A Hero's Ballad: The Knightmare

     ~X~

     When the two knights walked closer to the spectre of Rohane’s father, the middle-aged knight stood up to meet them both. Thankfully, unlike the nightmarish creature who lacked a face, the Blumaroo looked almost like he had when they were young. Kindly, yet stern. Well-built and muscular with years of callouses on his hands, just like his son. With the Meridell-emblazoned chain armour that he was known to wear cut tightly to his features.

     Rohane held his breath while Jeran wiped away a stubborn tear that had clung to his fur. A shimmering barrier had since formed at the foot of the staircase, blocking their path. When it was evident that the spectre wasn’t going to let them pass without speaking, it was Rohane who engaged first.

     “Father,” he tried to keep his face as neutral as he could, “did you like it? That was the song you wanted to hear before you left.” Despite his remarkably blank facial features, the younger Blumaroo’s shoulders were hunched and his knees locked. Jeran shot his comrade a perplexed look, to which Rohane did not reciprocate. His eyes were locked on his father’s.

     Sir Reynold cracked a kindly smile before reaching his hand out to lay on Rohane’s shoulders. At first, Rohane seemed unfazed by this, trying with all of his might to maintain his guise of stoic indifference. But the longer the spectre held his hand there, the longer his eyes glittered with joy, the more the dam started to crack.

     “That sounded magnificent. I’m proud of you, Son,” he said, as he squeezed Rohane’s shoulder, “so very proud of the Blumaroo you’ve become.” His gaze travelled up and down Rohane’s resplendent armour. “A hero, eh? It suits you well.”

     “F-father… I…” Rohane began before the dam broke.

     Seeing this, the spectre bent in to give Rohane a gentle hug. Jeran shuffled about awkwardly, feeling as if he was intruding on something he wasn’t meant to see. But then the thought came to him: if he ever saw his parents again, this is surely how they would react—how he’d react. Rarely did thoughts of them surface these days; they had almost faded into a memory of a futuristic Neopia, become ghosts that he could never hold or touch again. Sir Reynold functioned as the father-figure that Jeran sorely lacked, that he craved desperately upon being swept into this world of Medieval knights and kings. He was all of these things and yet… Jeran stood a few feet apart and busied himself with the surroundings.

      Ornate frescos depicting Rohane and his crew’s battles worldwide covered each wall. The insurmountable odds they had overcome to make it to the top of Faerieland’s largest, most impressive structure genuinely impressed the Lupe. And especially now, looking at the manner of ghostly, ghastly, and downright disgusting creatures he and his team had faced, it all seemed incredible that he had arrived mostly unscathed—at least physically, Jeran noted. Rohane sometimes would talk in brief about his battles, but it had usually been his friends who would fill in the pieces. Despite saving multiple lands, he often downplayed his role, preferring instead to remain in the shadows. Or that, at least, was his intent. Messengers zipping from one land to another spread on fast wing his heroic deeds to the world. Looking back, it was a wonder how his singing talent had remained a well-guarded secret when practically every other detail had made its way into books or, in one case, an enthusiastic, perpetually lost Master’s student’s thesis.

     The older knight stood slighter taller than his son; Rohane had taken after his mother in the height department, not that the taller Reuben let him forget it. Rohane hid his face against his father’s chainmail, and squeezed him tightly with both arms.

     “Goodness, you’ve grown strong,” his father said with a light laugh before regarding Jeran for the first time. “You both have.”

     Jeran straightened up like a ramrod, his tail stiffening up like a lightning bolt. “Yes, Sir,” the words tumbled out of his mouth as he felt like he was a squire once again, “thank you, Sir.”

     The older knight sighed as the smile faded from his face. “Jeran, I thought we’d known each other long enough to avoid such stiff formalities.”

     “I…” the words hung in the Lupe’s mouth like molasses. More than anything, he wanted to apologize, to tell him how sorry he was for his shortcomings, for not coming to face Ramtor that day so many years ago. Because had Jeran been there to help… maybe, maybe things would have been different. “I’ve missed you.”

