Wordsworth – Chapter 6

"This feels somewhat unfair, Lisa," I mutter into the Bluetooth headset hidden in my hair.

"Tay, I love you dearly, but if you insist on being a solo heroine, I don't think you can afford to be [chivalrous] about it," her voice softly crackles against my right ear.

And…

She may be right. No, she's [objectively] right, but does that matter? Because heroism isn't about being effective or pragmatical, but about doing what's [right], and, most importantly, what [feels] right. Because that's what a hero should be.

A cop isn't a hero.

A soldier isn't a hero.

A Ward definitely isn't a hero.

But… all of them could be. They can aspire to it. That's what defines a hero: the yearning, the reaching toward something just beyond the everyday, that golden moment that shines when chance allows one to reveal to the world that, yes, there's something worth defending, worth protecting, worth fighting for.

But it wasn't always like that.

No, the word 'hero' is old, as old as stories themselves, and, when it was young, Hero just wanted to proclaim his strength, to tell the monsters hiding in the dark that he was there, and that he would take something from the darkness after every fight. That he would defeat the dragon not to rescue the princess, but to take its treasure.

When Hero was young, he was a child: foolish, reckless, and, often, cruel.

Because Hero was strong. Stronger than any other word a human could claim, but that was before he grew up, and more meaning was added to him. It was when Hero was the child of gods, when he stole fire and killed his enemies, even if they weren't monsters or they were heroes themselves.

Then Hero met Tragedy.

They got along. They met time and again, and, after every encounter, Hero learned. He learned about the pain of hurting his loved ones, of being cursed by fate, of not being enough. He learned about the fall of kingdoms, the betrayal of friends and lovers. He learned about all those little things that Hero still was weak to, because Hero was more than human, but only because he was human, and he learned to cherish those weak parts that finally gave meaning to the strong ones.

Hero matured, and then he went from the powerful, cruel child that played with other men like flies to be dewinged to something new, something that would look upon the heroes of the past and scoff in disdain.

Hero became protector, defender, noble.

Martyr.

Hero suffered, and, through it, learned of others' suffering. And then Hero discovered the true meaning of his word.

"Tay? … Wordsworth?" Lisa calls for me, and the fog of the story of a word fades away.

But it lingers.

"Yes," I answer.

"Oh shit… Tay, stick to the plan! You need to play this smart!"

I look beneath me, at the group of Merchants gathered in the street with more earth than pavement.

I look at Mush, a gigantic golem of detritus and filth that's to be my target for today.

I look at the result of Tattletale's work, pointing me in the right direction to do some good without having to cross paths with her nor having the Undersiders caught in a gang war.

I smile.

"Do you think I'm not smart, Lisa?" There's a playful edge to my words. I like having it.

"Tay, as far as I'm concerned, you're a fricking genius, but geniuses can do some very complicatedly stupid things."

"You're right. You're definitely right. Do you wanna hear a story?"

"Oh, fuck [me—"]

I laugh.

And I stand up.

I'm perched on the corner of the roof, perilously close to falling down the four floors to the street below. Nobody has noticed me yet, but that's about to change.

Because there was a book when I was a kid.

It had stories about heroes and gods, and grandma wasn't very happy that I knew there was more than one of those. It was kind of a complicated book, and mom would usually have taken it away from me and nudged me toward something I would enjoy more.

But I was at that age where I had started down my obsession with capes and heroes, and having a whole book about the those of the past, the ones that came before Scion, felt like too much of a treasure, so she just answered my questions and told me I could skip the boring parts.

That's how I first half-read The Greek Myths by Robert Graves.

And there was a hero in there that barely deserved the name. He got drunk, he killed people, he killed his [wives].

He was the most famous hero in the world.

Hercules.

Mom didn't like him very much, but she explained things, told me about whatever there was in the book that I didn't understand. Told me that Hercules was strong, yes, but that just with that, he would've died again and again.

