise momentarily melted his troubles away. Bathed in her enthusiasm, Alaric allowed himself to be buoyed to a happier place, wishing he could hold onto her forever.

His father, however, offered a less-than-cheery reception. Valoricus wore the same stern expression whether he was ashamed of Alaric’s imperfections or grudgingly satisfied with his achievements. No matter how much Alaric gave, his father always expected more. Alaric caught sight of him through the corner of his eye as he embraced his mother, standing with arms folded just inside.

“I am so proud of you,” Alaric’s mother said, noticing his attention had drifted. She placed her hands on his shoulders, directing his gaze back to her. “You came home safe and unharmed. That was all I could have asked for, but on top of that, you rose to the challenge and you won! Alaric, you won! My baby boy is a man grown today.” She brought him in for another teary-eyed hug, but it was short-lived.

“That’s enough coddling, Dacinia,” Valoricus interjected. “Get back inside before you draw any attention.” He scanned the streets to see if anyone had followed Alaric. His caution wasn’t entirely unwarranted—the streets were overflowing with drunken revelers, forcing Alaric to avoid the main thoroughfares on his way back to Caballarius Manor, their ancestral home.

Alaric’s mother released him and turned a cold shoulder to his father as she led Alaric inside, still holding his hand in silent protest. Alaric felt his father’s disapproving gaze upon him as he followed his mother.

“Be on your best behavior,” his father warned as they entered the atrium, where the furniture had been arranged to entertain a great many guests. Alaric dreaded the idea that soon many of his father’s political allies would be gathered here to compliment him as a way of currying favor with his father. He simply didn’t have the energy to deal with such an evening.

“Father,” Alaric began, too tired and perhaps too bold for his own good, “I would rather not entertain anyone tonight. I am a bit far into my cups, and the competition and the feast have taken a lot out of me. I would much prefer to spend some time alone and get some rest.”

Valoricus looked at him as if he had just been struck. His disappointment with his son’s insubordination was evident. Alaric could tell that wrath was about to descend upon him, but he almost didn’t care anymore. After all, it would only be a matter of days before he was free from his father’s tyrannical rule.

“Sit,” his father demanded. Alaric tried to meet his father’s eyes in protest, but he was no match for the man’s overwhelming authority. Instead, Alaric hid his eyes, but still did not comply. He was determined to weather whatever storm was heading his way, fueled in part by the bravery offered by the fermented fruit of the vine.

Valoricus approached Alaric, one slow step at a time. He never repeated himself because Alaric had learned long ago what would happen if he did. Valoricus ruled his house through fear, the only tool he had ever used to maintain command. Alaric’s legs began to tremble as his father approached, each step building to what Alaric was certain would be a painful end. Just as he got within striking range, his mother interrupted.

“Oh!” she said with sudden urgency. “It looks as if our guests have arrived! Come, Valoricus, we must greet them.”

Alaric saw his father’s face, full of anger, trained on him. Before his father turned away to go with his mother, he spoke to Alaric in a low voice. “I will attribute your behavior to the drinks, but I will not excuse it. Once this little charade has ended, you and I will be having a discussion.” With that, his father went with his mother, and Alaric was allowed to breathe.

He quietly prepared himself to deal with the Senators and their respective entourages who always accompanied them. He was not prepared for who had actually come to call.

Standing before him was the Son, followed by the swordsman Fridok and, to Alaric’s surprise, the Daoine Farraige man named Art. It shouldn’t have surprised Alaric to see that Art’s legs had been fully regrown, but it did so regardless. His legs were indeed restored, but his gait was disastrous—the kindest possible description for how the man walked.

“Hello again, my champion,” said the Son. Alaric had not expected to see the Son again, especially not so soon. “What brings you to our home?” Alaric said, earning a spiteful glance from his father. He hadn’t meant it disrespectfully. “I mean, I didn’t know you would be here. I was just about to retire for the evening.” Alaric noticed both Fridok and Art looking around the home, gawking at all the things that must have seemed so extravagant to men of their station.

The Son smiled at him, nodding knowingly. “And you have earned that rest, young man. But there are matters that still must be resolved tonight, and we must not tarry. There are rapidly growing voices crying out in this city that would quickly draw my focus away from our primary mission if I were to heed their call.” Alaric shot a glance to Fridok, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Please, take a seat and rest your weary legs,” said Alaric’s mother, asserting her hospitality. “Especially you,” she added under her breath to Art, who wobbled a bit too close to a pedestal with an urn containing an ancestor’s remains. Alaric was certain an abundance of alcohol was a bad idea for anyone, especially if they were just learning to walk again. Thankfully, Art walked a safe distance away from the urn. Alaric would not be picking up any dead relatives tonight.

