Voltaire the Rogue
Wishsong :: Literature :: Fiction
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Voltaire the Rogue
(Basically a story explaining how Voltaire got involved in the situation of Adair. It's pretty long so you might have trouble reading it in one sitting. Let me know what you think.)
Voltaire the Rogue
“I’m sick,” said Adair, as flame and smoke spewed from his mouth. “I’m really sick. I don’t know if you should be around me.”
Voltaire just stared, speechless for once. He had come into the woods to hunt for sport. He had come to the woods to take his mind off things, including the old friend before him. He hadn’t come expecting to find his old friend in such a state.
A golden phoenix towered above Adair, one wing wrapped around him. Her name was Ava. Voltaire knew this because she was his phoenix. Only, she hadn’t been nearly this large the last time he saw her a few days ago. Did that mean…
This was not what he intended. This was not part of the plan at all.
“Adair,” Voltaire began, finding his voice. “You do know that it was stupid of you to come back here like this, right?”
He lifted his gun and pointed it at them. Both Adair and Ava tensed.
“People who have lost their hearts to demons are considered less than human, and are open game for Hunters like me,” Voltaire went on. “I bet you’d fetch a good price, considering your high blood.”
Silence spanned between them, peppered only by the shrill cries of lonesome insects.
“But,” Voltaire went on, lowering his gun. “I’ve known you for too long, and I owe you way too damn much. Besides, I want to know what the hell happened. Can’t find that out when you’re both dead, can I?”
Adair and Ava relaxed. Voltaire smirked.
“Now let’s hit the tavern,” Voltaire added, turning around while beckoning them to come along. “I have a feeling this story will go down better with a few drinks.”
Then Voltaire froze, seeing eyes in the darkness and leaves. They were not demon eyes, or even animal. Ava hissed. Adair drew back. Voltaire sneered.
“What kind of Heroes are you, waiting to see if I’ll do the dirty work for you?” the Hunter asked the figures, as they began to emerge from the shadows. “Or were you Gales just waiting for a reason to kill me too? You guys have never been too fond of me.”
Half a dozen cerulean-armored warriors came forward, their gazes hard and cold. Leading them was a young man with sable-black hair, Jeffery Gale.
“Adair Gale,” Jeffery addressed his younger brother, pointing his sword in the redhead’s direction. “You are a traitor to the Gale bloodline, and will be slain for your treason. Whether your slaying be quick or slow is the only choice left to you.”
Voltaire moved in front of Adair, and pointed his gun at Jeffery.
“Move aside,” ordered Jeffery, his calm expression unchanging.
“Why? I doubt you’ll let me go, knowing that I would‘ve let Adair walk away,” Voltaire replied, bearing an unpleasant grin. “Once he goes, I’m next. I might as well fight because I‘m already screwed.”
He pulled the trigger. Steam erupted from the nozzle of the gun, engulfing the area in white vapor. It was a feature he had added to the firearm as soon after he first received it a few months back, an option activated by an inconspicuous switch near the trigger.
“Ava!” Voltaire called, retreating while blowing some more steam behind him for good measure. The phoenix’s large silhouette soon appeared, Adair riding on her back, and snatched the Hunter off the ground. The sharp grip dug into his shoulders, drawing blood.
They shot past the trees and into the dusk sky of orange-gold and purple. Voltaire watched as his world grew smaller and smaller, further and further away. The heaven’s expression grew darker every moment. Night was about to break upon them.
------
He would never apologize. He was who he was, Voltaire Zephyr, a low-blood Hunter whose flaxen hair was too long. The aquamarine-eyed young man could make and fix just about anything. That was probably the main reason why the Pan Alta guild kept him around, for he knew how impossible he could be to deal with. He was not one of those desperate souls who cowered in fear of this demonic world, or of other’s opinions.
Demons were everywhere. If there weren‘t, Voltaire wouldn’t have a job. A lot of people wouldn’t have a job, actually. There were a lot of Hunters out there. It was an interesting business, revered by some and despised by others. It didn’t just involve hunting demons, but also capturing demons, breeding demons, selling demons, and making products from demons. Some even used demons as partners in hunting. They also dealt with regular animals, but the demon trade was where the real money was.
Demons sought for hearts. More accurately, demons sought for the spiritual power produced by hearts. The heart of any living thing would do, but the human heart was the most prized. Demons, having no hearts themselves, were unstable creatures with little to no control over their emotions and desires. A demon no one believed could do little.
But if they could get to the spiritual part of the heart and form a spiritual link with it, then the demons can grow in form and power.
Hunters, with their careers inevitably entwined with demons, had to carefully use their heart’s belief to support their bounty. The Hunter must believe in the demon to some extent to keep a captive demon alive, or to preserve its sellable remains. But the Hunter never wanted to invest too much belief in a demon or demon remains, or the Hunter’s heart could be stolen. Strong belief wasn’t healthy for anyone, really. People got hurt in the end, if they believed that strongly. Everyone knew that.
The more a person believed in a demon, the more the demon could draw from that person. If too much of the heart was taken, then the heart could be stolen and the person could become dependant upon the demon instead. That was now Adair’s ordeal.
From what Voltaire understood, it wasn’t like the person became a demon themselves. Rather, demonic energy was pumped into their system to substitute for the absent heartbeat. The heart dies when the person dies, regardless of where the heart is, so demons want to keep their humans alive. Aside from that and other minor changes, the human body stayed the same. This demonic energy provides powers like the demon’s to the humans that were connected to them. If the demon possesses two or more hearts, sometimes the hearts could work together. What such a collaboration results in varied per demon and per person’s intent.
Only the stupid and the desperate fell for this trap. Adair should have been far above this kind of thing, being of one of the noblest Hero bloodlines. He was a descendant of King Arthur himself, for Christ’s sake. As far as Voltaire was concerned, the Hero better have a damn good reason for losing his heart like this.
------
Adair was a liar. A polite liar, but still a liar. It was a class trait, since Heroes had to be polite to anyone they served. Sometimes it took forever for Voltaire to get the redhead to tell the truth, and even then he couldn’t be sure if it really was true. Adair could be a very good liar when he wanted to be.
That is, unless Adair was drunk. Voltaire couldn’t beat Adair at many things, but he could out-drink him. He could do that easily.
Voltaire wondered if this was what hell was like, as he glanced around the demon bar. He could barely see a thing for all the smoke and steam stinging his eyes. The only light was provided by the multi-colored blasts of fire, their fiery hues changed by specialized alcohol for fire-breathers. Silhouettes and shadows cocooned in the fumes laughed madly, releasing more smoke and flame.
He wouldn’t even be here under normal circumstances. Neither would Adair, for that matter. Then again, Voltaire suspected that he would have to accept a new definition of normal from now on. Ava was outside roosting in the trees, partially to rest and partially to keep an eye out for incoming Gales.
“…You know, I always thought of the world as beautiful,” Adair rambled in his intoxicated state, smiling as he gazed up to the smog-flooded ceiling. He blew out some green fire, the flame turned that unnatural color by something in his drink. “That life is beautiful, that love is beautiful, that emotions are beautiful, that the heart is beautiful. We Heroes fight to protect those things, right?”
“Uh-huh,” said Voltaire absentmindedly, more to keep the sapphire-eyed Hero talking than to agree. The Hunter lifted up his own drink of vermouth for a gulp, only to find it empty. When had he drunk it all?
“…My thoughts exactly,” Adair agreed, hiccupping smoke and studying the curling wisps as they rose above. “Living life without appreciating those things would be like being dead, right?”
The redhead smiled darkly. Some roars and shouting behind them indicated a brawl was starting, as some glasses were heard falling and breaking.
“…Adair?” Voltaire questioned warily. He had seen the Hero clueless, fierce, cheerful, angry, and just about everything else, but never like this, even in a drunken state. He didn’t like it.
“Everything is ugly to them, my family,” Adair went on, looking down and swishing around the remaining mead in his mostly empty glass. “Life is ugly. Love is ugly. Emotions are ugly. The world is ugly. Being a Hero is a duty, not a glory, a duty to keep things from getting uglier than they already are. Hope and pleasures are just illusions for the weak to cling to, not a Hero.”
The Hero spit fire into the remains of his drink, causing it to erupt into a small fountain of green-and-white fireworks. He smiled as he watched the small disaster flare and fade, leaving nothing but ashes in the glass.
“But you know what they think is the ugliest thing?” he went on, as more maniacal laughter sounded elsewhere in the smoky bar. “The heart. The heart is the source of chaos in a Hero. It clouds one’s judgment, causes one to fall in love with the ugly world and be ensnared by its deceitful hopes and pleasures. It makes even the perfect Hero fall.”
“I guess they kinda got a point,” remarked Voltaire, coughing up some of the smog as his next vermouth arrived. “I know you’ve done some pretty stupid things for emotional reasons.”
The Hunter received a baleful glare from Adair, followed by a bitter grin. The Hero then turned his gaze back to his glass marred with smoke and ashes.
“Well, I guess that‘s why they destroy it then.”
The redhead had rolled off the answer so casually that it took Voltaire a moment to process what he had just said. His drink froze halfway to his lips as his gaze snapped over to Adair.
“…Destroy it? The heart?”
“Yeah, destroy it. Murder it,” Adair went on, shuddering a bit despite his smile. “The perfect Hero has no room for such a magnificent but inconvenient weakness like the heart, as far as the Gale family is concerned. It’s…what the Gale family has done for years to produce perfect Heroes. Centuries even.”
“…You can’t be serious,” Voltaire hissed. “That’s no better than the demons! Whose dumbass idea was that, to reduce a human to a demon for justice’s sake?”
Adair laughed loudly, a little too loudly, at Voltaire’s blunt answer. Green fire went everywhere, Voltaire ducking to avoid getting burned.
“Well put. It is a dumbass idea, isn’t it?” the redhead agreed, grinning but clutching his chest. “The Hero should fight with his heart, right? Protect everyone and the world because he cares, right? Your heart is who you are, right?”
Adair chuckled nervously. Embers of black-and-white flame escaped from his mouth. Voltaire noticed the change in the fire, but attributed it to the effects of the altered alcohol and thought little else of it.
“How the hell is that even possible?” asked Voltaire. “Even demons can’t destroy a heart. Draw from it or consume it, yeah, but not destroy it. Only the original owner‘s death can extinguish it outright.”
