La guerrera al otro lado

 La guerrera al otro lado:

 

Tal vez hubo mundos.

Pero a este lado del espejo sólo hay trauma.

Aunque nosotras podamos ser el reflejo de algo más, eso no se me escapa.

 

Soy una de las hijas y me pregunto si en esta pesadilla de nadie mis acciones tienen algún sentido. ¿Soy la causa o la consecuencia de lo que pasa al otro lado? Filosofía en un yermo de olvido y sangre que no se detiene ante mis pesares. Sé que tuve un nombre y un tiempo, pero quizás sólo eran los restos de memoria de otra persona. Aquí recorro los pasillos del desconcierto, el miedo acecha y la poca luz que poseo sólo me hace pensar que la oscuridad que me rodea siempre ha llegado ahí antes.

El miedo trata de atenazarme, pero en mi mano hay una espada y lo desafío diciendo:

—Eres mi miedo —le miro a los ojos—, adelante.

Y viene hacia mí y en un abrazo uno de los dos consigue devorar al otro. Al principio nunca consigo discernir quien queda en pie.

No sé si soy un recuerdo, una promesa o el ahora imparable.

Pero sé por qué miramos al miedo a los ojos.

Y a éste lo he hecho mío. Lo he atado a mi alma. Al menos si no ha logrado engañarme. Porque este miedo no es mío, como aquí nada lo es, de modo que tendré cuidado: la posesión es una mentira que tiende a cambiar los papeles con facilidad. Cortaré el lazo de este miedo y pasará a través de mí.

Y, haciendo esto, desaparece tras el velo que separa cada realidad.

Me doy la vuelta: raramente viene el terror solo, suele acompañarse de recuerdos a olvidar, de gritos que logran rasgar el límite entre la realidad y lo irreal, de aullidos desgarrados que consiguen romper y llegar al otro lado.

En nuestra lucha por hacerlos desaparecer a veces mis hermanas mueren, a veces yo muero. No tengo nombre pero renazco en paz. Me gusta la esperanza, sin embargo sólo soy una decisión irreflexiva, soy el puro sentimiento de rebeldía que lucha por desaprender, por hacer maleable un conocimiento petrificado en el orgullo. Supongo que me libero entre paradojas y eso me da fuerza.

Camino atenta mientras estas ruinas me miran pasar.

Restos de espejos flotan a mi alrededor, este pasillo parece respirar y cambiar de forma ante cada uno de mis pasos. Las paredes sangran. Al menos parecen estar prestando atención en silencio. No sé por qué lo sé, pero lo sé. Y prefiero que me insulten y me despedacen y me amenacen entre alaridos y que me susurren mis errores y me los escupan antes de que finjan que no estoy ahí, antes de que las palabras que no se dicen me hagan desaparecer. No sé qué trauma enfrento, no sé de quién, si es que hay criaturas para este dolor. Pero giro una esquina y lo veo.

El trauma ruge, aterrado. Está maniatado y sufre mientras unos filos se deslizan ante él, gravitando amenazantes, cortando el tejido del universo.

Ah… lo reconozco.

Tiene miedo.

Porque no sabe quién soy. Porque no sabe quién es bajo la hoja de la calma.

La separación es la vaina de la que extraigo mi hoja.

Y mi caza comienza.

Lo persigo, corriendo entre bifurcaciones.

Se esconde tras la duda, mi certeza la corta por la mitad. Me lleva a una eternidad estática y exhausta de lágrimas, sin promesas, sin ningún después. Sus garras, como reproches, consiguen atenazarme, si bien conjuro mi luz y mi espada comienza a danzar en mi puño mientras cerceno los juicios y los castigos de quien está en guerra consigo. Porque quien está en guerra consigo mismo sólo puede caer derrotado y es ésa paradójicamente su liberación, siempre y cuando sea vista desde el ángulo apropiado.

El trauma deja de plantar batalla y cae, como una estalactita. Parece un hilo de dolor ante mí, sólo eso. Y mi hoja la separa en dos.

Ya no hay más derrota.

De momento…

En este lado del espejo se oyen gritos.

Siempre se oyen gritos.

 

<a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/"><img alt="Creative Commons License" style="border-width:0" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/4.0/88x31.png" /></a><br /><span xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" property="dct:title">La guerrera al otro lado</span> by <a xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL">Marta Roussel Perla</a> is licensed under a <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<br />Based on a work at <a xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" rel="dct:source">https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/</a>.

