During the Spring Festival (3)

The portal opened. Scenery flashed by. A green meadow ripped with battle scars. Tilting.

Rolling as the gravity shifts, falling. Another portal.

Battling at velocity. Shining lights of skyscrapers attempted to pierce the falling combatants. Windows burst from sonic clashes. Near impact with the ground.

The pavement opens. April plummeted, the gravity once again shifting as she deflected an incoming attack.

Broken monitors took a heavier beating as more attacks were parried.

A battle raged within the confines of fictional eternity. Transgressing time and space within this mindscape. Was it all a construct of April's imagination, or was she really going to all these wonderful places? Both?

There was nothing but fighting. When April was losing, she switched locales. Hoping for a battlefield that would work to her advantage. The mass of wriggling chains was ever-adapting and proficient in all environments. It was submerged in boiling magma or frozen solid in northern icecaps. It emerged nearly undamaged. Immobilization was impossible, and the number of chains seemed unlimited.

Huffing, all she could do was fight. The Mini-Aprils were trapped in the many renditions of reality, unable to follow her throughout the encounter.

"Just die already!"

More attacks came. Her footing was off as she felt what remained of her clothes get ripped further.

Falling. Gravity shifted as she fell through a portal.

Standing.

Stopping.

She recognized this space.

"The wizard's map room."

Then this is...

Whipping around, she saw a horrifying display.

Scars and grooves lined the room; paper scattered and still fluttering like snowflakes—blood, scarlet with the stench of deep copper. A white knight standing over a shredded corpse, sword still piercing the wizard's eye. His white and pearly armor was stained with a red so dark that it turned black as sin.

Tearing her eyes from the horrific scene, she searched for her own immortal foe.

"April."

Goosebumps.

April froze. The white knight turned his head. Handsome visage pristine and clean, his lips moved.

"Resisting is futile."

A breathy exhale. Her arms quaked. Her fears come alive.

A sick squelch as the sword was pulled from its gruesome sheath. The wizard made no move.

The knight paced forward, speaking in a dozen voices.

"You cannot change a story already written."

"Your struggle is pointless and your defeat inevitable."

"Your story will end as it should, regardless of folly or girlish delusions."

"Continue, and you will meet the same fate as the wizard."

The falling paper eluded him as if it was afraid to touch him.

"Ha."

A tremor. Was it insanity? The entire situation was fucked. The boltcutters in her hands barely classified as scrap metal.

The knight paused his march towards her; his delicate face raised an eyebrow.

"Don't take my word for it. Watch."

He waved an arm, a floating rectangle flickering to life.

"See for yourself."

=

Bellavarn laughed. Vienna dragged him by the arm towards a stall, exclaiming a single word over and over again. He humored her and spent time sampling several soups. Vienna's commentary was something to behold.

"Pinch of salt, dash of pepper sprinkled on diced tomatoes and chopped onions. Lukewarm temperature detracts from potential spark of flavor. Stirring regularly has suffused flavor but also depleted the natural consistency and texture."

Bug-eyed; nearly everyone. Vienna went on to sample every soup they came across. Rating it. Comparing. Advising the chefs. Some took it hard, but most were excited to have such a specialized critic. Bellavarn interrupted her once they toured over ten soup-specific locations.

"Vienna, do you want to enter the pie-eating contest with me?"

"Pie?"

"Yeah. Pie. I assume there are different kinds too. I am sure they would be ecstatic to hear your comments."

"But pies aren't soup."

Bellavarn tilted his head, smirking.

"Isn't pie just soup with a shell?"

Vienna stopped walking. Stuck to the spot.

Cynthia waved an arm up and down. Simply, she commented matter of factly.

"You broke her."

"Just wait for it."

There was a tick as the assorted group watched. Then it came.

"SOUP-PIE!"

Vienna's exclamation tore through the crowd. Bellavarn felt himself flapping in the wind as Vienna pulled him like a kite. It took a few minutes to tell her she ran past the competition...

=

"What do you think about this set?"

"That is a knock-off, Master Bellavarn. It looks nice but is made of lesser material. You don't want the handle to break off a teacup as you bring it to your lips."

"Indeed. That would be bad. What do you suggest?"

"Eul Porcelain is expensive and the height of luxury."

"Then..."

Bellavarn toured the small shop. Searching.

When he found it, he knew it was the right one.

"I'll take this one."

Denice fixated on the pattern.

"Master Bellavarn, are you sure? This is an exorbitant price even for porcelain."

"I'm sure. I like this one, don't you? I can practically smell the rain."

Denice's small smile was what he was hoping for. It seemed she remembered their first chat as well. The tea set that Bellavarn had wrapped up safely was painted with blue raindrops. One could almost hear the subtle plinks of liquid from the exquisite artwork.

All wrapped up, Bellavarn paid. Handing it to a startled Denice.

"A gift."

"Master Bellavarn, I couldn't."

"Don't mind it. Let's share a cup in the future."

Denice sighed.

"You're hopeless, Master Bellavarn."

"Hm? What was that?"

"Nothing."

Smiling, she held the box close to her chest, certain not to break it.

=

Wilson was tearing out his hair. He lost again. Downtrodden, he turned to Ness, who wasn't even looking at him. Bellavarn had one a game of beanbags, nailing almost every shot perfectly. He won a pair of stuffed animals. Cute and fluffy. He gave one to Cynthia and Lannie.

Lannie's exuberant demeanor and playfulness complimented Cynthia's mellowness.

Ness looked longingly. Wilson was unsure if it was for the toys or something else.

A tap on his shoulder. Kerv.