For a while Adair didn’t answer, breathing heavily while black-and-white flames spewed everywhere. Then he shook his head vigorously as if shaking off water, and blew out a stream of black-and-white fire until it turned bright green again.
Voltaire watched warily. What had that been just now? Some kind of attack?
“…You know my family’s knighting sword, Clarent?” the Hero went on, not waiting for an answer from the Hunter. “Well, it’s a laser sword, lord knows how old. It doesn’t hurt the body, but it’s designed that way so it can strike the spiritual heart itself, while still letting the body live. That’s how they get their perfect Heroes.”
“You saw them stab someone with it?”
“They stabbed me with it,” Adair answered, suddenly shaking. “It was…awful, like all my emotions were screaming inside of me. If it wasn‘t for Ava, I‘d…I‘d…And the whole time they were telling me how much better off I would be without my Heart, how perfect I would be, and how all the fighting was futile because no one was going to save me, no one was going-”
Voltaire watched as Adair’s shuddering intensified, unsure what to do. He had never seen Adair like this, not brave and cheerful Adair. His friend of Gale blood could stare down a writhing hydra and not even flinch at its horrendous roars. Now Adair Gale…Gale…The flaxen-haired human clenched his glass. Those heartless bastard Gales!
“…But that had been my life, you know,” Adair went on, suddenly almost serene. “I’ve been groomed to be a perfect hero since I was born. That’s the reason I was born, reason I was bred…bred like livestock, just like all the other Gales before me…I believed in them. They were my family. But they never believed in me, in who I really was…I believed in them…”
Adair’s grip on his drink shook. Voltaire was silent.
------
Drinking was to become one of their few luxuries in their new lives as outlaws, and even then it was mostly restricted to demonic bars. The Gales were ruthless pursuers, and their high-blood influence reached everywhere. They could never stay in one place for long. It was a good thing that they could cover a lot of distance quickly by riding on Ava’s back.
Mostly they dwelled in the wild, preferably forests and mountains. There were no shortages of animals or demons in these areas, but this was usually an advantage rather than a detriment. Any Gales who stalked into these places would have to deal with the wildlife first, giving them ample warning and distraction so they could escape. As for Voltaire, most of the flora and fauna were potential meals. He had become a Hunter in the most basic sense.
If he was still with the Pan Alta guild he wouldn’t have been doing this by himself, at least for the bigger game. Adair was in no state to hunt and Ava had to guard him while he was out. It wasn’t that Adair was weak so much as he was unstable. Ava fussed over the Hero a lot, always worrying over his somewhat weak, irregular heartbeat.
Then again, maybe Voltaire preferred hunting by himself. There was no bickering about who got how much of the money for a kill, or who got to keep what parts for a trophy, no Adair unconsciously showing him up. No Rayna to rebuke him for his recklessness, for that matter. He could only guess at what the female commander must think of him now, running off to defend a fugitive friend. Was she fuming at his unruliness, laughing at his foolishness, twisting her long hair in worry over the whole situation?
All Voltaire knew was, whatever she was doing, she would looked both graceful and firm in doing so. She was beautiful, no denying that…And no he did not like her, no matter what Adair or anyone else said with teasing grins. He liked it much better when Curtis was in charge. He was used to Curtis. But he…
…He was already missing the old days. He couldn’t believe that he was missing the old days.
------
Pan Alta was a mixed guild, though it consisted mostly of Hunters. It was known for high-ranking demon kills and captures and for its trading relationship with the Gale family. Voltaire didn’t know if it was the former or the latter that had made it so famous in the area. Probably the latter. It was because of the latter that he met with Adair Gale in the first place.
“Chee-arro-what?” questioned Voltaire, giving his commander an odd look as the two of them lazed about on the branches outside their giant tree hideout. Most of the Pan Alta Guild had celebrated a large catch with plenty of beers and rum the night before, so no one felt like doing much else than lying around. Ava would have been trying to perk everybody up with her over-cuteness, but this was before he had met her.
“Kee-arro-skoro,” Curtis Westbrook pronounced carefully, squinting his lavender eyes against the sun. His brown-and-tan-splotched hair, the result of a magical accident when Adair was trying to change his own hair color, was a curly mess that morning. He didn‘t look the Hunter type with his thin build and glasses, but many demons learned to fear his whip.
“How the hell do you even spell that?”
“C-H-I-A-R-O-S-C-U-R-O. Chiaroscuro. It means bright-dark.”
Raizin the cat climbed up to Curtis’s branch, stretching out his black, tailless body alongside the commander. Curtis said he was a special breed called a Manx, from a far-off place called Japan. He always had a fondness for felines.
“Bright-dark?” asked the Hunter with aqua-green eyes. “Who would want a stupid word like that? Either something’s bright or something’s dark. It can’t be both bright and dark.”
“Are you sure?” Curtis asked with a smirk. “Think about it.”
“I don’t feel like thinking,” Voltaire grumbled, as he rubbed his forehead to make his hangover headache go away faster. He wasn’t in the mood for philosophy or strange foreign words. “What’s something bright-dark?”
Curtis glanced down below, as did the black cat.
“See the shadows down there?” the lavender-eyed commander said, referring to the dark images of tree leaves splattered among the sun-soaked grasses. “Light and dark, side by side. The colors never mix or blend, never compromise. Cross one line just a little and suddenly what was light is now dark, and vice versa.
“I dunno if I follow,” admitted Voltaire. “Try telling me when my head’s not about to split open. I swear, how can you drink that Black Widow stuff?”
Curtis just chuckled. Raizin also looked amused. Voltaire swore that cat understood everything that was said. Then again, cats were good at looking intelligent. In that way Curtis shared a trait with cats.
Someone below emerged, somewhat unsteadily, from the home tree. Voltaire could tell from the vivid red hair that it was Adair, apparently still recovering from last night. He became marked in sun and shadow along with the grasses.
“I suppose he‘s an example of it too,” Curtis remarked, watching Adair as he paused to hold his head.
“Mr. Hero down there?” asked Voltaire, one eyebrow raised. “Bright-dark?”
“Well, more of the Gales in general, but I see it in Adair some too,” the Pan Alta commander went on. “One moment they’re smiling, warm, light, and then when an enemy comes they become glaring, cold, dark. There’s little in-between with them, just black and white. Opposite states, and yet it’s still the same person. Bright-dark.”
“People are like that general.”
“The Gales are especially so. Almost unnaturally so.”
Adair was wandering about, like he was looking for something. Then Voltaire noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual ocean-blue armor, and suspected that was the object of his search. The pale-haired Hunter remembered something about himself and a couple other guys slinking off with the armor when Adair had one too many drinks of mead. He considered telling Adair this, but it occurred to him that he had no idea what he did with the armor afterward. Leave Adair unsuspecting. He was awfully trusting.
“You’re terrible to our guest,” Curtis remarked with amusement, as if glimpsing in Voltaire’s still-groggy mind. “Why do you like to bother him so?”
“To keep him on his toes,” Voltaire answered absently, before grinning. “And because he’s fun to bother. Just the way he reacts to things, it‘s different from most people. Maybe it‘s a Gale thing.”
“Speaking of Gales, have you seen Daniel lately?” asked Curtis, turning to Voltaire.
“No,” the young man with aqua-green eyes answered, watching Adair hunting through the bushes. The redhead’s expression grew both more relieved and more frustrated when he found only one gauntlet of his armor alone in the weeds. Apparently the armor was not in one hiding place but several.
“I‘ve seen Daniel,” said Curtis, Raizin studying him as he paused. “He’s changed.”
Voltaire knew that Curtis and Daniel hung out with each other in a similar manner that he and Adair did. He himself could never stand Adair’s older brother though. Then again he usually didn’t get along with Adair’s siblings, and there were a lot of them. There were so many not even Adair could keep track of how many brothers and sisters he had. It seemed like there were always new Gales being born.
“What, is he bearable to be around now?” asked Voltaire with a smirk.
“He’s just like the rest of them now,” replied Curtis, eyes narrowing. “All smiles and noble speech and noble behavior, but none of it reaching his eyes. I don’t know him anymore.”
Voltaire’s eyes also narrowed. He and Daniel always argued, their fights usually far worse than anything he had with Adair, but he couldn’t help but admire the guy’s guts. He wasn’t going to do anything that he felt was wrong, even if they were orders from the other Gales. Adair said he was probably the most rebellious Gale that had ever been born into the family. And now…he’s just the same as the rest?
“I don’t believe it,” he finally replied.
“Me neither,” answered Curtis, stroking Raizin. “I only saw him a couple weeks before that, and he was as wild and careless as ever. It’s too fast, too sudden. Something’s wrong here.”
Voltaire agreed. He couldn’t think of anything traumatizing enough to make loudmouth Daniel suddenly behave like a saint. Torture wouldn’t do it. The Gales went through all kinds of torture to prepare for such events (Daniel liked to brag about all the gruesome details. Adair wasn’t so eager to talk about it). Demons, criminals, everything a normal person would fear was mere prey to a Hero.
“Maybe you should keep an eye on Adair,” the commander suggested. “David mentioned something about a coming-of-age ceremony the last time I saw him normal. I’d hate to see that happen to Adair as well.”
“So I should stalk him to any suspicious Gale events?”
“Be more tactful than that,“ advised Curtis, reclining back. “Send one of our demons to track him. If it gets caught you can just say it got loose from the guild or something. Such things happen even to the best of guilds.”
“And we’re the best, huh?”
“I’d like to think so,” said Curtis with a small grin.
On that day he would only learn a odd word that he was proud of being able to pronounce. He would learn everything else later, not that it did him much good. By the time he knew everything they were on the run from the Gales, Adair’s heart was broken and stolen, and Curtis had been long dead, killed on what was supposed to be a routine mission. Raizin ran off a few days after Curtis’s death.
He could protect anyone, except when it mattered most.
------
Ava the large phoenix was not much different from Ava the small one. She spoke less child-like and her fire attacks were now formidable instead of an amusing fireworks display, but her personality had changed surprisingly little. Her immense size made many of her kiddy habits seem downright motherly now, fussing over their hair and injuries and insisting that they sleep under her wings.
Adair took it passively, sometimes even seemed to enjoy ir, but it incensed Voltaire. He knew phoenixes were expert seducers. They awed you with their beauty and pretended to be your friend, acting as if they actually cared about you. Then, when you were at your weakest, they robbed you of your heart just like any other demon. There was no way he could trust her.