War

War:

He tried to lift his arm, but he only could listen to an annoying mechanical whirring sound in answer. Something, somewhere within that robot he was inside, was burning.

—Can you move? —he asked.

—No —Emily replied. He could not move his head, so he only saw Emily’s robot as a static image, surrounded by debris—. But I want to do so. Unfortunately, all my systems are damaged.

—The last communication received by this thing of mine was about a large-scale attack on this planet. In twenty-seven minutes.

—So we are goint to die —Emily nonchalantly commented, as if that situation couldn’t affect her.

—Every time I hop on one of these —he started—, it happens I don’t remember anything but some sort of disconnected flashbacks.

—Same here. I guess you draw this conclusión too: this makes no sense.

—I’m afraid I’m going to need you to be more specific. What do you mean?

—What has anyone to gain from sending a soldier to a war if he doesn’t remember what he has learnt?

—I don’t know… Have you drawn any more conclusions?

—Of course: we haven’t learnt at all.

—But I’ve got a life.

—Actually, we have nothing other than this —Emily stated—. At least, not whenever we are here, so no, we don’t even have evidence enough to confirm we have a life.

—I have a body, I know it because of this unspeakable pain of broken bones and ribs.

—Definitely.

—I’m starting to get scared… —he said.

—Now?! You mean that fleet about to devastate this planet in which we are trapped in less than twenty-seven minutes was something purely anecdotal to you?! —Emily had a sad smile on her face—. I don’t think we’re human. But we have a human aesthetic sense, so I won’t stare at my reflection in the mirror, just in case.

—What are you saying? If we weren’t human, what sense would it make to give us self-awareness and pain?

—That looks like a perfect question for God.

—I don’t believe anybody can answer it —he said, giving up.

—Maybe instead of logic there’s only cruelty.

—That’s absurd.

—We are on a battlefield, if you can reasonably explain this to me, we’ll go nowhere, and I’ll get you a drink —Emily defied him—. I’d like to get in this philosophical mode to speak about the universe’s amorality, but —she grunted with effort— I’m going to open the hatch out of here.

—No! The gases will melt your skin! They say the pain is unbearable! — he cried in terror.

—We are already dead and none of this makes sense —she clarified—, what are we two people like us here? It’s not even credible as fiction. At least, I want the truth.

War by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/.

La guerra

La guerra:

Intentó levantar un brazo, pero en respuesta solo escuchó un zumbido mecanico y molesto. En alguna parte de aquel robot en el que estaba metido algo se estaba quemando.

—¿Puedes moverte? —preguntó.

—No —respondió Emily. Él no podía siquiera mover la cabeza, de modo que sólo veía el robot de Emily en una imagen estática, rodeada de escombros—. Pero quiero hacerlo. Desgraciadamente todos los sistemas están dañados.

—La última comunicación que me llegó fue acerca de un ataque a gran escala sobre este planeta en veintisiete minutos.

—De modo que vamos a morir —comentó Emily con tranquilidad, como si a ella no le atañera en lo más mínimo aquella situación.

—Siempre que me subo a uno de éstos —empezó él—, me ocurre que no recuerdo nada del exterior, sólo fogonazos de memoria, inconexos.

—A mí también me pasa. Supongo que también has llegado a la conclusión de que eso no tiene sentido.

—Me temo que voy a necesitar que seas más específica. ¿A qué te refieres?

—¿Qué interés tiene nadie en enviar un soldado a la guerra que no recuerda lo que ha aprendido?

—No lo sé… ¿has llegado a más conclusiones?

—Sí: que no hemos aprendido.

—Pero yo tengo una vida.

—En realidad no tenemos nada aparte de esto —aseveró Emily—. Al menos no cuando estamos aquí, de modo que no, ni siquiera tenemos evidencia suficiente para afirmar que tenemos una vida.

—Tengo un cuerpo, lo sé porque ahora mismo siento un dolor indescriptible, como de costillas y huesos rotos.

—Sin duda.

—Me estoy empezando asustar… —dijo él.

