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, betrayed 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 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 possibility 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 wound: 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 reparation and 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!

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

¡Golpe crítico!

¡Golpe crítico!:

Era a todas luces un tugurio: vómito, herrumbre donde debía haber una vieja estufa, madera enmohecida, orina, roedores luchando contra los parroquianos por la comida y, en general, esa clase de clientela que podría partirle la cara a cualquiera que supiera pronunciar un pentasílabo como “sofisticación”. No es que no supieran leer o escribir, no es que no supieran que, en alguna parte del universo, había gente que usaba palabras mayores que un gruñido; es que cualquier niño de cuatro años aprendía que la agresividad era una forma de manipular a los demás y, cuando esos críos no aprendían ninguna otra herramienta y eran rechazados por ello, decidían que a la larga era una forma eficaz de sobrevivir: al fin y al cabo podían tomar lo que su fuerza les permitiera.

Sí, eran personas peligrosas, sin embargo, una valoración apresurada nos haría perder de vista lo siguiente, en cierto modo comprendían con claridad una de las tres verdades universales: las palabras tenían poder y podían ser peligrosas.

Y aquí es cuando tenemos que detenernos en Heidel, porque ella conocía cada una de esas palabras.

Recordemos que aquél era la clase de tugurio que la gente de bien fingía no reconocer al fondo del pequeño callejón, por ese motivo resultaba extraño que una persona como Heidel se sentara en un rincón oscuro mientras bebía de una jarra de cerveza.

Heidel era una maga de batalla, había estudiado en universidades más grandes que toda aquella ciudadela y sólo las ropas que llevaba valían más que aquel emplazamiento. Tenía un aspecto impecable, majestuoso y totalmente fuera de lugar.

Sin embargo, los cadáveres recientes a su lado, aún humeantes, tal vez habían conseguido transmitir el mensaje de que ese día prefería que no la molestaran.

De todas formas el resto de la clientela casi parecía más preocupada por Shivala, su acompañante una mujer que, a juzgar por su expresión, su gran tamaño, unos tatuajes que rompían la estética o un mandoble que aún tenía manchas de sangre de alguien que no fue lo suficientemente cortés con ella, posiblemente pensaba que este tugurio en cuestión era una especie de restaurante familiar bastante apacible en el que pasar la tarde.

Su expresión era de felicidad, por supuesto, el sitio le parecía agradable y, en líneas generales, le gustaba escuchar a su compañera:

—Efectivamente —decía Heidel—, pero me refiero a. ¿por qué un humano desearía inmiscuirse en asuntos de demonios?

—Los humanos suelen forjar pactos con demonios a cambio de poder o los utilizan como esclavos si consiguen encadenarlos con su magia el tiempo suficiente —contestó Shivala—. Por otro lado, los cazadores de demonios tienden a tener carreras bastante cortas dentro del gremio.

—Por eso mismo pregunto. ¿Además, por qué un humano tendría interés en destruir a un demonio particular? Podemos descartar motivos religiosos, supongo… ¿Y por qué contratarnos a nosotras?

—¿Aparte de por nuestra incapacidad para valorar nuestra experiencia laboral o para elegir un trabajo seguro? —inquirió Shivala pensativa—. Está el tema de la reputación.

—¿La nuestra o la suya?

—La suya.

—¿Te importaría extenderte un poco en ese punto?

—Nuestro cliente fracasó al intentar controlar a este demonio.

—¿Estamos trabajando para un nigromante? —preguntó Heidel sorprendida.

—Posiblemente. Para uno bastante estúpido, de hecho.

—¿Por qué estás tan segura?

—Cubría unas cadenas con sus ropajes, pero si escuchabas con atención, oías el tintineo. Cuando un nigromante intenta dominar a un demonio, incluso para conversar tranquilamente acerca de un posible pacto, dado que los demonios no son conocidos por su cordialidad, lleva una cadena, parece algo simbólico, pero es un catalizador. Si el demonio en cuestión no es subyugado, la cadena se une permanentemente al cuerpo del conjurador. Intentar extraerla, incluso con ayuda de magia, no suele acabar bien en mi experiencia.

—Francamente, no lo entiendo —dijo Heidel, confundida—. ¡Nadie es tan idiota como para buscar venganza debido a su propia incompetencia mientras se arma únicamente con ella!