Adair wasn’t really a fire-type person, Voltaire noted with amusement. The redhead did not like to burn things. In fact, he was often spooked by the flames he summoned, even though he should have been used to it by now. He wasn’t that great at controlling it either, at least not yet. There had been plenty of occasions where the Hero had unwittingly set things on fire, or had nearly fried Voltaire. That was one reason Adair wasn’t hunting alongside Voltaire at the moment. The Hunter did not appreciate his cover getting blown by an accidental fire-breath, or his long hair getting singed because of it.
There were times when Adair spat out black-and-white flame instead of regular fire, like that time at the bar. Voltaire didn’t know what caused this or what it meant, if anything. Adair didn’t understand it either, nor did Ava, so it wasn‘t an inherent power. The scarlet-haired Hero said that he felt very strange whenever it happened, like his senses became both sharper and more distant. Voltaire was wary of it, like he was of most things.
The scarlet-haired Hero had picked up more than fire-breath from Ava. He also had an ability to create a healing white flame, which could be used to make wounds heal faster. It was a good thing he and Ava could do this, because between bounty hunters, the Gales, traps, and occasional self-stupidity they got themselves hurt a lot.
Adair could also set his arms on fire. First they would smoke for a few seconds, and then they were engulfed from fingers to shoulder in flames. Because of this he had to keep his arms bare now (the first time he had burned off the sleeves of his shirt). He couldn’t bend his arms much when they were like that, but he could cause great damage swinging them about. It was a wonder his arms didn’t break when he did that, but Voltaire wasn’t one for understanding the details of demonic power. Details of machines, math, and mechanics sure, but not the fine points of fiendish energy on the human body. He also knew Adair could propel forward like a rocket when his arms were on fire, and Voltaire didn’t understand that either. Arms on fire did not equal wings or rockets, and Adair wasn‘t good at explaining it either.
Adair could control his arms better than the fire-breath, and was more of a close-quarters combatant anyway, so he preferred the flaming-arm method of attack. If only they could find a sword that wouldn’t melt in his hands when he got too worked up in a fight. Voltaire wasn’t too hopeful about that. If the Gale sword couldn’t handle the heat he couldn’t think of much else that would, short of some legendary sword like Excalibur. With their current luck that wasn’t likely.
Sometimes it was plain entertaining to watch Adair in his new state. Whenever he got wet or mad steam would rise off him, like he had just been cooked and wasn‘t too happy about it. He couldn’t stand having water poured on him, though he drank twice as much of it. The sapphire-eyed Hero still bathed in streams for the sake of noble cleanliness, but he did not enjoy it anymore. He blew out smoke and steam when he got tired, sometimes without thinking, sometimes theatrically. If he was drunk there was spitfire on every exhale.
Adair couldn’t wear his old armor anymore, at least not for long. The heavy metal made him too hot. He still wore that powder-blue ascot around his neck though. Voltaire didn’t know why he bothered. The blue ascot was one of the signatures of the Gales, and Adair neither could or would go back to them. It wouldn’t make him any cooler either. The Hunter just didn’t understand the Hero sometimes. Perhaps this is why Voltaire was amused by him. Or perhaps he just had a poor sense of humor, being entertained by his friend’s fallen state. Why was that?
People accused Voltaire of being rude and selfish. It was one of the few accusations he didn‘t take offense to, because he knew it was true. He would get into fights about the stupidest things. The few people he was good friends with he liked to tease and pull pranks on. Adair knew all about that. But when it came to serious situations, like living or dying, he would protect those friends with his life.
At least, he tried to. Sometimes Voltaire ended up being the one rescued instead. He hated it when that happened. That tended to occur when he went out with Adair on adventures. He fought hard, got the crap beat out him, got his hide saved by Adair, and Adair ended up getting most of the credit. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes.
Blasted Adair, he made everything look easy. People were just drawn to the Hero and his positive personality like bugs to light. Even the animals loved him. Power and luck came to him effortlessly, when Voltaire had to work hard for what little he got.
It made him sick sometimes. How he wished he had that kind of power and luck. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to watch Curtis die before his eyes. How he wished that Adair didn’t hog all the luck, and slip out of desperate situations so easily. How he wished for Adair to be in need of rescue for once, for a reminder that he was not invincible and impossible to catch up to.
…Looks like he got his wish. But this…
If he himself was the one being hunted by the Gales, Voltaire thought, this might have been interesting. Fun, even. A challenge of seeing how long he could last against the highest bloodline linked to King Arthur, perhaps be remembered in infamy if he did a decent job of it. Being remembered as a rogue force was better than never being remembered at all.
But this wasn’t about him. This was about Adair. He was nothing more than a pesky rooster as far as the Gales were concerned. But he would rather burn in hell than let them get the sapphire-eyed redhead, the broken Hero. Because he knew that Adair could overcome this, given enough time. He was just that damn strong. Then he could snatch his fixed heart back with ease, and both of them would expose those Gales for the heartless bastards that they were.
------
Voltaire glared at the outside world from the inside of the cave, his left leg throbbing as he stubbornly stood on it. He couldn’t believe that he had been careless enough to step into a trap the other day. On top of that the jaws of the trap had apparently been laced with some kind of anti-magic venom, making the wound slow to heal even with Ava’s help. The Hunter was lucky that he had been able to get free of the trap and had made it back to the cave with his injured leg.
He was waiting for Ava to come back with their next meal. Normally Voltaire did most of the hunting, but his hurt leg had kept him confined to the cave. He supposed it was a majestic view, the pale mist curling around the vast forest below, but to him it was a great green trap soaked by fog. Everything was a trap now. Dusk would soon come again.
The flaxen-haired Hunter sighed and leaned against the pleasantly cool wall, listening to Adair’s snores behind him. Adair slept constantly these days. He could easily sleep half the day away, undisturbed by any noise or attempts to wake him up. He never used to be like that. Voltaire didn’t know if this tiredness was caused by the condition of his heart or simply an unwillingness to get up and face the world. Another sign of brokenness.
What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t fix people like he could machines. He couldn’t shoot fear dead. He certainly didn’t stand a chance against the Gales. Yet Adair and Ava admired him. Why?
Voltaire laid his head against the chilled stone. Why was he so tired? He had hardly done anything the past few days. Mostly he had slept under one of Ava’s wings when he had the chance. The last few nights had been cold, dammit.
He heard a great flapping of wings and a happy chirp, followed by scents of burnt flesh and free blood. Ava had just come back from a successful hunt.
“Dinner!” the golden phoenix called, rolling the carcass of a deer into the cave. There wasn’t enough room for her to fly in with it. “Fiery! Volty!”
Voltaire groaned inwardly. Ava still called them by her childish nicknames. He wished she would stop that. He had a feeling she never would. “Fiery” turned over in his slumber as if in silent protest himself.
“Food! Food!” Ava continued, pushing aside some bones from previous meals to make room for the latest catch. She spotted Adair first, still soundly sleeping, and then noticed Voltaire, still resting against the wall. “Volty, how are you feeling? You should stay off that leg.”
“Yeah, I know,” he answered wearily, remaining where he was. He hadn’t eaten yet, but he had no appetite. Perhaps that was just as well. Food wasn’t always as plentiful as this.
“Volty? You okay?” she asked, her azure eyes concerned when she noticed his reluctance to move.
“Yeah…Just tired. Thinking about new traps to make.”
“You should sleep then. I can guard.”
Voltaire let himself sink down to the floor, his back against the cave wall. He winced as he inadvertently put too much pressure on his injured leg.
“Leg still hurting bad?” she asked, coming over closer.
“I’ll live,” he replied, rubbing it gingerly.
“Let me heal it some more,” Ava said, blowing white fire onto the wounded area. The leg tingled and ached from the accelerated healing, but it did not burn. It did make him very warm and sleepy, as the soft stinging flowed into the rest of his body, his mind.
“Dammit, it’s always like this,” Voltaire muttered, as his head drooped forward. “Whatever I do, it’s never enough. I can get the stupid things right but when it comes to anything that really matters I always screw up somehow.”
“That’s not true. You’ve helped a lot,” Ava reassured after she stopped breathing fire, nuzzling Voltaire. “Things would be worse if you weren’t here. I know Fiery appreciates you being there for him.”
“The world’s against us, Ava,” Voltaire went on tiredly. “It’s not the nice place you think it is. You should know that by now, with all the crap we’ve been through the past few months. A long time ago it was ruled by Arthur and his knights, but that was back in ancient times. Now everything’s segmented and filled with foul demons and worse people. Everyone’s selfish because there’s nothing to trust.”
“Volty, you just need to believe-”
“Believe?” asked the Hunter, letting out a bitter bark and sneering. “I don’t believe in anything.”
He stopped, his venomous smile vanishing. That last part had just slipped out. Was that really true? Did he really believe in nothing now? He once believed in Curtis and Adair, but now Curtis was dead and Adair was broken. Still, didn’t that mean he was strong? That he didn’t rely on anyone else, that he was in the full possession of his heart?
But Voltaire didn’t feel strong, standing in front of the golden phoenix. There was no anger in her eyes, just sadness and pity. He felt empty. Ugly.
“…Stop that,” Voltaire said, turning away from her mournful gaze. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Ava wrapped her wing around Voltaire and pulled him closer to her. It was so soft and warm, a soft and fitful heartbeat in her chest. No, he couldn’t trust her. She was a demon. That was Adair’s heart within her. She had no heart of her own. He and Adair depended on her, but he couldn’t trust her.
“Volty, you push yourself too hard,” said the phoenix, grooming his long hair. “You should sleep.”
She began to croon a soft melody.
“Stop that,” Voltaire grumbled automatically, though he made no motion to shoo her away. “I’m not that…tired...”
------
He was back at the tree base. Everything was normal again.
“So they forced me to sing,” Adair was reading, a worn old book in his hands that was probably an artifact from the Gale library. “And then they-”
“How do you force someone to sing?” asked Curtis, leaning on the moss-covered wooden counter. He was petting Raizin, who purred. “It’s not involuntary like a sneeze or a cough.”
“I’ll tell you how you can force someone to sing,” answered Voltaire, sitting next to him with a grin. “You take a gun, point it at their head, and tell ’em to sing.”
“It’s still a willful act though,” countered Curtis. “It would be a good idea to sing if someone with a gun was asking you to, but in the end it’s your choice, not theirs.”