—¡¿Ahora?! ¡¿Quieres decir que esa flota que va a arrasar el planeta en el que estamos atrapados en veintisiete minutos te parece algo anecdótico?! —Emily esbozó una sonrisa triste—. No creo que seamos humanos. Desafortunadamente tenemos el sentido estético de uno, de modo que no pienso mirarme en un espejo, por lo que pueda pasar.

—¿Qué dices? ¿Si no fuéramos humanos, qué sentido tendría darnos conciencia y dolor?

—Ésa parece una pregunta perfecta para Dios.

—No creo que nadie sepa contestarla —se resignó él.

—A lo mejor en lugar de una razón lógica hay sólo crueldad.

—Eso es absurdo.

—Estamos en un campo de batalla, si puedes explicármelo razonadamente te invito a unas copas en ninguna parte —le desafió Emily—. Me encantaría ponerme filosófica acerca de la amoralidad del universo, pero —soltó un gruñido de esfuerzo— voy a abrir la escotilla.

—¡No! ¡Los gases te derretirán la piel! ¡Dicen que el dolor es indescriptible! —exclamó él aterrado.

—Ya estamos muertos y nada de esto tiene sentido —aclaró Emily—, ¿qué hacemos dos personas como nosotros aquí? Como ficción ni siquiera es creíble. Al menos quiero la verdad.

La guerra by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/.

She-Ra and abuse

She-Ra and abuse:

Today I’m not offering you a short tale, nor a poem, not even a fanfic (which I’m seriously considering, if Dante Alighieri had his one, I can have mine, yeah, standards) but a commentary on a series I’ve been binge-watching in a loop for months now: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power. However, this is going to be a partial commentary, which is to say, I won’t analyse everything that show tackles: LGTBQIA+ diversity, autistic representation by Entrapta and Scorpia, healthy patterns, friendship, Bow and how to destroy toxic masculinity just by being yourself, Shadow Weaver as a character, etc. So, brace yourselves as I will go through major spoilers by speaking about a thing the series accurately portraits despite its natural limitations as a kids show: abuse.

While abuse is by no means the main plot of the series, since that would be the war between the rebellion and the horde, it’s what shapes every interaction at the horde (yeah, the bad guys). In spite of being a cartoon, it’s Manichean only in appearance and we will see why. In She-Ra you get to feel sympathy for the people at the horde, for instance, as most of them are basically the natural outcome of being raised in a toxic environment. The horde has a hierarchy of power (and abuse): Lord Hordak, general of the horde troops sent to Etheria, the planet our characters are in, is a clone that constantly fails to conquer it, and he must answer to Horde Prime, the supreme leader of the horde. When Horde Prime berates and belittles him the abuse goes down the ladder since Lord Hordak abuses Shadow Weaver -his right hand- who in turn abuses Catra and Catra abuses everyone else if she can, even her own friends -who eventually leave her-. It is important to understand that abuse can only exist where there is a power dynamic, whenever there’s no balance in a relationship, when we are not among equals. Ironically the rebellion of Etheria is basically led by queens and princesses, perhaps because it’s a system of government with no complexities and, intentionally created or not, it proposes a hierarchy as well, but of course in the rebellion the power by itself doesn’t entail inequity. It is an idealised scenario in which we can see people trying to be better and treating each other as people. Yet this is important: if you recognise the value of whoever is in front of you, if you don’t dehumanise other people and you treat them as equals, there’s no room for abuse.

And now let’s talk about Adora, the main character of the series, raised as a child soldier, fighting on the horde’s side. She discovers the evil princesses are not that evil and finds out that, regardless the horde’s propaganda, she is attacking innocent people and devastating defenceless cities. Adora, being the hero, immediately switches sides. By doing so she breaks the cycle of abuse: being Shadow Weaver’s favourite and loved by everybody, she passed through that horde’s toxic environment more or less unscathed, so it wasn’t that hard for her to do so (yet it entails a certain burden she has to bear). Adora joins the rebellion because that’s what is right and she becomes quickly accustomed to the rebellion’s way to understand people and problem solving strategies, which sometimes consist in convincing others that having healthy relationships is better than being at the horde. As a character she is possible but not probable, yet She-Ra is the story of the chosen one and Adora has a role to fill. Either way, Adora is more complex than that, she’s not perfect at any rate: she’s silly and clumsy sometimes, has some hyper-responsible answer to everything that drains her, a reaction rooted in her own trauma, as she had to take care of Catra, her best friend, while not being always brave or bold enough to defend her since she was only a child or not completely aware of the horde toxic patterns once she grows up.