—Eso suena a prejuicios en favor de los nigromantes, Heidel, ¿se trata de algo del gremio de los magos o algo así? ¿Ahora son todos los magos inteligentes de repente? Creo que conozco a los de tu clase bastante mejor que tú.

—¿Qué hay de una… orden de caballeros? —tanteó la maga de batalla—. Los caballeros son básicamente grupos de imbéciles que luchan por el bien sin importar si el bien termina siendo un terrible error.

—Me encanta tu descarnada aproximación a la ética —le aseguró Shivala—, pero nadie hace eso ya, sabes perfectamente que todas las órdenes de caballeros acababan sirviendo a los demonios. Ninguna nación permite caballeros en sus tierras.

—Hay una pregunta que no deja de aparecerse en mi mente: ¿tú cómo sabes tanto de demonios?

—Soy nigromante.

Heidel llevaba un año trabajando con ella y casi se hubiera sentido traicionada por su peligrosa ausencia de perspicacia si no fuera porque estaba demasiado ocupada tratando de entender lo que le decía su amiga.

—Multiclase —le aclaró ella, adelantándose a sus balbuceos de desconcierto y haciendo un gesto explicativo—, ya sabes: bárbara y nigromante. Tú eres maga de batalla, ¿no? Viene a ser más o menos lo mismo.

—¡Yo no levanto muertos! —se defendió ella, herida.

—Y eso sólo te hace menos divertida —indicó Shivala.

—¿Pero a qué te has dedicado estos años, a matar gente, levantarlos de nuevo y volverlos a matar?

Shivala prorrumpió en una carcajada y añadió:

—Eso sería muy poco profesional, ¿verdad? Nah… casi nadie paga por eso.

Emer golpeó a la puerta y a tras unos segundos una nigromante abrió y salió a recibirle. Su cabello despeinado y su tabardo cubriendo sus ropas -que probablemente habían acabado donde estaban de forma apresurada, mientras ella intentaba retomar el aliento-  y su rubor hicieron que su cliente adoptara una actitud marginalmente suspicaz. Ella, dándose cuenta de su mirada indiscreta por el rabillo del ojo, se aclaró sonoramente la garganta.

—Esto… ¿quién…? —empezó ella.

—¿Qué hay de mi mujer? ¿Se encuentra bien? —tras un examen cuidadoso de sus palabras apresuradas y de su expresión, determinó que el hombre parecía preocupado.

—Sí, es decir… No. Está muerta, pero… se le da muy bien—la nigromante se rascó el brazo, evitando mirar a su cliente a los ojos.

—¿Qué?

—Bueno, no se ha perdido todo… ¿aún podemos transformarla en un zombi? —se ofreció ella.

—¿QUÉ? —le impresionó escuchar con tanta claridad aquellas mayúsculas.

—¿Qué? —respondió ella a su vez.

—¡Eso es ilegal!

—Ilegal y tampoco muy higiénico, si no le importa —le aseguró ella—. ¿Yo le… estaba probando? —se aventuró.

—¿Por qué?

—Em… ¡Tenemos un veinte por ciento de descuento para clientes leales! —dijo alegre. —Leales a las buenas maneras y de alineamientos legales, por supuesto. Podemos, no obstante, enviarle sus buenos deseos, mensajes e incluso maldiciones, si ese fuera el caso.

—Pronunciaré unas palabras.

—¿Buenas palabras, supongo?

—¡Helen! ¡Helen! —empezó a gritar él, su voz elevándose al cielo. Después pareció pensarlo por un segundo y comenzó a gritar en dirección al suelo—. ¡Helen! ¿Sabes dónde está nuestro Patrick? Mujer, ese crío es un demonio…

—Lo dudo, señor —dijo la nigromante— y, sí… contactar con los espíritus es un arte que no puede recrearse mediante alaridos a lugares aleatorios. —Porque necesitas algunas calaveras, algunas velas, sobre todo para darle ese aspecto tradicional, y una habitación acogedora en la que comer galletas tras la sesión porque a ella solía darle hambre poco después—. Por favor, vuelva por la tarde y veremos qué se puede hacer.