“It’s just a story, you two,” interjected Adair, slightly annoyed. “Who cares how the guy was forced to sing? The point is that he was forced to sing. You want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
“Though I suppose a bird is forced to sing because that’s the only way it can communicate,” Curtis added absentmindedly, looking up to the sun-lit leaves where a small golden bird roosted. “Hey heart-snatcher! Can you be forced to sing?”
Ava, still small, glided down from above. She did not know the nickname was an insult. Raizin watched her but did not try to pounce on her. He seemed to know that she was no ordinary bird.
“Sure!” chirped the phoenix. “Sometimes the song just comes to you and fills your breast, and then it rises up your throat and into your mouth, and then before you know it you’re singing.”
“So it is possible to be forced to sing,” Curtis noted, boredly watching Ava flit about. “Can’t say I’ve ever felt that way though. Then again, I’ve never been much of a singer.”
“Damn right,” said Rayna, who had been passing by with some furs slung over her shoulder. “Spare our ears the agony.”
Some others in the background hummed in agreement, with laughter following. Curtis just glared at them. Rayna rustled his splotched hair playfully, and his expression softened. Voltaire looked the other way. It was well known Curtis and Rayna were lovers.
“Volty’s a good singer,” Ava chimed in, now gliding over to Voltaire. “Fiery is too, if only he sang more.”
“…It’s not really a Gale thing to do,” Adair noted quietly, the book abandoned and forgotten on the counter. “My family gets irritated if I start humming, much less singing.”
“Your family’s a bunch of stiffs,” Voltaire replied. “As for me, I only sing when I’m drunk out of my mind.”
“That happens quite a bit,” Rayna answered with a smirk. “Do you even remember half the time you‘re drunk?”
“Shut up.”
“Ava’s right though. You’re actually a pretty good singer,” Rayna added.
“Any sober witnesses to that?” asked Voltaire.
“Why don’t you sing now, Volty?” Ava answered, flying around Voltaire in circles. “Sing! Sing!”
“Yeah, why don’t you give it a try?” added Curtis, smirking. “Maybe you could make us some extra money as a bard.”
“I have no interest in being a bard, and I have no interest in singing for your amusement either,” Voltaire stated flatly.
“Aw, c’mon,” urged the others.
No.”
“C’mon!”
“No!”
“Too scared?” suggested Rayna.
“No, too sober. I don‘t care what you guys think of me.”
“Maybe you just need some group encouragement,” went on Rayna, turning to the others attracted by the lighthearted bickering. “Alright, everybody sing!”
“Sing what?” the others asked.
“I don’t care. Just sing.”
So they all began to sing. It was disjointed and not exactly on key. Voltaire couldn’t even tell what song they were trying to sing, they stumbled over each other so much. The fair-haired Hunter buried his head in his arms to deafen the happy noise, but it didn’t help. The black cat watched it all with amusement.
“Sing, Volty, sing!” cheered Ava, who soon joined the chaotic chorus herself. After a while he heard Adair’s voice singing as well. Slowly the singing became more synchronized, more clear.
Voltaire felt a strange feeling forming in his chest, rising up within him. Crap, they were getting to him.
“Sing, Volty, sing!” Ava chanted. “Sing, Volty, sing!”
------
The Hunter heard himself singing soft and low, but he didn’t know what he was singing. It just poured out of him like tears. Ava was still crooning quietly above him. Was it the same song?
His body was heavy like guilt. He could barely open his eyes, though his mouth and voice had no trouble moving on their own. He saw a white sphere of light rising above him, pulsing steadily. There was a cold pain in his chest, which deepened as the radiant orb drifted farther and farther away.
The light…his heart! He was losing his-
He felt a mounting chill and numbness inside of him, seeping into his mind.
…No…I can’t…I…can’t…
“Stop it!”
Ava let out a shriek as Adair rammed into her, arms blazing. The orb of light stopped its ascension, dropping back down into Voltaire. Suddenly he was warm again, though his body was still strangely heavy, and whatever song he had been singing had died on his lips. As his mind cleared of the icy fog he felt himself sicken when he realized how close he had been to falling.
“What do you think you‘re doing?” yelled Adair, though Voltaire suspected he knew quite well what Ava had been up to. His arms were still on fire, and there were flames riding on his every other breath. Voltaire could hear the Hero’s heart beat fast and loudly now inside Ava.
“Fiery-”
“You’re no different than any other demon!” the redhead shouted. “And I trusted you! I believed in you! I…I…”
There was black-and-white among the typical firebreath. His heart was threatening to hammer its way out of Ava’s chest: thumpathumpathumpathumpathump-
Then there was nothing, not even a murmur. He felt himself stiffen as Ava gave out an alarmed squawk. Adair was still standing, apparently alive, but-
All the flames were becoming black-and-white, even the flames on his arms. These flames were larger and spread farther than the usual fire, almost smoke-like in nature. His body posture was calmer, but not relaxed. His ocean-blue eyes were dilated, unfocused, empty of emotion.
…Shit, thought Voltaire, as he stared into those void eyes. We’ve lost him. We’ve lost Adair. After everything we’ve done…shit…
He was lurched back into the past, less than a year ago: Curtis!…The hell did you do that for? I didn’t need saving…Those wounds, where did those…Curtis? Curtis!…Shit, he’s going downhill so fast. Is it poison?…Hey, don’t even think about dying! Rayna will have my head if I let…Curtis?…Hey, this ain’t funny. C’mon, you were talking to me just a second ago…Curtis?…Curtis?
And now Adair…it was just like losing Curtis all over again. Maybe worse. At least Curtis was buried safely in the catacombs. Now he had a heartless zombie to deal with. The strange flames reigned over the Hero: Black-and-white, bright-dark, Chiaroscuro.
Adair silently rushed forward, and both Voltaire and Ava scrambled out of the way. The Hunter’s body still felt a little strange, but he was recovered enough to move. The crimson-haired one turned around for another strike, face passive.
“Fiery, stop!” Ava screeched, very much scared by the change in blue-eyed Hero.
He’s not going to stop, thought Voltaire, and his grim prediction was soon confirmed as Adair shot forward again. The flaxen-haired Hunter jumped aside to avoid the tackle and the flaming arms, only to barely avoid a dose of bright-dark firebreath. The Chiaroscuro attack stained the walls of the cave with an unnatural glow.
Voltaire rolled to safety, his hand hovering just above his gun’s holster. Was the only way to end this to-
Ava got between them, shielding Voltaire from Adair’s upcoming assault. Her large size blocked the redhead from his view. Her large size…
Ava hasn’t reverted back to her original form, Voltaire realized. Does that mean that Adair’s heart isn’t completely dead? I know sometimes the heart stops but the person can be revived, though it doesn’t take long for them to completely die if something isn‘t done. If something isn’t done…two hearts working together…
“Ava!” he cried. “Take my heart!”
“What?” the phoenix asked, bewildered by the sudden offer.
“Just do it!” Voltaire snapped. “It might save Adair! I believe in you!”
For just a few moments he saw the light leave his chest and zip over to Ava’s. Once again he felt the numbness and chill contaminate his body, as Ava started to glow white. Then, as the phoenix began to shine brighter, there was an abrupt geyser of heat where his heart should have been. As the hotness flowed into the rest of him, and he felt his heart straining from far away, the Hunter felt himself slipping into darkness. He never felt the fall.
------
Voltaire woke under Ava’s wing, with daylight from outside shining into his eyes. Ava herself was still sleeping, as he could tell her by her slow breathing. He let out a irritated groan and slipped further under the wing.
“ ‘Taire? Are you up?”
The Hunter resurfaced from the feathers to see Adair leaning against the cave wall nearby, his blue eyes amused by Voltaire‘s sleepy behavior.
“Or are you going to sleep all day instead?” the redhead added with a smile.
“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Voltaire replied, carefully extracting himself from under the wing. As he stepped away he saw how Ava was now even bigger, with red streaks running across her golden feathers. The events of last night began to seep into his consciousness.
Adair seemed to realize this too, as his expression became more sober, his sapphire gaze averted from Voltaire.
“Feeling okay?” the Hero asked finally.
“I should be the one asking that,” the Hunter answered. “Though since you’re here talking to me it looks like my rescue wasn’t wasted. Too bad that I wasted yours.”
There was silence, as the two of them watched the outer world. The fog in the forest was evaporating.
“Ava says your heart was beating for both of us for a while,” Adair said, still keeping his gaze outside. “Still is to some extent, since my heart’s weak. Just be careful with yourself.”
“I can try,” Voltaire answered with a smirk. “But no guarantees, with our current lot. With the way the world is.”
“No one asked you to put yourself through all of this, ‘Taire. This was never your battle.”
“I put myself through it anyway.”
There was more quiet. A couple of small birds darted by.
“I didn’t feel anything when I was like that,” the Hero went on. “No numbness, no emotion, no pangs of conscience, nothing. It was like everything was far away and had nothing to do with me. It‘s scary, looking back on it.”
“Just don’t ever do that again,” Voltaire replied flatly. “No more Chiaroscuro.”
“No more what?”
Voltaire sighed, and noticed his breath rising up as steam. Remembering what giving one’s heart to a demon meant, he took a deep breath and blew out a stream of flame. He promptly choked on the smoke afterward.
“Man, that scorches your throat like hell,” the Hunter complained, still coughing some. “Dammit, I think I fried my tongue.”
Adair stared at him for a bit, and then broke out into laughter.
“What?” Voltaire asked, annoyed.
“Nothing,” Adair replied, smiling and shaking his head. “When you breathe fire, you’ve got to blow out the smoke too. Otherwise you end up with all that smoke in your throat strangling you. It takes a little while getting used to.”
“Like this?” Voltaire croaked, attempting to respire flames for a second time following Adair’s instruction. He still caught some smoke in his windpipe, but it wasn’t as bad.
“More like this,” advised Adair, spitting out some smoke and flame himself.
They spent most of the afternoon playing with fire, spewing it at the cave ceiling and trying to improve their accuracy and range. Voltaire was getting used to it quickly. Ava watched them sleepily for a while, praising their efforts, before flying off to hunt. They never did get around to eating last night.
They would have to leave soon. They had spent too long at this spot. The Gales were never far behind. Where was the trio of fire-breathers going after this? Voltaire had no idea. There was only moving forward now.
(I do have a story for Adair as well, but it's currently entered in a contest and I want to see if anything interesting happens with that first. I might post it its own thread later.)