What about Catra, her girlfriend? Catra is a quite dark and complex character, the series antagonist during the first four seasons, and constantly abused by Lord Hordak and Shadow Weaver right until the beginning of the fifth -and last- season, when she changes. Having a crippling fear of rejection and only knowing what the horde is, feeling comfortable and familiar only with its terrible dynamics, when Adora offers her to join Etheria, she feels abandoned and incapable to react at first. Henceforth she finds a suitable reaction: Adora will be her enemy. Catra’s violence escalates rapidly not only towards Adora but towards everyone else, she mistreats her friends who, in consequence, abandon her, thus, reinforcing her fear of rejection. She is feared and hated by everyone and told repeatedly she is worthless and a failure by Shadow Weaver and Lord Hordak, who are above her. What we can see here is a cycle of abuse and its logical feedback. She is so terrified by being rejected that she doesn’t let anyone to become real friends and get closer, following the basic principle that says: if you don’t try, you won’t fail. That’s Catra during the first four seasons: anger, hatred, fear, and when she’s abandoned, loneliness and depression. Let’s remember that she is a seventeen years old soldier child with no past and who knows nothing but violence and abuse, who craves for any validation even if it comes from those who will repetitively tell her she has no value.

And a toxic relationship was a possible outcome as Adora and Catra had some feelings to talk about. It was easy to insert here this horrible mantra that says love can heal anything, this Adora being with Catra despite all the violence and abuse Adora was subjected to by her. A toxic relationship moves in cycles of honeymoon/calm stage and incident stage that comes back over and over. So, the fact that Adora could come back with Catra would be a clear sign of a honeymoon phase and, therefore, of an abusive cycle.

Fortunately and, unlike many other sub-romantic plots, this is not the case for She-Ra, not only because Catra apologises and changes, which is complex topic itself since many toxic partners can sincerely feel sorry and are capable to say it but incapable of change at the same time, be it because they don’t know how, be it because they rationalise the abuse done afterwards. Unfortunately, we cannot know if the toxic person is speaking the truth when they say they’ll change, and even if the abuser changes, the one who was mistreated has no obligation whatsoever to forgive them or come back with them, that’s not part of the healing process. However, again, this is a kids show and it has its limitations since a happy ending was in order, meaning that there’s a Catra redemption arch that begins when she’s depressed and alone and finally understands that the way she behaved was destructive to everyone and also to her, when, ultimately, she gets another trauma: real loneliness and a sort of understanding that there are some things bigger than her -Horde Prime and his army of clones- and that she has value and she deserves better. Interestingly we can only start changing when we accept who we are.

Despite She-Ra simplification of some elements regarding abuse, the magic here lies on how skilfully written the show has been. People who have been abused can see the abuser in Catra and the path of mental health recovery as well. The series tackles a quite complex topic with empathy, knowledge and care.

Of course there is one question still, how Catra manages to do it? How does she succeed in breaking the cycle of abuse?

The are some ways an abuser will have the chance to improve as a person and usually it stems from a life-changing trauma -in her case loneliness and the threat of Horde Prime-. The only way an abuser can actually improve is by learning to be better, nonetheless, to work on their mental health, to deconstruct those patterns that only bring sadness, cruelty and a depression blinded by pride. In She-Ra’s final season Catra is actively and consciously working on herself, she tries to find out how to manage her anger and frustration -she even gets a support pet-, how to face her fear of rejection, how to grow enough to accept her own accountability and to be able to see other people’s value, we have to remember that she couldn’t see that before as she believed she had no worth herself. In consequence, she learns to apologise, to say thank you, to open herself to others and she comprehends that weakness and vulnerability mean different things. This process turns out to be difficult and she goes back sometimes, because a path of mental health recovery is not empty of obstacles that one must overcome. It is difficult for her to let go of the pattern of abuse, of all she knew, and the illusion of control that comes with it. But she finally understands she deserves to be happy too.

The crux here is that Adora never accepted the toxic Catra, Adora only accepted the healing herself Catra. And Catra broke the cycle of abuse by following the appropriate steps to do so.

And that’s an actual adventure in real life.