—¿Amor? —Una voz femenina vino del interior de la casa—. Por favor déjame ocuparme del servicio al cli… Oh…. —Una mujer rubia salió, a juzgar por los símbolos en su túnica blanca era una clériga y a juzgar por ese aliento entrecortado al que daba caza debía de haber estado haciendo alguna clase de ejercicio. Emer no hubiera sabido decir cuál, aun tras considerar ejemplos tales como andar e incluso correr—. Me temo que estamos cerrados momentáneamente, pero le hago saber que los restos de su esposa son tratados con el máximo cuidado de acuerdo con el artículo siete, sección tercera de nuestro contrato. Sabemos que puede ser duro perder a un ser querido y sabemos que no hay palabras pronunciadas por criatura alguna que puedan llevarse con ellas el dolor de un alma en duelo. Desgraciadamente tenemos prohibido evitar el sufrimiento por medio de la magia ya que sólo acarrea un dolor mayor a largo plazo. Debe comprender que tenemos unas fuertes convicciones filosóficas que defender y por ese motivo ofrecemos vales de descuento para cerveza a nuestros clientes —le dio uno a Emer y cerró la puerta.

La nigromante se quedó allí, de pie, algo confusa e intentando sonreír.

Después la clériga abrió la puerta y, riendo, tomó a la despistada nigromante del brazo y se metieron en casa.

—¿Cuál es el plan? —preguntó Heidel, intrigada, mientras bajaban la calle dejando atrás un arco de piedra que conectaba un pequeño jardín entre las casas, iluminado por los últimos rayos de sol.

—¿Plan? Creo que me tomas por otra persona —contestó Shivala deteniéndose delante de una casa y llamando a la puerta—. ¡Tiff! —vociferó Shivala—. ¡Necesito ayuda! ¡Gratis, si puede ser!

La puerta se abrió, la clériga apareció.

—Hola, Tora, ¿qué tal? ¿Está Tiffany en casa?

—Sí, pasa. Esto… ¿Es de confianza? —preguntó refiriéndose a Heidel.

—Llevo trabajando con ella bastante tiempo y no parece importarle mi capacidad inhumana para meterme en líos —dijo encogiéndose de hombros, después se aproximó a la clériga sin ninguna discreción y le susurró—. En realidad me asusta un poco: está forrada y creo que ha perdido contacto con la realidad… es como una metáfora del poder económico —consiguió musitar.

—La vigilaremos —asintió ella al mismo volumen.

La clériga escuchó el llanto de un bebé a su espalda y se le erizó el vello. Al darse la vuelta, Tiffany estaba sonriéndole sobre un pentagrama, mientras un demonio con la suficiente decencia como para haber adoptado una forma cuasi humana sostenía tiernamente un bebé en brazos que parecía una sombra sobrecogedora, ladrona de luz.

—Hola, Tora, ¿quieres una galleta? —le ofreció el demonio a la clériga, candoroso.

—Nos quedamos al peque esta semana —le dijo Tiffany sonriendo—. Beleth dice que hay mucho trajín últimamente en las dimensiones mazmorra y que el pobrete no está durmiendo bien.

—No me extraña que acabarais teniendo un crío —comentó Tora.

Heidel no comprendía nada de lo que estaba pasando en aquel salón.

—No entiendo nada de lo que está pasando —declaró en consecuencia.

—Vamos a ver —comenzó Shivala, tratando de organizar sus ideas—. Tiff es una poderosa nigromante —Tiff se entretenía haciendo reír al bebé ignorando el resto del mundo—, tal vez no hayas reparado en ello, pero ella no lleva cadenas porque no trata de controlar ni confinar a los demonios que convoca. De hecho, de esa manera se labró una cierta reputación entre los demonios y Beleth, aquí presente —el demonio le saludó con un delicado apretón de manos. Heidel no estaba muy segura de dónde salía aquél otro brazo, pero trató de mantener la compostura— fue convocado por ella. Total, una noche bebieron mucho, hicieron un pacto para traer a un niño muy extraño al mundo y el resultado es el pequeño Abraxas. Pero Tiff estaba a sus cosas y comenzó a salir con Tora —Tora la saludó con una reverencia—, la cual aceptó toda esta rocambolesca historia porque como Tiff hay una entre un millón. Y seguramente porque le gustaba. Además de que tuvieron la idea fantástica de abrir este negocio. Y nosotras estamos aquí porque tal vez sepan a qué demonio trató de conjurar ese imbécil.

—¿Puedo preguntar cómo se llama vuestro imbécil? —preguntó Beleth con curiosidad mientras acunaba a su hijo en brazos.

—Se hace llamar Matt el Poderoso —contestó Shivala.