Voltaire the Rogue
“I’m sick,” said Adair, as flame and smoke spewed from his mouth. “I’m really sick. I don’t know if you should be around me.”
Voltaire just stared, speechless for once. He had come into the woods to hunt for sport. He had come to the woods to take his mind off things, including the old friend before him. He hadn’t come expecting to find his old friend in such a state.
A golden phoenix towered above Adair, one wing wrapped around him. Her name was Ava. Voltaire knew this because she was his phoenix. Only, she hadn’t been nearly this large the last time he saw her a few days ago. Did that mean…
This was not what he intended. This was not part of the plan at all.
“Adair,” Voltaire began, finding his voice. “You do know that it was stupid of you to come back here like this, right?”
He lifted his gun and pointed it at them. Both Adair and Ava tensed.
“People who have lost their hearts to demons are considered less than human, and are open game for Hunters like me,” Voltaire went on. “I bet you’d fetch a good price, considering your high blood.”
Silence spanned between them, peppered only by the shrill cries of lonesome insects.
“But,” Voltaire went on, lowering his gun. “I’ve known you for too long, and I owe you way too damn much. Besides, I want to know what the hell happened. Can’t find that out when you’re both dead, can I?”
Adair and Ava relaxed. Voltaire smirked.
“Now let’s hit the tavern,” Voltaire added, turning around while beckoning them to come along. “I have a feeling this story will go down better with a few drinks.”
Then Voltaire froze, seeing eyes in the darkness and leaves. They were not demon eyes, or even animal. Ava hissed. Adair drew back. Voltaire sneered.
“What kind of Heroes are you, waiting to see if I’ll do the dirty work for you?” the Hunter asked the figures, as they began to emerge from the shadows. “Or were you Gales just waiting for a reason to kill me too? You guys have never been too fond of me.”
Half a dozen cerulean-armored warriors came forward, their gazes hard and cold. Leading them was a young man with sable-black hair, Jeffery Gale.
“Adair Gale,” Jeffery addressed his younger brother, pointing his sword in the redhead’s direction. “You are a traitor to the Gale bloodline, and will be slain for your treason. Whether your slaying be quick or slow is the only choice left to you.”
Voltaire moved in front of Adair, and pointed his gun at Jeffery.
“Move aside,” ordered Jeffery, his calm expression unchanging.
“Why? I doubt you’ll let me go, knowing that I would‘ve let Adair walk away,” Voltaire replied, bearing an unpleasant grin. “Once he goes, I’m next. I might as well fight because I‘m already screwed.”
He pulled the trigger. Steam erupted from the nozzle of the gun, engulfing the area in white vapor. It was a feature he had added to the firearm as soon after he first received it a few months back, an option activated by an inconspicuous switch near the trigger.
“Ava!” Voltaire called, retreating while blowing some more steam behind him for good measure. The phoenix’s large silhouette soon appeared, Adair riding on her back, and snatched the Hunter off the ground. The sharp grip dug into his shoulders, drawing blood.
They shot past the trees and into the dusk sky of orange-gold and purple. Voltaire watched as his world grew smaller and smaller, further and further away. The heaven’s expression grew darker every moment. Night was about to break upon them.
------
He would never apologize. He was who he was, Voltaire Zephyr, a low-blood Hunter whose flaxen hair was too long. The aquamarine-eyed young man could make and fix just about anything. That was probably the main reason why the Pan Alta guild kept him around, for he knew how impossible he could be to deal with. He was not one of those desperate souls who cowered in fear of this demonic world, or of other’s opinions.
Demons were everywhere. If there weren‘t, Voltaire wouldn’t have a job. A lot of people wouldn’t have a job, actually. There were a lot of Hunters out there. It was an interesting business, revered by some and despised by others. It didn’t just involve hunting demons, but also capturing demons, breeding demons, selling demons, and making products from demons. Some even used demons as partners in hunting. They also dealt with regular animals, but the demon trade was where the real money was.
Demons sought for hearts. More accurately, demons sought for the spiritual power produced by hearts. The heart of any living thing would do, but the human heart was the most prized. Demons, having no hearts themselves, were unstable creatures with little to no control over their emotions and desires. A demon no one believed could do little.
But if they could get to the spiritual part of the heart and form a spiritual link with it, then the demons can grow in form and power.
Hunters, with their careers inevitably entwined with demons, had to carefully use their heart’s belief to support their bounty. The Hunter must believe in the demon to some extent to keep a captive demon alive, or to preserve its sellable remains. But the Hunter never wanted to invest too much belief in a demon or demon remains, or the Hunter’s heart could be stolen. Strong belief wasn’t healthy for anyone, really. People got hurt in the end, if they believed that strongly. Everyone knew that.
The more a person believed in a demon, the more the demon could draw from that person. If too much of the heart was taken, then the heart could be stolen and the person could become dependant upon the demon instead. That was now Adair’s ordeal.
From what Voltaire understood, it wasn’t like the person became a demon themselves. Rather, demonic energy was pumped into their system to substitute for the absent heartbeat. The heart dies when the person dies, regardless of where the heart is, so demons want to keep their humans alive. Aside from that and other minor changes, the human body stayed the same. This demonic energy provides powers like the demon’s to the humans that were connected to them. If the demon possesses two or more hearts, sometimes the hearts could work together. What such a collaboration results in varied per demon and per person’s intent.
Only the stupid and the desperate fell for this trap. Adair should have been far above this kind of thing, being of one of the noblest Hero bloodlines. He was a descendant of King Arthur himself, for Christ’s sake. As far as Voltaire was concerned, the Hero better have a damn good reason for losing his heart like this.
------
Adair was a liar. A polite liar, but still a liar. It was a class trait, since Heroes had to be polite to anyone they served. Sometimes it took forever for Voltaire to get the redhead to tell the truth, and even then he couldn’t be sure if it really was true. Adair could be a very good liar when he wanted to be.
That is, unless Adair was drunk. Voltaire couldn’t beat Adair at many things, but he could out-drink him. He could do that easily.
Voltaire wondered if this was what hell was like, as he glanced around the demon bar. He could barely see a thing for all the smoke and steam stinging his eyes. The only light was provided by the multi-colored blasts of fire, their fiery hues changed by specialized alcohol for fire-breathers. Silhouettes and shadows cocooned in the fumes laughed madly, releasing more smoke and flame.
He wouldn’t even be here under normal circumstances. Neither would Adair, for that matter. Then again, Voltaire suspected that he would have to accept a new definition of normal from now on. Ava was outside roosting in the trees, partially to rest and partially to keep an eye out for incoming Gales.
“…You know, I always thought of the world as beautiful,” Adair rambled in his intoxicated state, smiling as he gazed up to the smog-flooded ceiling. He blew out some green fire, the flame turned that unnatural color by something in his drink. “That life is beautiful, that love is beautiful, that emotions are beautiful, that the heart is beautiful. We Heroes fight to protect those things, right?”
“Uh-huh,” said Voltaire absentmindedly, more to keep the sapphire-eyed Hero talking than to agree. The Hunter lifted up his own drink of vermouth for a gulp, only to find it empty. When had he drunk it all?
“…My thoughts exactly,” Adair agreed, hiccupping smoke and studying the curling wisps as they rose above. “Living life without appreciating those things would be like being dead, right?”
The redhead smiled darkly. Some roars and shouting behind them indicated a brawl was starting, as some glasses were heard falling and breaking.
“…Adair?” Voltaire questioned warily. He had seen the Hero clueless, fierce, cheerful, angry, and just about everything else, but never like this, even in a drunken state. He didn’t like it.
“Everything is ugly to them, my family,” Adair went on, looking down and swishing around the remaining mead in his mostly empty glass. “Life is ugly. Love is ugly. Emotions are ugly. The world is ugly. Being a Hero is a duty, not a glory, a duty to keep things from getting uglier than they already are. Hope and pleasures are just illusions for the weak to cling to, not a Hero.”
The Hero spit fire into the remains of his drink, causing it to erupt into a small fountain of green-and-white fireworks. He smiled as he watched the small disaster flare and fade, leaving nothing but ashes in the glass.
“But you know what they think is the ugliest thing?” he went on, as more maniacal laughter sounded elsewhere in the smoky bar. “The heart. The heart is the source of chaos in a Hero. It clouds one’s judgment, causes one to fall in love with the ugly world and be ensnared by its deceitful hopes and pleasures. It makes even the perfect Hero fall.”
“I guess they kinda got a point,” remarked Voltaire, coughing up some of the smog as his next vermouth arrived. “I know you’ve done some pretty stupid things for emotional reasons.”
The Hunter received a baleful glare from Adair, followed by a bitter grin. The Hero then turned his gaze back to his glass marred with smoke and ashes.
“Well, I guess that‘s why they destroy it then.”
The redhead had rolled off the answer so casually that it took Voltaire a moment to process what he had just said. His drink froze halfway to his lips as his gaze snapped over to Adair.
“…Destroy it? The heart?”
“Yeah, destroy it. Murder it,” Adair went on, shuddering a bit despite his smile. “The perfect Hero has no room for such a magnificent but inconvenient weakness like the heart, as far as the Gale family is concerned. It’s…what the Gale family has done for years to produce perfect Heroes. Centuries even.”
“…You can’t be serious,” Voltaire hissed. “That’s no better than the demons! Whose dumbass idea was that, to reduce a human to a demon for justice’s sake?”
Adair laughed loudly, a little too loudly, at Voltaire’s blunt answer. Green fire went everywhere, Voltaire ducking to avoid getting burned.
“Well put. It is a dumbass idea, isn’t it?” the redhead agreed, grinning but clutching his chest. “The Hero should fight with his heart, right? Protect everyone and the world because he cares, right? Your heart is who you are, right?”
Adair chuckled nervously. Embers of black-and-white flame escaped from his mouth. Voltaire noticed the change in the fire, but attributed it to the effects of the altered alcohol and thought little else of it.
“How the hell is that even possible?” asked Voltaire. “Even demons can’t destroy a heart. Draw from it or consume it, yeah, but not destroy it. Only the original owner‘s death can extinguish it outright.”
For a while Adair didn’t answer, breathing heavily while black-and-white flames spewed everywhere. Then he shook his head vigorously as if shaking off water, and blew out a stream of black-and-white fire until it turned bright green again.
Voltaire watched warily. What had that been just now? Some kind of attack?