      As soon as he said it, he felt a wave of sadness washing over him. Because no matter how much time passed or what titles he had earned or the battles he had won… few thoughts lingered with him quite like the loss of his mentor. The thought that the Neopian who mattered most to him—beyond his sister, of course—the one who trained with him and treated him like family was gone. The stone memorial in the palace gardens where they etched his name was surrounded by beautiful roses, a few painted rocks placed alongside, and a steady stream of trinkets and gifts left by colleagues and friends. It was a fitting memorial for one of his station, albeit a constant reminder of his absence each time Jeran strode past with his comrades-in-arms.

     “There’s plenty of room under the other arm,” Sir Reynold said cheekily, to which a tear-stained Rohane jerked back and threw his hands down in frustration. “Come on, Jeran. You know you want a hug, too.”

     “S-sir!”

     “Father!” Rohane cried. The Blumaroo’s face had turned magenta. Evidently, so had Jeran’s. Rohane rubbed his face in embarrassed anguish. “That’s not—don’t you see how weird that would be?! We’re not children anymore.”

     But the older Blumaroo just laughed while Rohane became more and more flustered. “What’s the matter? You and Reuben used to do it all the time when you were kids.”

     “Y-yeah, but that’s different! Reuben’s my older brother. Jeran’s my—”

     “Superior officer—”

     “Comrade!”

     Jeran squinted. “That’s ‘Captain of the Order’ to you, ‘Hero of Five Lands.’”

      “Still comrades.”

     “With different—”

     “Boys, boys! Calm down.”

     “For the record,” said Jeran with a twinge of annoyance and a point, “Rohane started it.” In response to this, the Blumaroo rolled his eyes. “Oh, real mature, Rohane.”

     “You’re the one who started pointing fing—"

     “Alright, alright,” said the spectre as he brusquely hooked each of them under an arm, “if you two don’t play nice, I’m going to have to separate you.” The way he said it almost sounded ominous. A chill rose through their spines.

     With the two of them within inches of one another, Jeran’s features became serious. “This is still a dream, Rohane. We don’t want to get thrown apart from each other now.”

     Especially with so many monsters afoot, both those he had fought in the real world and those he struggled against within his sub-conscious, being teleported from one another now would be a worse-case scenario.

      “No, we don’t,” Rohane agreed heartily. “I don’t think I could mentally handle another loop of these nightmares.” The younger knight’s face hardened. “It would break me.”

     Jeran regarded him sadly before crossing his arms. “And Lisha, too. Her magic has kept me here this entire time.”

      “It has?” His brow furrowed. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

     “Yes.”

     “Then we have no time to lose.” After struggling against the spectre’s surprisingly robust grip, Rohane coughed awkwardly. “Alright, Father, you can let go now. We’ll behave.”

     The taller Blumaroo released them unceremoniously. Rohane rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something under his breath that Jeran could not make out.

     “See? What that so bad? Sir Reynold said it in a sing-song voice before clicking his tongue, “kids these days.” Before Jeran could scuttle away, he placed a hand on his former squire’s back. Jeran looked over his shoulder, surprised. “Wait, Jeran. There’s something I need to say before you go.”

     “Yes, Sir?”

     “For the last time, you can call me by my first—ah, I suppose it’s not that important.” He waved the thought away. “More importantly, that sword you have,” he pointed to it, as it lay sheathed at Jeran’s waist, “I would like you to give it to my son.”

     Jeran gave his liege a perplexed look, one that Rohane shared. He unsheathed it and held it out, to which the elder knight gently picked up and cradled the weapon as if handling a babe. The metal looked worn, well-used, and in need of a blacksmith’s repairs. “This old thing? But it’s full of rust. It’s a miracle it hasn’t broken yet.”

     After the elder waved his hand over the sword, it glowed. Within a few seconds, the entire blade was wrapped in an ethereal blue. “This is no ordinary sword. It’s the one I left with my son when he began his journey years ago. A piece of my soul is buried within.“

     Both knights seemed equally amazed by this revelation.