He would've died if he hadn't thought about strangling the lion whose skin couldn't be pierced. He would've died if he hadn't thought to seal with flame the wounds of an ever-healing monster. He would've died if he had offended the goddess of the hunt by spilling the blood of her favored beast.

He died, in the end, because his wife didn't trust him.

But before that, he lived, most of all, because he was smart. Because he noticed things. Because he had the power of a god, but the knowledge and wit of man.

And so, when he was tasked with cleaning stables that had been left to accrue filth for years on end…

He thought.

And when I recite the words, give shape to one of the tales of the strongest heroes that ever lived in yellowed pages, when some of the Merchants below me look up, and point, and start shouting, and Lisa keeps swearing, when Mush raises a cyclopean arm in my direction…

There's a rumbling.

A rushing sound of water made of black words with cresting foam so beautiful that I, for a second, regret not speaking about a horse carrying a hobbit across a river.

But that's a story for another day, because today is the day of rushing water washing filth away.

There are screams below me, loud enough to carry over the sound of a river raging down the street, even if the river is born just beneath my feet and ends before it reaches the second intersection.

I stop the words. The river fades.

Beneath me, Brockton's street sparkles, clean for the first time in years.

I take a step forward, and I drop to the ground below, my body a combination of light and sturdy enough that the fall doesn't hurt me.

Then I walk to Mush. The real one. The one that hides inside the golem.

He's… Not quite a dwarf, because he isn't quite like a man. His face is just short of a caricature, with a hooked nose and bulging eyes, and his torso is just a bit misshapen, but his limbs… They fork and divide, tendrils where bones should be—

Ah, no. He's melding them into actual arms and legs. He's… It's just his power.

He's not like me.

Good.

"Surrender," I say to him.

"What?" he asks, looking at me like he doesn't understand the word.

Or that I just told it to him.

"You and your subordinates. Surrender, and I'll just leave you here to be arrested. Resist, and I'll act accordingly." Is this what a Hero does? Or is mercy what matters most?

"Are you out of your mind, girl? What the fuck are the Undersiders—"

"I'm not with the Undersiders anymore." It's important they learn this. Important nobody gets caught up in what I'm about to stir. "As for my mind? I'm finally inside of it."

He starts incorporating himself, just as the battered group of drug dealers and worse things does the same from all around us.

"You're surrounded, you know?" he points out, not unkindly.

I pause.

"Are you… taking pity on me?"

He sighs.

"Kid, everybody knows about the… the villain with issues. Just go home. No harm, no foul, all right?"

… What would a Hero do?

"I'm no longer a villain, though. And my head is… better."

He sits up on the ground. And grumbles.

"Glad to hear that, but… Look, if I go to prison with your rep as it currently stands, I won't be having too much fun in there, and if me and the boys beat you up, I'll just look like a bully. How about we split the difference? I say we were about to do something, and you stopped us. I take a hit to my cred and don't look that good in front of the boss, but you start getting a name for yourself?"

… I'm pretty sure Hercules would have done something very creative to him already.

Or taken him out for a drink, one of those.

"Tay," Lisa's voice once again sounds in my ear, "he's sincere. He's also stalling. Either you take his offer, or you'll have reinforcements to deal with in a moment."

Ah. So the man who's treating me kindly was just planning to betray me.

That makes far more sense.

"As much as I appreciate the offer, you're in the middle of a street without a single piece of loose debris you can use."

"Ah. That I am," he says. And smiles.

"… This is the moment when you say that you know something that I don't, isn't it?"

"What do you know? Your head is [really] better!"

I sigh.

Then I punch his jaw before turning around as quickly as I can, one of his goons standing with a gun behind me that goes off before I finish moving.

"Tay!" Lisa yells.

And, before answering her, as I run, and jump, and twirl amid bullets and confused bodies, I tell her of a cursed castle lain to sleep for a hundred years, of roses blooming around it, their thorns growing thick and long, capturing many a prince who sought the princess hidden within.