Tiffany estalló en una carcajada y el demonio y ella intercambiaron una mirada maliciosa.

—¡No! —dijo Shivala intentando contenerse a su vez.

—¡Sí! —respondió la nigromante, esta vez su diversión transformada en una risa cristalina—. Intentó someter nada más y nada menos que a Beleth.

—Hay algo que no entiendo —confesó el demonio—, bueno, en realidad hay muchas cosas que no entiendo, pero voy a intentar limitar mis dudas un poco, ¿qué quiere de mí?

—Quiere vengarse —contestó Heidel.

—¿Quiere vengarse de su ineptitud a través de mí? —dijo incrédulo Beleth.

—Atrevido pero estúpido —añadió Tora.

—En cierto modo… tú eres el símbolo de su incapacidad como nigromante —razonó Tiff—. Aunque, claro, a nivel práctico su incapacidad es suya… —finalizó ensimismada.

—Entonces —continuó Beleth—, ¿me quiere muerto?

—Es mucho mejor que eso —comentó Heidel, ya avergonzada por el peso del contexto.

—Quiere —expuso Shivala—, y cito textualmente, “destruirte”. Nos paga sólo por llevarte hasta él. ¿Qué dices? —le ofreció ella.

—Es que les quería cocinar una tarta a las chicas… —comentó él, azorado.

—¿A nadie le preocupa que, de hecho, pueda tener algún objeto poderoso con el que destruir a un demonio? —inquirió Tora.

—Me gustaría recordar que se hace llamar Matt el Poderoso —intervino Shivala.

—Iremos todos —dijo Tiffany—. No creo que este señor supiera usarlo si es que de alguna manera hubiera podido encontrar ese artefacto, que está totalmente fuera de sus posibilidades económicas o intelectuales, y no creo que en ningún caso lo tenga en su poder, pero el Cráneo de las Sombras es un objeto que sirve para aprisionar a demonios poderosos. Y no voy a dejar que un idiota haga daño a Beleth —dijo abrazándole—, si es que Tora acepta ponerle un par de sellos de protección al peque o algo —añadió—. ¿Tora? ¿Por favor? —Puso cara de cordero degollado.

—Por supuesto, llevar a la clériga y a un bebé demoníaco siempre es la opción sensata —aseveró Tora—. Aun así, espero que me lo recompenses —le susurró juguetona al oído y la nigromante no puedo más que sonreír.

—Espera, ¿con sexo o aventuras? —dijo la nigromante, confundida.

—Con sexo —respondió Tora con paciencia.

—Pues vamos a cobrar nuestro sueldo —les animó Shivala—, lo repartiremos con vosotras, claro, y con nuestro demonio, si es que le interesa el dinero.

—Luego hago la tarta —le dijo Beleth a Tora mientras salían por la puerta, guiñándole un ojo—. Eres la mejor.

Las hojas secas correteaban hacia ellas como pequeños animales, mientras, la brisa

ganaba velocidad a ratos. El otoño había dejado una noche agradable tras un día de sol, aunque corría ese frío tenue pero presente que hacía a la piel pedir abrigo mientras se eriza el vello. El bebé en brazos observaba todo con unos ojos que brillaban como la luz al final del túnel, si la luz de la metáfora no fuera en absoluto reconfortante y si el túnel fuera una pesadilla imperecedera.

Y Beleth y Tiffany lo miraban como si fuese lo más hermoso del mundo.

Shivala y Heidel los guiaban por entre los callejones hasta que llegaron a un modesto parque flanqueado por la fachada de una pequeña iglesia, frente a la que se detuvieron. —Un templo a la diosa Shar, guardiana de los secretos jamás revelados—comentó Tora mientras tejía hechizos para proteger al bebé—, nuestro nigromante ha adoptado una pose dramática que su disposición para humillarse a sí mismo no puede pagar.

Heidel abrió la puerta con un estallido de su magia, las marmóreas baldosas del suelo reflejaban la luz de la luna en una franja iluminada. Después de que entraran, el nigromante, en penumbra y de espaldas, se giró hacia ellos.

Shivala se llevó la palma a la cara ante aquel ridículo espectáculo.

—Volvemos a vernos, Be… ¿Quién demonios es toda esta gente?