He pointed a conspiratorial finger towards a sign reading, "Arm Wrestling Competition".

Wilson's eyebrows rose.

=

"And the winner is WILSSOOOON!"

Wilson wooted, seeing the broken table and the giant man sculpted of hulking muscle on the floor. He paused, seeing Ness staring at him in a way he didn't recognize, twirling her hair.

Behind her, Kerv winked.

=

At some point during the festivities, there was an altercation between Kerv and Henry. They got into a bout of shouted words. It got serious enough that they requested the dueling square to settle the dispute. A specific stage set up to allow the use of magic and weapons without fear of harm coming to viewers.

Bellavarn tried to talk them down, but they seemed too fired-up to be stopped.

They both stepped into the square.

"You're going to use your shield?"

Kerv was incredulous, pulling his shield off his back and taking a stance.

"If you're the one throwing daggers at me, I'd be an idiot not to."

Chuckling. Throwing knives appeared in Henry's fingers.

"Afraid of facing Bell's teacher?"

Spluttering.

"Shut your face. Come at me already- *Ting*."

The dagger spun away. That was aimed at his neck!

"Oi. Are you trying to kill me-whoah!"

Dodging another dagger. Two. Three. Ten.

They kept coming. Cynthia clapped rhythmically along with Denice. The crowd picking it up.

More joined in and cheered. Some jeering. Laughing and sharing drinks. A festival in full swing. Someone was taking bets. It was Ester...

"Hahahah! A hundred gold coins against the coward hiding behind the shield!"

"Mom!"

Braster chuckled, rubbing his mustache to cover it up.

Rolling and deflecting.

"Where the hell are you pulling those things from? Wait. No. Don't tell me."

Grumbling. Assassins and their magic and their belts and their knives and their-

*TING*

Furious.

"That's it!"

Kerv charged. Shield bashing. Henry tiptoed and leaped off the incoming shield. Bounding behind Kerv.

Swinging. Their blades clashed with electric sparks.

=

Jeral didn't have much to do. His job was a simple one and didn't require a lot of work. The opposite, in fact. Standing outside a door.

Sure, standing at attention all night and not batting an eye could be considered strenuous by most ordinary people. The boredom would set in. Cramps. Irritability. Wandering minds.

Funny enough, it took training to be able to stand properly. If you didn't learn properly, you'd get torn a new one by your C.O.

That is why there are shifts.

No matter how trained, rest is required for any functioning human. To stay at peak efficiency, there is a rotating shift every hour. During the off-time, guards are still on call but are generally free to spend the time as they please. Sleeping, eating, playing games, etc.

Why explain what can be considered common knowledge that is inferable even by the lowest of laymen?

Because the most vulnerable time to strike is in the middle of a shift-change, and sometimes that interval is extended by an unfortunate case of diarrhea.

"Kyle. This will not reflect well on your track record."

A muffled voice groaned through a wooden door.

"Kyle? We are 10 minutes late. Can you knock it off?"

Jeral heard subdued plops.

Edging away from the lavoratory door, Jeral raised his voice an octave.

"I'll be heading back without you. Join me whenever you're well."

Jeral waited for a reply even though he knew one wouldn't be forthcoming. Grabbing his gear, he headed out. Armored and in uniform, a sword at his hip. Standard practice for most knights. Some specialists use shields, spears, or even maces, but he wasn't one of those. Kerv was top of his class with a shield. Henry with Knives. Kyle was one of the few spear wielders among the Sallow guards. Jeral remained a straight-cut swordsman.

The hallways were lit with interspersed torchlight, aided by peeking moonlight. This mansion's hallways were needlessly roundabout and mazelike, a far cry from the stability and reliability of the main Sallow residence. This building wasn't designed to favor military matters, aimed primarily at the extravagance of old money nobles and their need for pointlessly long winding corridors.

Jeral arrived. Taren and Korel were diligent and didn't complain.

"Anything happen?"

Korel shook his head.

"Nothing yet. You okay without Kyle?"

Jeral wanted to roll his eyes.

"It won't be a problem. In fact, it is better this way. Go take your break; I'll be fine."

Taren and Korel gave a salute to their senior and marched off.

Jeral's company disappeared around a far corner. Standing watch, he continued his duty alone for twenty minutes with no sign of Kyle.

The air was cold in the mansion. That was how Jeral figured that his guest had finally arrived. Since the wards around the mansion were all connected and worked together, the fact that Jeral could now see his breath meant the wards were off.

His mission. It was time.

The door to the library faced out into an open garden courtyard. Stretching and rolling his shoulders, that was where Jeral walked. Leaving the door unguarded, he found a bench in the courtyard next to a plot of Lillies.

Bellavarn asked Wendle to plant Lillies. They were for Jeral and Lannie's parents. A lily is a flower with many meanings entwined. It was a flower of death and rebirth. Suitable to place on a grave. It was also a flower of love, often thrown at weddings. A lily could mean devotion. Purity. Or be related to motherhood.

In some cultures, specifically, it meant forgiveness.

It was the perfect flower.

He watched the flora bob ever so slightly in the night breeze. The moon peeking out from overcast clouds, causing the white flowers to glow with celestial light. Jeral could truly get lost staring into them.

Removing his eyes, he determined his break lasted long enough.

Walking back, he saw the door to the library ajar. Expecting this, he didn't panic.

Opening it fully, Jeral walked into something he didn't expect.

A shadowy figure stood like a statue in the darkness. The only indication of its life was the visible breath emanating from the figure's mouth.

Jeral put a hand on his sword, wary. He questioned.

"Why are you still here?"

No response.

The figure attacked.