“…You know my family’s knighting sword, Clarent?” the Hero went on, not waiting for an answer from the Hunter. “Well, it’s a laser sword, lord knows how old. It doesn’t hurt the body, but it’s designed that way so it can strike the spiritual heart itself, while still letting the body live. That’s how they get their perfect Heroes.”
“You saw them stab someone with it?”
“They stabbed me with it,” Adair answered, suddenly shaking. “It was…awful, like all my emotions were screaming inside of me. If it wasn‘t for Ava, I‘d…I‘d…And the whole time they were telling me how much better off I would be without my Heart, how perfect I would be, and how all the fighting was futile because no one was going to save me, no one was going-”
Voltaire watched as Adair’s shuddering intensified, unsure what to do. He had never seen Adair like this, not brave and cheerful Adair. His friend of Gale blood could stare down a writhing hydra and not even flinch at its horrendous roars. Now Adair Gale…Gale…The flaxen-haired human clenched his glass. Those heartless bastard Gales!
“…But that had been my life, you know,” Adair went on, suddenly almost serene. “I’ve been groomed to be a perfect hero since I was born. That’s the reason I was born, reason I was bred…bred like livestock, just like all the other Gales before me…I believed in them. They were my family. But they never believed in me, in who I really was…I believed in them…”
Adair’s grip on his drink shook. Voltaire was silent.
------
Drinking was to become one of their few luxuries in their new lives as outlaws, and even then it was mostly restricted to demonic bars. The Gales were ruthless pursuers, and their high-blood influence reached everywhere. They could never stay in one place for long. It was a good thing that they could cover a lot of distance quickly by riding on Ava’s back.
Mostly they dwelled in the wild, preferably forests and mountains. There were no shortages of animals or demons in these areas, but this was usually an advantage rather than a detriment. Any Gales who stalked into these places would have to deal with the wildlife first, giving them ample warning and distraction so they could escape. As for Voltaire, most of the flora and fauna were potential meals. He had become a Hunter in the most basic sense.
If he was still with the Pan Alta guild he wouldn’t have been doing this by himself, at least for the bigger game. Adair was in no state to hunt and Ava had to guard him while he was out. It wasn’t that Adair was weak so much as he was unstable. Ava fussed over the Hero a lot, always worrying over his somewhat weak, irregular heartbeat.
Then again, maybe Voltaire preferred hunting by himself. There was no bickering about who got how much of the money for a kill, or who got to keep what parts for a trophy, no Adair unconsciously showing him up. No Rayna to rebuke him for his recklessness, for that matter. He could only guess at what the female commander must think of him now, running off to defend a fugitive friend. Was she fuming at his unruliness, laughing at his foolishness, twisting her long hair in worry over the whole situation?
All Voltaire knew was, whatever she was doing, she would looked both graceful and firm in doing so. She was beautiful, no denying that…And no he did not like her, no matter what Adair or anyone else said with teasing grins. He liked it much better when Curtis was in charge. He was used to Curtis. But he…
…He was already missing the old days. He couldn’t believe that he was missing the old days.
------
Pan Alta was a mixed guild, though it consisted mostly of Hunters. It was known for high-ranking demon kills and captures and for its trading relationship with the Gale family. Voltaire didn’t know if it was the former or the latter that had made it so famous in the area. Probably the latter. It was because of the latter that he met with Adair Gale in the first place.
“Chee-arro-what?” questioned Voltaire, giving his commander an odd look as the two of them lazed about on the branches outside their giant tree hideout. Most of the Pan Alta Guild had celebrated a large catch with plenty of beers and rum the night before, so no one felt like doing much else than lying around. Ava would have been trying to perk everybody up with her over-cuteness, but this was before he had met her.
“Kee-arro-skoro,” Curtis Westbrook pronounced carefully, squinting his lavender eyes against the sun. His brown-and-tan-splotched hair, the result of a magical accident when Adair was trying to change his own hair color, was a curly mess that morning. He didn‘t look the Hunter type with his thin build and glasses, but many demons learned to fear his whip.
“How the hell do you even spell that?”
“C-H-I-A-R-O-S-C-U-R-O. Chiaroscuro. It means bright-dark.”
Raizin the cat climbed up to Curtis’s branch, stretching out his black, tailless body alongside the commander. Curtis said he was a special breed called a Manx, from a far-off place called Japan. He always had a fondness for felines.
“Bright-dark?” asked the Hunter with aqua-green eyes. “Who would want a stupid word like that? Either something’s bright or something’s dark. It can’t be both bright and dark.”
“Are you sure?” Curtis asked with a smirk. “Think about it.”
“I don’t feel like thinking,” Voltaire grumbled, as he rubbed his forehead to make his hangover headache go away faster. He wasn’t in the mood for philosophy or strange foreign words. “What’s something bright-dark?”
Curtis glanced down below, as did the black cat.
“See the shadows down there?” the lavender-eyed commander said, referring to the dark images of tree leaves splattered among the sun-soaked grasses. “Light and dark, side by side. The colors never mix or blend, never compromise. Cross one line just a little and suddenly what was light is now dark, and vice versa.
“I dunno if I follow,” admitted Voltaire. “Try telling me when my head’s not about to split open. I swear, how can you drink that Black Widow stuff?”
Curtis just chuckled. Raizin also looked amused. Voltaire swore that cat understood everything that was said. Then again, cats were good at looking intelligent. In that way Curtis shared a trait with cats.
Someone below emerged, somewhat unsteadily, from the home tree. Voltaire could tell from the vivid red hair that it was Adair, apparently still recovering from last night. He became marked in sun and shadow along with the grasses.
“I suppose he‘s an example of it too,” Curtis remarked, watching Adair as he paused to hold his head.
“Mr. Hero down there?” asked Voltaire, one eyebrow raised. “Bright-dark?”
“Well, more of the Gales in general, but I see it in Adair some too,” the Pan Alta commander went on. “One moment they’re smiling, warm, light, and then when an enemy comes they become glaring, cold, dark. There’s little in-between with them, just black and white. Opposite states, and yet it’s still the same person. Bright-dark.”
“People are like that general.”
“The Gales are especially so. Almost unnaturally so.”
Adair was wandering about, like he was looking for something. Then Voltaire noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual ocean-blue armor, and suspected that was the object of his search. The pale-haired Hunter remembered something about himself and a couple other guys slinking off with the armor when Adair had one too many drinks of mead. He considered telling Adair this, but it occurred to him that he had no idea what he did with the armor afterward. Leave Adair unsuspecting. He was awfully trusting.
“You’re terrible to our guest,” Curtis remarked with amusement, as if glimpsing in Voltaire’s still-groggy mind. “Why do you like to bother him so?”
“To keep him on his toes,” Voltaire answered absently, before grinning. “And because he’s fun to bother. Just the way he reacts to things, it‘s different from most people. Maybe it‘s a Gale thing.”
“Speaking of Gales, have you seen Daniel lately?” asked Curtis, turning to Voltaire.
“No,” the young man with aqua-green eyes answered, watching Adair hunting through the bushes. The redhead’s expression grew both more relieved and more frustrated when he found only one gauntlet of his armor alone in the weeds. Apparently the armor was not in one hiding place but several.
“I‘ve seen Daniel,” said Curtis, Raizin studying him as he paused. “He’s changed.”
Voltaire knew that Curtis and Daniel hung out with each other in a similar manner that he and Adair did. He himself could never stand Adair’s older brother though. Then again he usually didn’t get along with Adair’s siblings, and there were a lot of them. There were so many not even Adair could keep track of how many brothers and sisters he had. It seemed like there were always new Gales being born.
“What, is he bearable to be around now?” asked Voltaire with a smirk.
“He’s just like the rest of them now,” replied Curtis, eyes narrowing. “All smiles and noble speech and noble behavior, but none of it reaching his eyes. I don’t know him anymore.”
Voltaire’s eyes also narrowed. He and Daniel always argued, their fights usually far worse than anything he had with Adair, but he couldn’t help but admire the guy’s guts. He wasn’t going to do anything that he felt was wrong, even if they were orders from the other Gales. Adair said he was probably the most rebellious Gale that had ever been born into the family. And now…he’s just the same as the rest?
“I don’t believe it,” he finally replied.
“Me neither,” answered Curtis, stroking Raizin. “I only saw him a couple weeks before that, and he was as wild and careless as ever. It’s too fast, too sudden. Something’s wrong here.”
Voltaire agreed. He couldn’t think of anything traumatizing enough to make loudmouth Daniel suddenly behave like a saint. Torture wouldn’t do it. The Gales went through all kinds of torture to prepare for such events (Daniel liked to brag about all the gruesome details. Adair wasn’t so eager to talk about it). Demons, criminals, everything a normal person would fear was mere prey to a Hero.
“Maybe you should keep an eye on Adair,” the commander suggested. “David mentioned something about a coming-of-age ceremony the last time I saw him normal. I’d hate to see that happen to Adair as well.”
“So I should stalk him to any suspicious Gale events?”
“Be more tactful than that,“ advised Curtis, reclining back. “Send one of our demons to track him. If it gets caught you can just say it got loose from the guild or something. Such things happen even to the best of guilds.”
“And we’re the best, huh?”
“I’d like to think so,” said Curtis with a small grin.
On that day he would only learn a odd word that he was proud of being able to pronounce. He would learn everything else later, not that it did him much good. By the time he knew everything they were on the run from the Gales, Adair’s heart was broken and stolen, and Curtis had been long dead, killed on what was supposed to be a routine mission. Raizin ran off a few days after Curtis’s death.
He could protect anyone, except when it mattered most.
------
Ava the large phoenix was not much different from Ava the small one. She spoke less child-like and her fire attacks were now formidable instead of an amusing fireworks display, but her personality had changed surprisingly little. Her immense size made many of her kiddy habits seem downright motherly now, fussing over their hair and injuries and insisting that they sleep under her wings.
Adair took it passively, sometimes even seemed to enjoy ir, but it incensed Voltaire. He knew phoenixes were expert seducers. They awed you with their beauty and pretended to be your friend, acting as if they actually cared about you. Then, when you were at your weakest, they robbed you of your heart just like any other demon. There was no way he could trust her.