Once again, I know that this commentary is only partial and that it could get further elaborated. I am aware that the series is very complex and interesting due to many other reasons, but this was worth mentioning. She-Ra characters are not perfect, they make mistakes, sometimes big mistakes and, in the case of Catra, even bigger mistakes, but they are beautiful in their imperfection.

As Entrapta says:

"Imperfection is what makes scientific experimentation possible! Imperfection is beautiful... at least to me."

Now go watch She-Ra!

Hi, ya! All right, this was totally not the purpose of this blog (believe it or not, this blog is about tales and poems I write from time to time), but I had to do this. I love commenting and I’m autistic, demisexual, somewhere between lesbian and bi (being women coca-cola and men pepsi, so to speak), and trans, and I am a total She-Ra fangirl in the middle of a fiction crush, apparently, so I had to write this! And in some alternative universe I guess I will get to act my age? But the fact that a kids series speak about abuse from such a mature perspective, showing care for the topic while adapting it to the target audience, is an epic exercise of creativity and script-writing… So, yeah!

Have a nice day! ^_^

Critical Hit!

Critical Hit!:

            It was by all standards a slum den: vomit, rust where an old heater must have been, moldy wood, urine, rodents fighting against the regulars for food and, on the whole, that kind of clientele who could hit anyone in the face who could be able to pronounce a polysyllable  such as “sophistication”. Not that they couldn’t write or read, not that they didn’t know that somewhere in the universe there were people who used big words, say, bigger than a growl; it was only that any four years old child learnt that aggressivity was a way to manipulate others and, when those children didn’t learn any other tool and were rejected because of it, they decided that it was a good way to survive in the long run: at the end of the day, they could seize what their strength allowed them to.

            Yes, they were dangerous people, however, drawing hasty conclusions would make us lose sight of the following fact, in a certain way, they understood one of the three fundamental truths of life: words were powerful and could be dangerous.

And here we should stop at Heidel, because she knew each of those words.

Please remember that was the kind of den which people pretend not to see at the far end of an alley, and because of that reason it seemed strange that someone like Heidel was sitting there, in a corner while sipping her beer.

Heidel was a battlemage, she had studied in universities much bigger than that citadel and only her clothes were more valuable than that citadel. She had an impeccable and majestic look, and it was also utterly out of place.

Nevertheless, those fresh corpses by her side, still steaming, perhaps were able to convey a message of no disturbance if possible.

Either way the rest of customers looked more concerned about Shivala, her companion and a woman that, judging by her expression, her size, some tattoos that broke any aesthetics or a two-handed sword that still showed bloodstains belonging to someone who was not polite enough with her, possible thought that inn was some kind of lovely family venue to stay during the afternoon.

Her expression was of happiness, of course, that place was pleasant in her opinion and, generally speaking, she liked listening her partner:

—Indeed —Heidel said—, But I mean, why a human would meddle in demons’ affairs?

—Humans tend to accept covenants with them in exchange of power or they use demons as slaves in case they manage to harness them with magic for long enough —Shivala answered—. On the other hand, demons’ hunters tend to have very short careers inside the guild.

—That is exactly why I ask. Besides, why would a human have an interest in destroying a particular demon? We can rule out religious motives, I suppose… And why would he would hire us?

—Other than our inability to value our working experience or to choose a safe job? —Shivala enquired, pensively—. There is also reputation.

—Ours or his?

—His.

—Do you care to elaborate that point?

—Our client failed to control this demon.

—Are we working for a necromance —Heidel asked, surprised.

—Possibly. For a quite stupid one, in fact.

—Why are you so sure?

—He covered chains under his clothes, but you could hear the clinging sound if paid attention. When a necromancer tries to dominate a demon, even in order to have a calm and amiable conversation about a potential covenant, as demons are not known by their cordiality, he wears a chain, it looks like something symbolic, but it’s a catalyst. If our aforementioned demon is not submitted, this chain will be permanently attached to the summoner’s body. An attempt to remove it, even with magic’s aid, tends to not end very well in my experience.

—In all honesty I don’t understand it —Heidel said, quite confused—. Nobody is so stupid to seek revenge due to his own incompetence while only armed with it!

—That seems like prejudice in favor of necromancers, is it something of the mage guild or something like that? Now are all mages suddenly intelligent? I believe I know your lot better than you.