Pained screams bloom around me as the black petals unfold, and I think that may have gained me enough reputation for the night.

Then I stand in the middle of a street that's no longer so pristine and, enunciating very carefully, I finally answer her.

"I'm bullet-proof, remember?"

"… We haven't tested that. For obvious reasons."

"They still missed. Maybe it's hard to aim at me in the dark?"

"Please, don't take that for granted. And start cuffing them before Sleeping Beauty wears off."

I nod before I remember how pointless it is for me to do that, and then I start wandering across my hedge, slipping zip ties around painfully stretched limbs.

I would feel worse if they hadn't just tried to murder me.

And then I kneel beside Mush, whose body is pinned down by enough thorny branches that escape must seem an agonizing prospect.

"Is there any point to cuffing you, or will you just shift out of them?"

"Would you really trust anything I tell you?"

I look at him. He's a villain, a tricky one, but…

"Yes."

He looks at me, his head tilted, his brows furrowed.

"Oh. Then, no; they are useless. Maybe you could tie me using a few of the goons around my body? I mean, it's not like they can complain about the smell this time."

"Uh. I guess that's an idea. Also, what reinforcements are you expecting?"

"Girl—"

"Wordsworth," I tell him. And, for just a moment, I savor it.

"Wordsworth, right. Look, I like you. You've got style and aren't an asshole, which puts you leagues above and beyond the rest of the white hats on this damned city. But I don't like you [that] much." He smiles.

And, against my will, so do I.

"A hint, at least?"

"What… Are you proposing some kind of bet?"

And… Well, the hooked nose, the bulging eyes…

"How about a riddling contest?"

"… If you ask me what you've got in your pocket, you forfeit the damn game."

And I laugh.

"Oh God, how many nerds are in this city?" Lisa mutters.

"All right, fine. So, if I win, you let me and the boys free?"

"Just you. They aren't playing."

"Fair enough." He shrugs. And then closes his eyes in concentration. "Fuck, I'm sure I knew a couple of good ones…"

"I should warn you I absorb books. You'd probably have more luck if you came up with an original one."

His eyes widen.

"Some people have all the luck with powers."

"Case 53."

"Ah, right. Sorry." For a moment, he looks embarrassed. Given he's been very naked since this conversation started, it's a refreshing sight.

"Personally knows other case 53. Strained relationship," Lisa comments.

Oh. I guess Squealer can't be—

"Skidmark isn't a case 53. He just looks like one," Lisa snarks, and I bite my lip to suppress a giggle. Damn it.

"Any ideas?" I ask him, just to mask the presence of the third interlocutor.

"Maybe… Try not to laugh, okay? It's been quite a while since I ran a game."

"What, like, you used to do riddle contests?"

"No, but Dungeons and—let's just say I used to have some practice at this sort of thing. Let's see… I have clocks that aren't right twice a day, and water that strains metal. I take steps that carry me not as far as seven leagues, and hands that grasp like clumsy giants. And I have a body that isn't, both inside and out. Who am I?"

I arch an eyebrow, and—

"Trainwreck," the nosy blonde in my ear says.

Damn it, Lisa! I wanted to solve that one!

Also…

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" I ask both of them.

"Not [right] behind you, but… You can only manifest one thing at a time, right? Well, I would suggest you free me and let me come back with a better riddle next time."

"For a drug-peddling villain who has tried to distract me so people ambushed me from behind twice in the same night, you're quite hard to dislike."

"Tell that to the people who have to live with me rolling around in literal garbage."

I giggle.

And then I allow the hedge to wither and run back to me.

"Fine. But you better have a good riddle next time."

He smiles at me.

He's an ugly man. He's done horrible things.

It's a nice smile.

And then he runs away, and I make it a point to quickly turn around so I don't see too many things bounce.

Of course, that's an excellent moment for Trainwreck to stop leveraging a weird-looking spike at me from the other side of the street.