Adair wasn’t really a fire-type person, Voltaire noted with amusement. The redhead did not like to burn things. In fact, he was often spooked by the flames he summoned, even though he should have been used to it by now. He wasn’t that great at controlling it either, at least not yet. There had been plenty of occasions where the Hero had unwittingly set things on fire, or had nearly fried Voltaire. That was one reason Adair wasn’t hunting alongside Voltaire at the moment. The Hunter did not appreciate his cover getting blown by an accidental fire-breath, or his long hair getting singed because of it.
There were times when Adair spat out black-and-white flame instead of regular fire, like that time at the bar. Voltaire didn’t know what caused this or what it meant, if anything. Adair didn’t understand it either, nor did Ava, so it wasn‘t an inherent power. The scarlet-haired Hero said that he felt very strange whenever it happened, like his senses became both sharper and more distant. Voltaire was wary of it, like he was of most things.
The scarlet-haired Hero had picked up more than fire-breath from Ava. He also had an ability to create a healing white flame, which could be used to make wounds heal faster. It was a good thing he and Ava could do this, because between bounty hunters, the Gales, traps, and occasional self-stupidity they got themselves hurt a lot.
Adair could also set his arms on fire. First they would smoke for a few seconds, and then they were engulfed from fingers to shoulder in flames. Because of this he had to keep his arms bare now (the first time he had burned off the sleeves of his shirt). He couldn’t bend his arms much when they were like that, but he could cause great damage swinging them about. It was a wonder his arms didn’t break when he did that, but Voltaire wasn’t one for understanding the details of demonic power. Details of machines, math, and mechanics sure, but not the fine points of fiendish energy on the human body. He also knew Adair could propel forward like a rocket when his arms were on fire, and Voltaire didn’t understand that either. Arms on fire did not equal wings or rockets, and Adair wasn‘t good at explaining it either.
Adair could control his arms better than the fire-breath, and was more of a close-quarters combatant anyway, so he preferred the flaming-arm method of attack. If only they could find a sword that wouldn’t melt in his hands when he got too worked up in a fight. Voltaire wasn’t too hopeful about that. If the Gale sword couldn’t handle the heat he couldn’t think of much else that would, short of some legendary sword like Excalibur. With their current luck that wasn’t likely.
Sometimes it was plain entertaining to watch Adair in his new state. Whenever he got wet or mad steam would rise off him, like he had just been cooked and wasn‘t too happy about it. He couldn’t stand having water poured on him, though he drank twice as much of it. The sapphire-eyed Hero still bathed in streams for the sake of noble cleanliness, but he did not enjoy it anymore. He blew out smoke and steam when he got tired, sometimes without thinking, sometimes theatrically. If he was drunk there was spitfire on every exhale.
Adair couldn’t wear his old armor anymore, at least not for long. The heavy metal made him too hot. He still wore that powder-blue ascot around his neck though. Voltaire didn’t know why he bothered. The blue ascot was one of the signatures of the Gales, and Adair neither could or would go back to them. It wouldn’t make him any cooler either. The Hunter just didn’t understand the Hero sometimes. Perhaps this is why Voltaire was amused by him. Or perhaps he just had a poor sense of humor, being entertained by his friend’s fallen state. Why was that?
People accused Voltaire of being rude and selfish. It was one of the few accusations he didn‘t take offense to, because he knew it was true. He would get into fights about the stupidest things. The few people he was good friends with he liked to tease and pull pranks on. Adair knew all about that. But when it came to serious situations, like living or dying, he would protect those friends with his life.
At least, he tried to. Sometimes Voltaire ended up being the one rescued instead. He hated it when that happened. That tended to occur when he went out with Adair on adventures. He fought hard, got the crap beat out him, got his hide saved by Adair, and Adair ended up getting most of the credit. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes.
Blasted Adair, he made everything look easy. People were just drawn to the Hero and his positive personality like bugs to light. Even the animals loved him. Power and luck came to him effortlessly, when Voltaire had to work hard for what little he got.
It made him sick sometimes. How he wished he had that kind of power and luck. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to watch Curtis die before his eyes. How he wished that Adair didn’t hog all the luck, and slip out of desperate situations so easily. How he wished for Adair to be in need of rescue for once, for a reminder that he was not invincible and impossible to catch up to.
…Looks like he got his wish. But this…
If he himself was the one being hunted by the Gales, Voltaire thought, this might have been interesting. Fun, even. A challenge of seeing how long he could last against the highest bloodline linked to King Arthur, perhaps be remembered in infamy if he did a decent job of it. Being remembered as a rogue force was better than never being remembered at all.
But this wasn’t about him. This was about Adair. He was nothing more than a pesky rooster as far as the Gales were concerned. But he would rather burn in hell than let them get the sapphire-eyed redhead, the broken Hero. Because he knew that Adair could overcome this, given enough time. He was just that damn strong. Then he could snatch his fixed heart back with ease, and both of them would expose those Gales for the heartless bastards that they were.
------
Voltaire glared at the outside world from the inside of the cave, his left leg throbbing as he stubbornly stood on it. He couldn’t believe that he had been careless enough to step into a trap the other day. On top of that the jaws of the trap had apparently been laced with some kind of anti-magic venom, making the wound slow to heal even with Ava’s help. The Hunter was lucky that he had been able to get free of the trap and had made it back to the cave with his injured leg.
He was waiting for Ava to come back with their next meal. Normally Voltaire did most of the hunting, but his hurt leg had kept him confined to the cave. He supposed it was a majestic view, the pale mist curling around the vast forest below, but to him it was a great green trap soaked by fog. Everything was a trap now. Dusk would soon come again.
The flaxen-haired Hunter sighed and leaned against the pleasantly cool wall, listening to Adair’s snores behind him. Adair slept constantly these days. He could easily sleep half the day away, undisturbed by any noise or attempts to wake him up. He never used to be like that. Voltaire didn’t know if this tiredness was caused by the condition of his heart or simply an unwillingness to get up and face the world. Another sign of brokenness.
What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t fix people like he could machines. He couldn’t shoot fear dead. He certainly didn’t stand a chance against the Gales. Yet Adair and Ava admired him. Why?
Voltaire laid his head against the chilled stone. Why was he so tired? He had hardly done anything the past few days. Mostly he had slept under one of Ava’s wings when he had the chance. The last few nights had been cold, dammit.
He heard a great flapping of wings and a happy chirp, followed by scents of burnt flesh and free blood. Ava had just come back from a successful hunt.
“Dinner!” the golden phoenix called, rolling the carcass of a deer into the cave. There wasn’t enough room for her to fly in with it. “Fiery! Volty!”
Voltaire groaned inwardly. Ava still called them by her childish nicknames. He wished she would stop that. He had a feeling she never would. “Fiery” turned over in his slumber as if in silent protest himself.
“Food! Food!” Ava continued, pushing aside some bones from previous meals to make room for the latest catch. She spotted Adair first, still soundly sleeping, and then noticed Voltaire, still resting against the wall. “Volty, how are you feeling? You should stay off that leg.”
“Yeah, I know,” he answered wearily, remaining where he was. He hadn’t eaten yet, but he had no appetite. Perhaps that was just as well. Food wasn’t always as plentiful as this.
“Volty? You okay?” she asked, her azure eyes concerned when she noticed his reluctance to move.
“Yeah…Just tired. Thinking about new traps to make.”
“You should sleep then. I can guard.”
Voltaire let himself sink down to the floor, his back against the cave wall. He winced as he inadvertently put too much pressure on his injured leg.
“Leg still hurting bad?” she asked, coming over closer.
“I’ll live,” he replied, rubbing it gingerly.
“Let me heal it some more,” Ava said, blowing white fire onto the wounded area. The leg tingled and ached from the accelerated healing, but it did not burn. It did make him very warm and sleepy, as the soft stinging flowed into the rest of his body, his mind.
“Dammit, it’s always like this,” Voltaire muttered, as his head drooped forward. “Whatever I do, it’s never enough. I can get the stupid things right but when it comes to anything that really matters I always screw up somehow.”
“That’s not true. You’ve helped a lot,” Ava reassured after she stopped breathing fire, nuzzling Voltaire. “Things would be worse if you weren’t here. I know Fiery appreciates you being there for him.”
“The world’s against us, Ava,” Voltaire went on tiredly. “It’s not the nice place you think it is. You should know that by now, with all the crap we’ve been through the past few months. A long time ago it was ruled by Arthur and his knights, but that was back in ancient times. Now everything’s segmented and filled with foul demons and worse people. Everyone’s selfish because there’s nothing to trust.”
“Volty, you just need to believe-”
“Believe?” asked the Hunter, letting out a bitter bark and sneering. “I don’t believe in anything.”
He stopped, his venomous smile vanishing. That last part had just slipped out. Was that really true? Did he really believe in nothing now? He once believed in Curtis and Adair, but now Curtis was dead and Adair was broken. Still, didn’t that mean he was strong? That he didn’t rely on anyone else, that he was in the full possession of his heart?
But Voltaire didn’t feel strong, standing in front of the golden phoenix. There was no anger in her eyes, just sadness and pity. He felt empty. Ugly.
“…Stop that,” Voltaire said, turning away from her mournful gaze. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Ava wrapped her wing around Voltaire and pulled him closer to her. It was so soft and warm, a soft and fitful heartbeat in her chest. No, he couldn’t trust her. She was a demon. That was Adair’s heart within her. She had no heart of her own. He and Adair depended on her, but he couldn’t trust her.
“Volty, you push yourself too hard,” said the phoenix, grooming his long hair. “You should sleep.”
She began to croon a soft melody.
“Stop that,” Voltaire grumbled automatically, though he made no motion to shoo her away. “I’m not that…tired...”
------
He was back at the tree base. Everything was normal again.
“So they forced me to sing,” Adair was reading, a worn old book in his hands that was probably an artifact from the Gale library. “And then they-”
“How do you force someone to sing?” asked Curtis, leaning on the moss-covered wooden counter. He was petting Raizin, who purred. “It’s not involuntary like a sneeze or a cough.”
“I’ll tell you how you can force someone to sing,” answered Voltaire, sitting next to him with a grin. “You take a gun, point it at their head, and tell ’em to sing.”
“It’s still a willful act though,” countered Curtis. “It would be a good idea to sing if someone with a gun was asking you to, but in the end it’s your choice, not theirs.”
“It’s just a story, you two,” interjected Adair, slightly annoyed. “Who cares how the guy was forced to sing? The point is that he was forced to sing. You want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
“Though I suppose a bird is forced to sing because that’s the only way it can communicate,” Curtis added absentmindedly, looking up to the sun-lit leaves where a small golden bird roosted. “Hey heart-snatcher! Can you be forced to sing?”