—Yo soy Tiffany, vivo en la calle Del Cerezo, en la casa de la puerta azu... —Tora y el Beleth se apresuraron en taparle la boca antes de que siguiera con la retahíla de datos personales totalmente fuera de lugar. Normalmente esos lapsus no le ocurrían a menudo, pero a veces se olvidaba del contexto social más de lo normal. Tiffany seguía murmurando cosas como podía y cuando se liberó siguió como si nada—. Y aquí está Beleth, ese demonio al que quiere usted destruir. Como compañera del gremio quisiera comprobar cómo lleva a cabo el proceso.

—Pero el demonio parece estar aquí por propia voluntad… —dudó Matt.

Heidel se acercó al nigromante, iracunda, poniéndose enfrente de él, cubierta por una capa de fuego de aspecto inestable que parecía alimentarse de su furia.

—Te hemos traído a tu demonio, danos nuestro dinero —exigió ella, sus ojos eran llamas contenidas.

—Perdone —intervino Shivala, haciendo gala de una docilidad que contrastaba con su tamaño y armamento—, hemos cumplido nuestra parte del trato y no voy a poder contener a mi compañera mucho más: piensa que usted no quiere cumplir.

Matt decidió tragar saliva. En algún lugar de su mente una voz no dejaba de decirle que, bien pensado, era al demonio al que alguien debería estar intentando contener.

—No, no, si tengo el dinero y todo… aquí tienes, aquí tienes —consiguió darle, atemorizado y con una mano temblorosa, una bolsa de monedas a esa mujer de aspecto agresivo que llevaba un mandoble por temor a mirar a la maga de batalla que había comenzado a liberar un grito de batalla terrible—. Ya está, os he dado la bolsa, ¿verdad? —suplicó él.

El fuego de Heidel se apagó de inmediato y respondió con una sonrisa radiante y una reverencia. Y Matt el Poderoso no supo encontrar la reacción apropiada a nada de lo ocurrido. Todos se dispusieron a marcharse.

—¡Esperad! —exclamó él—. ¡Beleth es mío! ¡Andariel me ha dado su poder!

—¿Andariel? —quiso saber Tora en un susurro.

—Fue un poderoso archidemonio hace milenios, pero ahora y a juzgar por toda esta situación… mendiga atención, supongo — Beleth se encogió de hombros.

—¡No podéis hacerme esto —se quejó el nigromante—, si no le doy algo a cambio de su favor, aprisionará mi alma! ¿No podéis darme a ese bebé?

En ese momento todos decidieron quedarse, había un sentimiento generalizado de curiosidad por comprobar de qué creativa manera aquel tipo iba a morir.

Beleth y Tiffany se volvieron hacia él, sus ojos eran pura ira.

Hay ocasiones en que hasta el más idiota de los hombres se da cuenta de que esa suerte que de alguna manera le sostenía a través de sus despropósitos se ha esfumado.

—La gente como tú es la razón de que todo el mundo odie a la gente como tú —afirmó Tiffany.

—Tú también eres una nigromante! —se quejó Matt.

Ella lo miró, desconcertada, sin entender.

—Tu vida es una huida hacia adelante apostando tu escasa dignidad en esa ilusión de control que un demonio cuya única virtud es la paciencia te relata mientras intentas en vano comprender dónde estás o por qué eres tan estúpido —señaló Beleth.

—Demasiadas subordinadas, tío —le susurró Shivala.

—Emmm… ¿muchas gracias? —respondió él a bajo volumen—. Que no exista el orden ni el destino, humano, no va a salvarte a ti del tuyo —añadió para dirigirse después a Tiffany—. ¿Haces los honores?

Matt, lleno de rabia, realizó un conjuro, pronunciando una cadena de palabras llenas de un poder que moraba en las dimensiones mazmorra y se liberaba sobre las baldosas de aquella iglesia derramándose de cada letra que salía de sus labios, agrietando el límite de la realidad y, en consecuencia, destruyéndole al tiempo que su piel comenzaba a necrosarse y a deshacerse mientras su propietario aullaba de dolor.

Nuestra compañía de aventureros tardó unos segundos en reaccionar ante esa especie de estudio sobre la perspectiva del cuerpo humano que cubría el suelo de rojo y vísceras allí donde Matt el Poderoso había puesto a prueba su incompetencia por última vez.

—Este anticlímax ha sido muy decepcionante, necesito tarta —aseveró Tiffany.

¡Golpe crítico! 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/.