"Humpty Dumpty—" I start to say before the words blur together and only I recognize them. The wall forms just in time, and the words scatter at the impact of the enormous projectile.

For a moment, I think about calling Bard and have him return the spike, but it isn't quite an arrow, and I don't—

He stomps toward me, his boots cracking what's left of the pavement as plumes of steam whistle with every step.

And I…

What would a Hero do?

And I remember what I thought right as I started my attack and almost facepalm.

A Hero would protect a wounded hobbit, carry him across a river, and wake the spirits of the waters protecting the land beyond from evil.

Or, well, a Hero may do one of those things, and another Hero another, and the horse was the one who carried the hobbit, but…

"Tay! Focus!" Lisa's voice carries me out of the fugue.

"Right—wait, how did you know—"

"You aren't running or speaking, and you need to do both [right now!"]

And she's right, of course. So I rush in a zig zagging trajectory, once again grateful that this body doesn't seem to process fatigue like my old one, and keep speaking aloud about pure white waters, about protective magic inhabiting a river surrounding a citadel of light, a bastion of good. I speak about darkness being cast away.

And the waters of Bruinen [roar].

It's just a short burst, because this time I don't have much of an audience, and my speech was rushed and clumsy, but it is enough to launch Trainwreck against the building opposite me right as he was about to reach me with hands that certainly do look clumsy as a giant's grasp.

I can't let up.

I run toward him, trying to reach him before he recovers, and frantically think about the right story, the right tale to—

He's a giant.

Of course.

I smile.

Because a Hero… A Hero can be many things. Has been many things. But there's a word for Hero that embodies the foolishness of fighting for a lost cause, of adhering to ideals too high, of reaching far beyond one's grasp. It even alludes to a touch of madness.

It's… the actual story is a bit cruel. It even decries its own hero. But…

In some ways, in many ways, he's… He's really the Hero I always wanted to be.

"Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have ever hoped. Look over there, Sancho Panza, my friend, where there are thirty or more monstrous giants with whom I plan to do battle and take all their lives, and with their spoils we'll start to get rich. This is righteous warfare, and it's a great service to God to rid the earth of such a wicked seed."

"Taylor, [what the fuck—"]

My smile widens, a hint of something manic surely glinting in my eyes, as the Knight of the Sad Countenance manifests at my side and charges forward atop a sorry horse, speeding up until his lance crashes through Trainwreck's pauldron and the words explode upon impact, rushing back to me as if afraid of the jet of steam bursting through the wrecked armor.

I stop in the middle of the street, savoring the fact that I've finally given the man who inspired the word 'quixotic' a chance at being a real Hero and not an imagined one.

"… Tay, you should remember [I] am supposed to be the smug one. It's part of my brand. I've got good lawyers, Tay. You don't want me to get the lawyers."

My cheeks strain as my grin widens.

"I can feel you infringing on my intellectual property, [Tay]."

Without another word, I walk to Trainwreck's prone body, quite curious to see if Lisa will stop complaining long enough to assist with the interrogation.

And then the street explodes, and the smell of ozone assaults me.

"Hands in the air!" Kid Win yells.

And I look at him.

His armor gleams in the moonlight and with the eerie lights provided by his own technology as he floats atop his hoverboard. He cuts a gallant figure against the clouds, his athletic body evident and even emphasized by his costume.

He's the very image of what a modern hero should look like. He probably has an entire branch of the image department dedicated to it.

But now I remember a thin man atop a hungry horse, ill-fitting, ancient armor clanging with every step, eyes lost in the vision of a far-off goal and never on what was in front of him.

And, quite frankly, I know which kind of Hero I would rather be.

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This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I'm both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true), where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you'll look forward to learning about Wordsworth's ending.

As I don't have access to Webnovel's "premium" features, the original italics in the text will be conveyed through the use of square brackets. I'm sorry about the inconvenience.

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