—What about… a knight order? —the battlemage volunteered—. Knights are basically a bunch of idiots who fight for what’s right no matter if what’s right ends up being terribly wrong.

—I adore your grim approach to ethics —Shivala assured her—, but nobody does that anymore, you know perfectly that every knight order ended up as servants of the demons. No country allows knights on its lands.

—There is a question that keeps appearing in my mind, how do you know so much about demons?

—I am a necromancress.

Heidel had worked a long year with her and she would have almost felt betrayed by her perilous lack of perspicacity had she not been too busy understanding what her friend had just said.

—Multiclass —she clarified, getting ahead of her vexed mumble with an explanatory gesture—, you know: barbarian and necromancress. You are a battle mage, aren’t you? It’s basically the same.

—I don’t raise dead people! —she defended herself, hurt.

—And that only makes you less fun —Shivala pointed out.

—Yet, during this time have you been killing people, raising them afterwards and killing them again?

Shivala burst in laughter and added:

—That would be quite unprofessional, right? Nah, almost nobody pays for that.

Emer knock the door and after a while  a necromancress opened it and greet him. Her hair looked disheveled at best and her black tabard tried to cover the rest of her clothes, probably put on in a hurry, as she was still trying to catch her breath and her blush made her customer marginally suspicious. She, noticing his indiscreet stare from the corner of her eye, loudly cleared her throat.

—Sooo… —she started.

—What about my wife? Is she ok? —by his hurried words and expressions she determined that the man looked worried.

—Yes, I mean… no. She’s dead but… she’s very good at it… —the necromancress scratched her arm and avoided looking into her customers eyes.

—What?

—Well, not everything’s lost… we can turn her into a zombie> —she offered.

—WHAT? —it was impressive how could she hear those block letters.

—What? —she replied.

—That’s ilegal —her customer said sternly.

—Illegal and not very hygienic, mind you —she pointed out—. I was… testing you? —she ventured.

—Why?

—Errr… We have a 10& discount for loyal clients! —she said happily—. Loyal to good manners and lawful alignments, of course. We can, however, send your wishes, messages or curses, if that’s the case, to her.

—I’ll go with some words.

—Untainted ones, I take?

—Helen, Helen! —he started shouting up high to the sky, after that, he thought about it for a second and the started to scream downwards—. Hele, do you know where our Patrick is?! Lady, that little boy is a demon…

—I doubt it, sir and, yeah… contacting spirits is a complex art that cannot be performed by shouting at random places on the street. —Because you needed some skulls and candles for the set up mainly, and a cozy room to eta some biscuits in there after a seance since it made her hungry afterwards—. Please come back in the evening and we’ll see what we can do.

—Love? —A female voice came from inside of the house—. Please let me deal with the customers serv,,, Oh… —a blonde woman got out who, judging by the symbols on her white tunic, was a cleric and judging by her faltering breath she tried to catch up, may have been doing some exercise Emer couldn’t really think of even when he considered walking and also running—. I’m afraid we are momentarily closed, however your wife’s remains are being treated with the utmost care according to the article seven, section three, of our contract. We know how hard can be losing a beloved one and we know that no words uttered by any man or woman can take away the pain from an aching soul, also we cannot abide to do such a thing by using magic since we have strong philosophical principles to uphold and that’s why we have a free beer vouchers for our clients —she gave one to him and closed the door.

The necromancress stood there, slightly confused and attempting to smile.

Then the cleric opened the door and, laughing, she grabbed her absent-minded necromancress by the arm and they went inside.

—What’s the plan —asked Heidel, intrigued, as they went down the street, leaving behind an arch made of stone which linked a small garden among the houses, lit by the last sunbeams.

—Plan? I believe you’re mistaking me for someone else —answered Shivala, stopping by a house and knocking on the door—. Tiff! —she yelled— I need help! For free, if possible!

The door opened and the cleric appeared.

—Hi, Tora, how is it going? Is Tiff at home?

—Yes, come in… emmm… is she trustful? —she asked regarding Heidel.

—I’ve worked with her for a long time and she doesn’t seem to care about my inhuman capability to get in trouble —she said, shrugging her shoulders, then she got closer the clerics with little to no discretion and whispered—. She scares me actually… she’s loaded and I think she’s lost contact with reality… it’s like a metaphor of the economic power —she managed to mutter.