Ava, still small, glided down from above. She did not know the nickname was an insult. Raizin watched her but did not try to pounce on her. He seemed to know that she was no ordinary bird.
“Sure!” chirped the phoenix. “Sometimes the song just comes to you and fills your breast, and then it rises up your throat and into your mouth, and then before you know it you’re singing.”
“So it is possible to be forced to sing,” Curtis noted, boredly watching Ava flit about. “Can’t say I’ve ever felt that way though. Then again, I’ve never been much of a singer.”
“Damn right,” said Rayna, who had been passing by with some furs slung over her shoulder. “Spare our ears the agony.”
Some others in the background hummed in agreement, with laughter following. Curtis just glared at them. Rayna rustled his splotched hair playfully, and his expression softened. Voltaire looked the other way. It was well known Curtis and Rayna were lovers.
“Volty’s a good singer,” Ava chimed in, now gliding over to Voltaire. “Fiery is too, if only he sang more.”
“…It’s not really a Gale thing to do,” Adair noted quietly, the book abandoned and forgotten on the counter. “My family gets irritated if I start humming, much less singing.”
“Your family’s a bunch of stiffs,” Voltaire replied. “As for me, I only sing when I’m drunk out of my mind.”
“That happens quite a bit,” Rayna answered with a smirk. “Do you even remember half the time you‘re drunk?”
“Shut up.”
“Ava’s right though. You’re actually a pretty good singer,” Rayna added.
“Any sober witnesses to that?” asked Voltaire.
“Why don’t you sing now, Volty?” Ava answered, flying around Voltaire in circles. “Sing! Sing!”
“Yeah, why don’t you give it a try?” added Curtis, smirking. “Maybe you could make us some extra money as a bard.”
“I have no interest in being a bard, and I have no interest in singing for your amusement either,” Voltaire stated flatly.
“Aw, c’mon,” urged the others.
No.”
“C’mon!”
“No!”
“Too scared?” suggested Rayna.
“No, too sober. I don‘t care what you guys think of me.”
“Maybe you just need some group encouragement,” went on Rayna, turning to the others attracted by the lighthearted bickering. “Alright, everybody sing!”
“Sing what?” the others asked.
“I don’t care. Just sing.”
So they all began to sing. It was disjointed and not exactly on key. Voltaire couldn’t even tell what song they were trying to sing, they stumbled over each other so much. The fair-haired Hunter buried his head in his arms to deafen the happy noise, but it didn’t help. The black cat watched it all with amusement.
“Sing, Volty, sing!” cheered Ava, who soon joined the chaotic chorus herself. After a while he heard Adair’s voice singing as well. Slowly the singing became more synchronized, more clear.
Voltaire felt a strange feeling forming in his chest, rising up within him. Crap, they were getting to him.
“Sing, Volty, sing!” Ava chanted. “Sing, Volty, sing!”
------
The Hunter heard himself singing soft and low, but he didn’t know what he was singing. It just poured out of him like tears. Ava was still crooning quietly above him. Was it the same song?
His body was heavy like guilt. He could barely open his eyes, though his mouth and voice had no trouble moving on their own. He saw a white sphere of light rising above him, pulsing steadily. There was a cold pain in his chest, which deepened as the radiant orb drifted farther and farther away.
The light…his heart! He was losing his-
He felt a mounting chill and numbness inside of him, seeping into his mind.
…No…I can’t…I…can’t…
“Stop it!”
Ava let out a shriek as Adair rammed into her, arms blazing. The orb of light stopped its ascension, dropping back down into Voltaire. Suddenly he was warm again, though his body was still strangely heavy, and whatever song he had been singing had died on his lips. As his mind cleared of the icy fog he felt himself sicken when he realized how close he had been to falling.
“What do you think you‘re doing?” yelled Adair, though Voltaire suspected he knew quite well what Ava had been up to. His arms were still on fire, and there were flames riding on his every other breath. Voltaire could hear the Hero’s heart beat fast and loudly now inside Ava.
“Fiery-”
“You’re no different than any other demon!” the redhead shouted. “And I trusted you! I believed in you! I…I…”
There was black-and-white among the typical firebreath. His heart was threatening to hammer its way out of Ava’s chest: thumpathumpathumpathumpathump-
Then there was nothing, not even a murmur. He felt himself stiffen as Ava gave out an alarmed squawk. Adair was still standing, apparently alive, but-
All the flames were becoming black-and-white, even the flames on his arms. These flames were larger and spread farther than the usual fire, almost smoke-like in nature. His body posture was calmer, but not relaxed. His ocean-blue eyes were dilated, unfocused, empty of emotion.
…Shit, thought Voltaire, as he stared into those void eyes. We’ve lost him. We’ve lost Adair. After everything we’ve done…shit…
He was lurched back into the past, less than a year ago: Curtis!…The hell did you do that for? I didn’t need saving…Those wounds, where did those…Curtis? Curtis!…Shit, he’s going downhill so fast. Is it poison?…Hey, don’t even think about dying! Rayna will have my head if I let…Curtis?…Hey, this ain’t funny. C’mon, you were talking to me just a second ago…Curtis?…Curtis?
And now Adair…it was just like losing Curtis all over again. Maybe worse. At least Curtis was buried safely in the catacombs. Now he had a heartless zombie to deal with. The strange flames reigned over the Hero: Black-and-white, bright-dark, Chiaroscuro.
Adair silently rushed forward, and both Voltaire and Ava scrambled out of the way. The Hunter’s body still felt a little strange, but he was recovered enough to move. The crimson-haired one turned around for another strike, face passive.
“Fiery, stop!” Ava screeched, very much scared by the change in blue-eyed Hero.
He’s not going to stop, thought Voltaire, and his grim prediction was soon confirmed as Adair shot forward again. The flaxen-haired Hunter jumped aside to avoid the tackle and the flaming arms, only to barely avoid a dose of bright-dark firebreath. The Chiaroscuro attack stained the walls of the cave with an unnatural glow.
Voltaire rolled to safety, his hand hovering just above his gun’s holster. Was the only way to end this to-
Ava got between them, shielding Voltaire from Adair’s upcoming assault. Her large size blocked the redhead from his view. Her large size…
Ava hasn’t reverted back to her original form, Voltaire realized. Does that mean that Adair’s heart isn’t completely dead? I know sometimes the heart stops but the person can be revived, though it doesn’t take long for them to completely die if something isn‘t done. If something isn’t done…two hearts working together…
“Ava!” he cried. “Take my heart!”
“What?” the phoenix asked, bewildered by the sudden offer.
“Just do it!” Voltaire snapped. “It might save Adair! I believe in you!”
For just a few moments he saw the light leave his chest and zip over to Ava’s. Once again he felt the numbness and chill contaminate his body, as Ava started to glow white. Then, as the phoenix began to shine brighter, there was an abrupt geyser of heat where his heart should have been. As the hotness flowed into the rest of him, and he felt his heart straining from far away, the Hunter felt himself slipping into darkness. He never felt the fall.
------
Voltaire woke under Ava’s wing, with daylight from outside shining into his eyes. Ava herself was still sleeping, as he could tell her by her slow breathing. He let out a irritated groan and slipped further under the wing.
“ ‘Taire? Are you up?”
The Hunter resurfaced from the feathers to see Adair leaning against the cave wall nearby, his blue eyes amused by Voltaire‘s sleepy behavior.
“Or are you going to sleep all day instead?” the redhead added with a smile.
“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Voltaire replied, carefully extracting himself from under the wing. As he stepped away he saw how Ava was now even bigger, with red streaks running across her golden feathers. The events of last night began to seep into his consciousness.
Adair seemed to realize this too, as his expression became more sober, his sapphire gaze averted from Voltaire.
“Feeling okay?” the Hero asked finally.
“I should be the one asking that,” the Hunter answered. “Though since you’re here talking to me it looks like my rescue wasn’t wasted. Too bad that I wasted yours.”
There was silence, as the two of them watched the outer world. The fog in the forest was evaporating.
“Ava says your heart was beating for both of us for a while,” Adair said, still keeping his gaze outside. “Still is to some extent, since my heart’s weak. Just be careful with yourself.”
“I can try,” Voltaire answered with a smirk. “But no guarantees, with our current lot. With the way the world is.”
“No one asked you to put yourself through all of this, ‘Taire. This was never your battle.”
“I put myself through it anyway.”
There was more quiet. A couple of small birds darted by.
“I didn’t feel anything when I was like that,” the Hero went on. “No numbness, no emotion, no pangs of conscience, nothing. It was like everything was far away and had nothing to do with me. It‘s scary, looking back on it.”
“Just don’t ever do that again,” Voltaire replied flatly. “No more Chiaroscuro.”
“No more what?”
Voltaire sighed, and noticed his breath rising up as steam. Remembering what giving one’s heart to a demon meant, he took a deep breath and blew out a stream of flame. He promptly choked on the smoke afterward.
“Man, that scorches your throat like hell,” the Hunter complained, still coughing some. “Dammit, I think I fried my tongue.”
Adair stared at him for a bit, and then broke out into laughter.
“What?” Voltaire asked, annoyed.
“Nothing,” Adair replied, smiling and shaking his head. “When you breathe fire, you’ve got to blow out the smoke too. Otherwise you end up with all that smoke in your throat strangling you. It takes a little while getting used to.”
“Like this?” Voltaire croaked, attempting to respire flames for a second time following Adair’s instruction. He still caught some smoke in his windpipe, but it wasn’t as bad.
“More like this,” advised Adair, spitting out some smoke and flame himself.
They spent most of the afternoon playing with fire, spewing it at the cave ceiling and trying to improve their accuracy and range. Voltaire was getting used to it quickly. Ava watched them sleepily for a while, praising their efforts, before flying off to hunt. They never did get around to eating last night.
They would have to leave soon. They had spent too long at this spot. The Gales were never far behind. Where was the trio of fire-breathers going after this? Voltaire had no idea. There was only moving forward now.
(I do have a story for Adair as well, but it's currently entered in a contest and I want to see if anything interesting happens with that first. I might post it its own thread later.)
Nightbreak- Hero
- Posts : 6259
Join date : 2010-06-09
Age : 35
Location : Everywhere and Nowhere
Wishsong :: Literature :: Fiction
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