Alaric, his parents, the Son, and Fridok all found seats on the couches. Alaric looked over and saw his father, button-lipped and stoic, sitting solemnly by his mother. It must have been difficult for his father to endure anyone challenging his authority, even if that someone was the son of a near deity.

“How can we be of service to you?” asked Alaric’s mother. “Are you hungry? We can call the servants to get you anything you like. Would you like something to drink, or—”

The Son raised his hand gently. “Thank you,” he said, “that would be wonderful. Perhaps some wine and a bit of fruit to sate a dry mouth?”

“Right away,” she said, scurrying off to find the servants to relay her orders. Art looked at Fridok, mouthing something unintelligible in disbelief. Fridok gave him a look that seemed to say, “Just try to blend in.”

The Son turned his attention to Valoricus, holding his gaze for a moment. For the first time ever, Alaric watched as his father was the first to break eye contact. His father’s face quickly turned beet red. The Son’s eyes narrowed slightly, silently discovering something about him.

Alaric’s mother returned and sat next to Valoricus. She was just about to say something but noticed his expression and decided to smile meekly instead.

“Lovely place you have here,” blurted Art, breaking the momentary silence. “Really nice atmosphere. I’ve never been inside a house with a big hole in it before. You can be inside and under the open sky at the same time. Real nice effect.” Alaric’s mother smiled brightly, far too much to be genuine. Valoricus continued to stare off into the distance, growing more uncomfortable by the moment as the servants arrived carrying the fresh fruits and wine.

“Thank you so much,” the Son said genuinely to the servants as they presented the refreshments. It was not typical for anyone to thank the servants, drawing odd looks from Alaric’s parents. It had never occurred to Alaric to actually thank the servants for their service; he had always seen them as performing an expected duty, even though they were all considered part of the family. The servant quarters were much nicer than most of the houses in which other Solumians lived, and they were always well-fed and even given allowances; these were not slaves treated poorly and beaten if out of line. Perhaps they should have been thanking Alaric’s family instead. Yet the Son thanked them, an odd choice, indeed.

The Son raised his goblet as soon as it was delivered to him. “To the champions!” he declared, to which Art, Fridok, and Alaric’s mother all responded in kind. They all drank together their refreshing nighttime wine. Following the toast, a silent communion followed, which underscored the bizarre collection of people who had gathered. Fridok, above all else, looked the most uncomfortable being there.

“Don’t feel like talking?” Alaric said to Fridok, trying to figure him out. “Not much to say,” Fridok responded, then diverted his eyes. Alaric studied him for a moment, trying to find words to say to cut through the awkwardness. But then Art caused a distraction when he missed his step moving toward a display case holding several of the Caballarius family heirlooms. He toppled over, barely catching himself as he hit the ground a few inches away. Alaric and Fridok both rushed over to help him up, which was harder than it seemed. As they each took an arm and led him to the couch, Alaric could see the frustration boiling over with his father.

“Can we proceed with the business?” Valoricus said, neglecting his manners. "It's already very late." He hardly ever lost his composure at social events, but he had never had to host anyone from lower classes before this night. The Son turned away from a servant providing baked goods and gave Alaric’s father the attention he had demanded. Alaric’s mother held her hand over her mouth, shocked at her husband’s reaction.

“Certainly,” said the Son. “I can see that you are eager to enjoy the warmth of your own limited company, so I’ll be brief.” The Son reached down and pulled from his sheath the marvelous glowing sword that he had revealed upon his entry to the City. He presented it to Alaric’s parents and allowed them to study it with stupefied awe.

“As you can see, it is no ordinary blade I carry. So exceptional is the weapon you see before you, that its like cannot be not forged by even the greatest craftsman. No bladesmith cast it, nor did any hammer strike it in its creation. No, I tell you, this blade is a creation of the mind, body and soul. This is a Soul-arm, and it is a Godly Weapon, the only kind of armament capable of destroying the demons outside these walls. If your son and the others are to be successful on this journey, they must all be armed with these.”