—We’ll keep an eye on her —she nodded at the same volume.

The cleric heard a baby cry behind her back and that made her hair stood on end. When she turned over Tiffany was smiling at her on a pentagram and a demon who had the decency enough to having adopted a quasi-human form was tenderly holding a baby who looked like an chilling shadow, thief of light.

—Hello, Tora, do you want a cookie? —the demon offered her, innocently.

—We will keep the baby this week —Tiffanny told her, smiling—. Beleth says that there’s a lot of movement lately on the dungeon dimensions and that the poor child is not sleeping well.

—I really see why you both ended up having a baby —Tora commented.

Heildel didn’t understand what was happening on that living-room.

—I don’t understand what’s happening —she declared in consequence.

—All right —Shivala started, trying to organize her ideas—. Tiff is a powerful necromancress —Tiff entertained herself by making the baby laugh and ignoring the rest of the world—, perhaps you haven’t noticed about that, but she doesn’t wear chains since she doesn’t attempt to control nor confine the demons she may summon. In fact, that way she made a name for herself among the demons and Beleth, over here —the demons shook her hand delicately, Heidel wasn’t sure about where that arm came from, but she kept her composure—, was summoned by her. The point is one night they drank a lot, they made a pact to bring a very odd child to this world and the outcome is the little Abraxas. But Tiff was focused on her own stuff and she started dating Tora —Tora bowed before them—, who accepted this bizarre story because, like Tiff, there’s only one in a million. And probably because she fancied her. Not to mention the great idea they had about opening this business. And we are here because maybe they know which demon was the one that asshole tried to beckon.

—May I ask what’s your asshole name? —Beleth asked, curiously, while rocking the child in his arms.

—He calls himself Matt the Mighty —Shivala answered.

Tiffany burst out laughing and the demon and her exchange a mischievous look.

—No! —Shivala said, while trying to restrain herself.

—Yes! —the necromancress replied, this time her amusement turned into a silvery laugh —. She tried to subdue Beleth, no less.

—There’s something I don’t understand —the demon confessed—. Well, honestly, there are many things I don’t understand about the situation, but I will narrow this down a bit, what does he wants from me?

—He wants vengeance —said Heidel.

—Does he want to seek revenge for his ineptitude through me?

—Bold yet stupid —Tora determined.

—In a certain way… you are the symbol of his inability as a necromancer —Tiffany reasoned—. Although, well, on a practical level… his inability is actually his… —she ended, absorbed.

—Then —Beleth contunied—, he wants me dead?

—It’s much better than that —Heidel mentioned, definitely embarrassed due to the weight of the context.

—He wants —Shivala explained—, and I quote, “destroy you”. He pays us just for taking you to him. What do you say? —she proposed.

—I wanted to make a cake for the girls… —he commented with trouble in his voice.

—Nobody cares about the guy actually having some kind of powerful artifact to destroy a demon? —Tora enquired.

—I would like to remember that this guy calls himself Matt the Mighty —Shivala intervened.

—All of us will go —Tiffany said—. I don’t think this mas would know how to use it if he was somehow able to find this artifact, which, by the way, is beyond his financial or his intellectual reach, and I don’t believe he has it in his possession, but the Skull of Shadows it’s an object that allows to imprison highly powerful demons. And I won’t let an idiot to hurt Beleth —she said hugging him—, if Tora accepts to put some protection seals on the baby or something like that —she added—. Tora? Please? —She was looking at her with puppy dog eyes.

—Of course, taking the cleric and a demonic baby along is always the sensible option —she claimed—. That being said, I hope you’ll reward me for this —Tora naughtily whispered to her ear, and the necromancress only could smile.

—Wait, with adventures or sex? —she asked in bewilderment.

—With sex —Tora patiently answered.

—Then let’s go for our money —Shivala encouraged them—, we will split it evenly between all of us, of course, and with our demon in case he’s interested in money.

—I will make the cake afterwards —he said while winking at Tora—. You’re the best.

Dead leaves scurried towards them like tiny animals, in the meanwhile the breeze gained

momentum over time. Autumn has left a pleasant night after a sunny day, a soft and yet present cold was there, though, making the skin hairs standing on end. That baby held on arms looked around with those beady eyes which sparkled like the light at the end of the tunnel, only if said metaphor’s light was anything but comforting and if the tunnel was an everlasting nightmare.