     “You mean…?”

     “So, it wasn’t all in my head…” Rohane seemed almost pensive and spoke with his head tilted towards the sky. “When I fought Terask a few years ago…” he fiddled at the Sword of the Apocalypse’s hilt mindlessly, “I thought I could feel your presence there, Father. After the battle, I recall speaking with you. My friends said I had been muttering for hours before finally waking up. I was in such bad shape, it’s a miracle I’m even alive.” He brought his gaze back down. “Maybe that’s why I… but no, that couldn’t be...”

     As Rohane gently took hold of the blade, both the spectre of his father and the weapon glowed brightly. Both he and Jeran were utterly mesmerized by its luminosity, with glimmering radiance like a firefly-lit night.

     “Rohane,” and as his father said this, the knight lifted his eyes off the weapon, “let me continue to protect you; grace my squire with your sacred blade. It will serve him well in the trial to come. Serve you both.”

     The Blumaroo tightened his sword hand into a fist. “Then you know about Terask.”

     “I do. Which is why I must leave you both to face your destinies together.” As he spoke, he began to fade; both the knights cried out to him.

     “Sir!”

     “Father, wait! I have so much I want to—”

     “Do not mourn me, either of you. I am with you as you fight. Stay strong and keep your eyes on the journey home…”

     As if mist in the morning air, he vanished into a trail of sparkling stardust. The remnants of the magical energy zigged and zagged before landing upon Rohane’s rusting sword, fortifying it. Within Jeran’s grasp was now the “Sword of the Apocalypse,” a gem-encrusted blade that looked almost too beautiful, too ceremonial to use in an actual fight. But beyond that exterior of wealth and beauty lay steel forged by the Battle Faerie herself. A metal that few Neopians had hoped to rival in their forges.

     Rohane had been almost wordless since they began their ascent up the flickering staircase to the top floor, only responding briefly questions when asked. And there were few inquiries to be made, only ones that could be used to plan their strategy against the 40-foot Draik at the top of Fyora’s castle. Neither spoke a word about Sir Reynold; the emotions they felt had been too raw to put into words. There was a shared understanding, a taboo that they both knew not to cross lest it threaten to break them down.

     Upon reaching the top of the stairs, there was a heavy iron door that dangled impossibly in the air. A large silver pull ring sat on the right side within arm’s reach of the heroes. Detailed filigrees raced along the surface depicting the rainbow fountain and the mystical faerie that lorded above it. Jeran spared a glance at his comrade whose ears were quivering, and so placed a hand gently on Rohane’s arm, his voice rife with concern.

     “Should I do this? Or—”

     “No.” Despite saying this, his voice trembled. “I can do this.”

     Just as Rohane’s hand reached the ring, there was a deafening roar that shook the two of them to their very cores. Both of them reached for their ears to block out the sound, but it wasn’t nearly enough. So loud was the faux king’s declaration that their ears rang in a painfully high squeal. Rubble fell from above despite the dark, empty void above them. They dodged each chunk, being cautious not to slip into the space below. At one point, Rohane had to tug the Lupe back after he had nearly stumbled from a dizzying height.

     Rohane bit his lip, straining to yank the door open.

     “I’m helping.”

     “No, I—”

     “You want to get there quickly, right?”

     Rohane couldn’t argue with this, despite his pride and stubbornness. Jeran joined in with him, taking hold of one half of the ring. With their combined efforts, the door finally began to move. It stuck at first, odd given that it hung in the air, before finally opening with a loud creak.

     Having a better vantage point upon opening the door, Jeran gasped. “Rohane. He’s not alone.”

     Beyond them lay the site of Heroic Four’s final battle before Rohane was formally knighted. The open, half-smashed courtyard of the Faerie Queen flooded back into his vision along with the blinding light of the sun. And brandishing their weapons confidently in the face of likely doom were three heroes that Rohane knew all too well:

     Talinia, Mipsy, and Velm.

     To be continued…