They all looked on in awe of the weapon. The shadows it cast from their figures danced about the room as the Son moved it around. Art swore a particularly obscene obscenity as he watched the majestic thing on display. Alaric mentally agreed with the Farraige’s sentiment, but would never use the same words out loud.

“Okay, so what's the catch?” Art said, after a time. “If no man can make these weapons, where do they come from? Are you going to pull them out of your ass?"

It was a fair question, even with the vulgarity. The Son put his weapon back into its sheath and turned to Art, solemnly placing a hand on his shoulder.

“The answer is within you, Art.”

Everyone looked around the room, surprised, to say the least. Perhaps the most confused by the Son’s words was Art, who was not ashamed at all to look incredible clueless.

“What are you gettin’ at?” Art said. “You expect me to make one? Not even my mum would have believed in me enough to do something like that. And she was a real optimist, 'til the day she croaked.”

The Son smiled a kindly smile at Art. “You are special. There is no other who can do the thing I am to ask of you, for the sake of your friend here.” The Son motioned toward Fridok, who Alaric could tell was nervous about the whole thing.

“Alright then, I'll play along. What do you want me to do?”

“The bond you share with Fridok, though new, is stronger than any other connections he has in his life at this time. He has no family or other friends who care for him. Fridok will draw upon the bond you have formed with him and it will give him the power he needs to give material form to the blade he has already created in his mind. As he focuses on the shape he wants it to take, you will focus on giving him support. Once the blade has formed, your only responsibility from then on is to stay healthy and strong. I will not lie to you – each time Fridok uses this blade, you will feel your energy wane. But your strength will return in time, and you will know that it is because of you that he is able to carry on the fight. Do you accept this most important responsibility, knowing that it will be hard at times to withstand it?”

Art looked around at the others, then shrugged. “Yeah, alright then. What do I have to lose? Let’s be on with it.” He turned to Fridok, whose eyes were trained on him, worry in the Solumian’s glare. “You’re going to owe me a lot of pints once you’re filthy rich, you understand that, right?” Fridok stood, wide-eyed, unsure of everything.

The Son motioned for the two of them to come to him, and so they did. He placed one hand on Art’s shoulder and another on Fridok’s back. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands as if you are already holding the weapon. It can be any weapon you like, any size and shape you like, but I want you to firmly form it in your mind. Describe it to yourself; make it real in your mind's eye. Do not open your eyes until I say so.”

Fridok did as he was asked. Art turned toward Fridok nervously. “Is it going to hurt?” Art asked sheepishly. The Son looked at him with a hint of pity in his eyes. “Think only about supporting Fridok. Think about giving up your own strength, so that he may use it as he needs. Give yourself over in support of him, and that is all that needs concern you. Do not resist it when he asks for more of your strength.”

Art shook his head, muttering something unintelligible in the Farraige tongue. Then, he focused on Fridok just as the Son had instructed.

Nothing happened for quite some time, which made Alaric’s father give his mother a look of disapproval and distrust. Alaric could tell that his father was just about to say something when the room began to dim despite being well-lit by candlelight. The Son's body began to glow, and Art started to shake and convulse. The Son tightened his grip upon Art, so that he would not fall over. He looked as if the life was being drained right out of him, and every bit of the man’s liveliness fell away.

“You’re butchering him!” Valoricus shouted, apparently at his breaking point. “Stop this this instant!”

“Focus, Fridok!” the Son said with forceful urgency. Fridok was obviously distracted and concerned about Art’s health, so he was failing at the task he had been assigned. Alaric could only watch as things began to spin more and more out of control. His father increased his protest and got louder and less patient by the second. Art continued to weaken and Fridok fretted and further faltered in his attempt to form a blade. Alaric turned to his mother, who looked back at him with tender, worried eyes. He suddenly got an idea: he began singing a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a small child.

O child of the morning,

With your gentle eyes crying,

Sweet dew, sweet dew

Water your garden with my love of you

O child of the evening,

With your little voice calling,

Sweet tune, sweet tune

Fill all of these walls with the sound of you

Alaric’s voice echoed through the whole home, and his intuition was right. Even his father had apparently calmed down in his protest, and Fridok regained his focus. The faces of everyone present began to reflect the calm serenity of Alaric’s song. On the third verse, Alaric’s mother’s voice joined in harmony with his.