And Beleth and Tiffany stared at him as if he was the most beautiful thing on this world.

Shivala and Heidel led them through the alleys and until they got to a modest garden flanked by a small church façade, in front of the party came to a halt.

—A temple to the goddess Shar, custodian of the secrets never to be revealed —Tora commented, as she weaved spells to protect the baby—, our necromancer adopted a dramatic stance that his disposition to humiliate himself cannot pay for.

Heidel opened the door with a magic burst, the floor marble tiles reflected the moonlight as a lit stripe. After they entered, the necromancer, with his back toward them and in shadows, turned around.

Shivala placed her palm across her face before such a ridiculous performance.

—We meet again, Be…Who the hell are all those people?

—I am Tiffany, I live on the Cherry street, at the house with the blue doo… —Tora and Beleth covered her mouth hurriedly before she could ramble on about totally out of place information regarding personal details. Those slips didn’t happen often, but sometimes she forgot about social context even more than usual. Tiffany endured her murmuring as much as she could and when she broke free she just kept on talking without a second thought—. And here is Beleth, that demon you, mister, want to destroy. As a fellow of the guild, I would like to examine how do you proceed with such a task.

—But the demon seems to be here willingly… —Matt hesitated.

Heidel enragedly approached the necromancer and stood in front of him, covered by an unstable coating of fire which was seemingly feeding on her wrath.

—We brought your demon to you, give us our money —she demanded.

—Excuse me —Shivala intervened, showing a docility that contrasted to her size and armament—, we held our side of the bargain and I won’t be able to control my partner for much longer: she thinks you’re not keeping your end of it.

Matt decided to gulp. Somewhere in his mind a voice couldn’t avoid telling him that, come to think of it, it was the demon what should be restrained.

—No, I mean, I have the money and all… there you are, there you go… —he managed to give, terrified and with a trembling hand, a bag with coins to that aggressive looking woman carrying a two-handed sword, lest he could avoid looking at the battlemage who had uttered a terrible battle cry—. It’s ok now, I have given you the bag, right? —he begged.

Heidel’s fire disappeared and she answered with a bright smile and a bow. And Matt the Mighty couldn’t find an appropriate reaction to what had just happened.

All of them decided to part.

—Wait! —he remembered—. Beleth is mine! Andariel gave me her power.

—Andariel? —Tora whispered.

—She was a powerful archdemon millennia ago, yet now and judging by this whole situation… she beseeches anybody, seeking attention, I guess —he shrugged.

—You can’t do this to me! —the necromancer complained—. If I don’t offer something to her in exchange of her favor, she will imprison my soul! Could you not give me that baby?

In that moment, everyone decided to stay, there was a general feeling of curiosity to learn in which creative way that guy was going to die.

Beleth and Tiffany turned to him, their eyes were sheer anger.

There are times in which even the most idiotic of men realizes that that luck which held him through a series of nonsensical events he nurtured has vanished.

—People like you are the reason why everybody hates people like you —Tiffany stated.

—You’re also a necromancer! —Matt complained.

She looked at him in puzzlement, not understanding him.

—Your life is a headlong rush into the unknown —started Beleth to say— while you wager the scarce dignity you maight have, charmed by that illusion of control a demon whose only virtue is patience relates to you as you try to understand where are you or why are you so stupid to no avail —Beleth pointed out.

—Too many subordinated clauses —Shivala murmured to him.

—Emmm… thank you? —he answered at low volume—. The fact that no order nor fate exists, human, won’t save you from yours —he added to face Tiffany afterwards—. Will you do the honors?

Matt, full of rage, casted a spell, uttering a chain of words containing a power which dwelled at the dungeon dimensions and was freed on the church floor tiles, getting spilled from every word coming out of his lips cracking the boundaries of reality and, in consequence, destroying him as his skin started to necrotize and melt while his owner was screaming in pain.

It took some seconds for our fellowship of adventurers to react to that sort of study on human body’s perspective covering the floor in red and entrails where Matt the Mighty had tested his incompetence for the last time.

—This anticlimax has been very disappointing, I need cake —Tiffany asserted.

Critical Hit! by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/.

Pic source: https://www.deviantart.com/bogdan-mrk/art/Necromancer-563550167