O child of the night time,

With your heavy head resting,

Sleep you, sleep you

May you rest ‘til you’re woken by the morning dew

Together they sang the whole song again, their voices in perfect harmony filling the home. As they finished the tune together, there in Fridok’s hands manifested a great glowing blade, a perfect fit for his muscular frame. Its magnificence pierced through the dark of the night. The Son held Art in his arms, gently bringing him to the couch to rest. He was certainly alive, just exhausted. Too exhausted, even, to react with his typical colorful words. But he was alive, and Fridok had succeeded in his mission.

The look on Fridok’s face said it all: Finally, I have it. The sword that I have worked so hard to obtain is mine at last.

Alaric jumped into the air and shouted, celebrating with Fridok and admiring his new weapon. Even Alaric’s mother joined in the celebration. The Son attended to Art, but congratulated Fridok on his successful summoning of the blade. The only one not as enthused was Alaric’s father.

The Son rose to his feet and met eyes with Alaric. It was his turn, now. Alaric looked around, considering what this meant for him, now that he would need to follow Fridok’s example. His eyes met his father’s, and he knew the disapproval instantly.

“Absolutely not,” Valoricus said to his son. Turning to the Son, he stood firmly in place to cast him out. “You have your golden warrior right there. That’s enough. You don’t need Alaric. He will be staying right here, completing his schooling and then he will succeed me in the Senate when I retire. You may very well be who you say you are; I am not the one to say, but we’ve gotten along well enough without you and your kind for this long. The republic isn’t perfect, but it’s better to have the order and safety that we have, than to open ourselves up to outsiders with mysterious magic. We are a mighty City, a lone bastion of life in a world long dead. If death comes for us as you say, then we will greet it with dignity when that time comes. But there has never been a problem so big that we haven’t as a people been able to put aside our differences and solve it. We already have enough to solve here; we don’t need to go off searching for more work. So, speaking for my house and with the backing of the Senate, we officially reject your proposal and ask that you leave this City immediately. Tonight.”

The room grew quiet as the ocean of Alaric’s father’s words withdrew from the beach of that place. After a time, the first person to speak was Fridok.

“You speak from a place of great privilege,” he said. Before Valoricus could interject, Fridok continued. “This City is falling apart under your feet and you are so blinded from your high towers and manors that you cannot see it. This republic you mention speaks for the rich only. They care about the wealthy only. You are a politician that represents the needs of those who don’t need any representation. People like me and Art are nothing to you. You do not care about the Daoine Farraige dying in the alleys. To you, everything is well because your people are thriving, hoisted above the water by standing on the heads of my people. You saw the competition today as a means only of lifting your name further into glory but now you resist it because it will come at a cost. I saw it as my chance to finally break out of the chains you have placed upon me. And now, when your son has rightfully won his chance to be free to carve his own destiny, you would choose to take that right away from him? Look at him. He is not merely a boy after his victory today. He has the right to choose what he will do with his own life and you cannot stop him.”

Alaric’s father stood red-faced and angry, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. Fridok saw this, and tilted the blade of his new sword ever slightly downward, so that Valoricus could see that Fridok had the upper hand. Emboldened and finally ready to stand up to his father, Alaric walked over to the Son and placed the Son’s hand upon his shoulder.

“You cannot be allowed to get away with this,” Valoricus said, with all the vitriol he had built for Alaric in the recent years. Alaric felt the sharp words pierce him. It shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did, but he still found himself shrinking back down to the dark place where only art and music could reach him.

“Piss off,” said Art, weakly, from the couch. Valoricus drew his blade in anger, prepared to dispatch the Farraige man right where he lay. In a heartbeat, Fridok stood in his way, wielding his Soul-arm in the defense of his friend. “He’s right,” Fridok said. “Piss off.”

“This is my house, and I will not be insulted in it. Certainly not by the likes of you. Come, Dacinia. We will have the servants throw the refuse to the street.”

Alaric’s mother did not follow him. Instead, she bravely and defiantly went to Alaric’s side, grabbing the Son’s other hand and placing it on her back.

“I will always be by your side, Allie,” she said, stroking from top to bottom the loose strands of his long blond hair.

"So be it," Valoricus spat, storming out of the room. With his mother by his side, it was now Alaric's turn to transcend. No matter what came next, he was ready to take the leap into the unknown, in no small part because he had her support. She smiled at him, nodding at him and letting him know that all would work out in the end.

"Let's begin," the Son said at last.