The Wolf’s Daughter

Phaedra stared at the sword, unable to move. Wolfbane. Had she ever named that sword that? Probably. No. She’d never named it anything. The sword hadn’t HAD a name. It had just been a sword. She’d always intended to get a fancy one, someday. Something magical and useful and powerful. A new sword was just waiting for the great hero, as soon as he dealt with so many other different things.

It had been like every other game, in a way. Do all the little quests, collect all the little pieces, get all the collectibles and then, bam, you get the special magic sword. At least, Medon assumed it would. But he’d never found all the pieces. Heck, even now she was closer to getting all of the necklaces than he’d ever been. He’d never even come close.

Medon’s sword hadn’t lit itself on fire, either. She could almost feel the magic from here. The blade was definitely magic, likely more magic than it had been when Medon had wielded it. But there was no mistaking it. That was his sword. Or, at the very least, it was the pommel of it. The golden pommel with a star on each side of the grip, the double edged blade, the black eye in the center of the pommel beneath the blade that she had, admittedly, always found kind of creepy.

But the blade had been broken when it had hit her father. Fenrir had torn it apart. He had--

Phaedra barely shook herself from her stunned shock in time to pull back, even then the blade slashed across her cheek, only narrowly missing her eye. She stumbled back, slapping her hand against the ground and causing a spike of stone to erupt underneath the figure. He leaped into the air, flipping upside down and seeming to lock his feet onto one of the wooden posts set throughout the room, dangling there.

He seemed almost formless, his body wreathed in shadows and smoke, the only thing that seemed to have true form was the hand gripping the sword.

“That sword was destroyed,” Phaedra said, a hand moving up to cover the bleeding wound on her face. “It was destroyed when Fenrir tore Medon to pieces.”

“It was reforged,” Arthur said. “Medon may have perished to Fenrir’s trickery, but his—”

“What trickery?” Phaedra asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “What would be the point of tricking him? That sword couldn’t even cut Fenrir! It shattered the moment Medon tried to use it on him!”

“Is that what Fenrir tells you demons?” Arthur asked before giving a light laugh. “Pathetic. To think you’d be so gullible. No, Fenrir did no such thing. He is a coward. Once he separated Medon from his comrades, he tricked the hero, separating him from his weapon. Though he was unarmed, Medon fought until his dying breath, battering the—”

“SHUT UP!” Phaedra yelled, unable to keep her anger in check. “You know NOTHING about that fight! It wasn’t some glorious, brilliant, breathtaking battle! It was a slaughter! Medon wasn’t some great hero, he was a pathetic fool who was over his head and died, torn to shreds, terrified and alone!”

Arthur was silent for a few moments before suddenly he leaped forward, jumping from the post to one of the hooks, then another post before finally descending on her. She dove to the right, but his leg lashed out, snatching one of the hooks and twisting around. While the sword didn’t come at her, one of his legs did. She tried to pull back, lifting her arms up and trying to form her claws, but nothing happened. Instead his shadows struck her arms and she felt a blade slice into them, digging bloody gashes down them. She shrieked, before toppling backwards and rolling away, her wool extending around her just in time to narrowly deflect a second strike before he leaped back up into the air, latching onto the roof.

Phaedra looked down at her arms, the cuts weren’t deep, but they shouldn’t have happened at all. She should have been able to form her claws and countered, but they hadn’t formed. “Wait. Wolfsbane. The magic of that sword…”

“Finally figuring it out, have you?” Arthur asked. “The sword to slay wolves. A shame it doesn’t seem to work on sheep… But now? That’s all you are.”

“I’m more than just a sheep,” Phaedra said. “Or a wolf. One very, very important thing you didn’t consider.” Slowly, she backed away, lightly panting as she made her way against the wall, not taking her eyes off him.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know precisely what you are,” Arthur said with a light clucking chuckle. “It must be so hard for you to breathe, isn’t it? Don’t worry, that won’t be a worry, soon.”

“What? No,” Phaedra said. “I’m also the great Houdini.” She held her hand against the stone and cast a spell, shifting and shaping the stone above. The hooks and posts began to fall from the ceiling, making Arthur squawk and try to catch himself…

Only for him to appear besides her a moment later. She couldn’t make her fists into claws now, but she could still kick. And he had only a second to realize what was coming before her hoof embedded itself into his chest, sending him hurtling across the room one way, while his sword went hurtling the other. She cringed for a moment and turned back to make sure it didn’t hit Emma, but fortunately it skidded to a stop long before it went near her.

Arthur landed on the ground, hard, plowing through one of the posts. Phaedra dashed towards him, letting out a snarl. Finally, she could see him. Finally, she--

She knew who he was.

Oh god, no.

Phaedra stopped in mid-step, eyes wide, starring down at him. His right arm could no longer really be called a wing, almost all the feathers had been burned away and only a scant few remained, the flesh blackened and singed. His left wing was as beautiful as ever, a rainbow of feathers that seemed to hold the entire visible spectrum. His right talon was gone, replaced by a long, curved hook that now held some of her blood on it. Half of his body was just… mangled. As if he had been… no, because he HAD been through a veritable fire storm that had killed many less fortunate than him, while the other side was just… not.

“W-why?” Phaedra asked.

It had been over a hundred years. He could have healed. He SHOULD have healed. It wasn’t just demons, the creatures of this world healed from all kinds of wounds that were horrific. Those wounds had been severe, but a century… no. More than a century.

“Why are you… how…” Phaedra asked.

She knew who he was. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would he idolize Medon? He should HATE Medon. He had hated Medon, hadn’t he? Medon…

Medon cost him everything.

“I’m so sorry…” Phaedra whispered. Because what else could she say? Why did it have to be him?

Arthur lunged at her and it was only when the hook jammed into her shoulder that she realized he had grabbed one off the ground. She dropped to the ground and he landed on top of her, lifting his bladed foot over her head.

“I-I swear… I didn’t know… I thought it was… I hadn’t… fought one before… I-I didn’t mean for Raindancer to d-die…” Phaedra said.

Arthur froze, his eyes going wide. “W-what?” he asked. “H-how… how do you… who… told you about—”

Phaedra’s vision was blinded with blood when it splashed over her and she jerked back, her eyes going up. Medon’s sword protruded from Arthur’s throat from behind and a moment later, his head was fully severed. She watched helplessly as his body crumbled and an exhausted, trembling Emma stood behind him, Medon’s sword held shakily in both her hands. “L-lady… P-Phaedra…” she said, her voice weak and the mouse only barely managing to stay standing.

Phaedra stared at her with horror.

------

“I don’t care,” Phaedra said, her eyes occasionally drifting towards the sleeping Emma on her bed. Now, she supposed, Arthur. Technically, Emma had slain Arthur. Emma had been on the cusp of death, so she had made her devour Arthur’s heart once he had lost his life, though she was still exhausted. Her ship still needed repair and it would be a bit before it could fly. The hull had already been fixed, that was easy, which was why this little meeting was taking place in her new room.

It was what came after that was up for debate. Which was why she, Lu Bu, Lancelot and Medea were in said room. She’d offered Xenaris a role, but he had rather meekly declined.

Phaedra felt a knot of loathing and despair, so tight and compressed inside her. Like a volcano, just waiting to erupt. She knew exactly who he was, what she had done to him, how she had hurt him… and now she couldn’t tell anyone except Yroth. She had to keep herself together until she got home.

But she didn’t know how long she could keep it together.

“The rest of the harpies have fled,” Lu Bu said. “We hold this fortress.”

“As much as it can be called a fortress,” Lancelot said.

“My point is,” Lu Bu said. “We hold the spoils. The rest of the prisoners, they—”

“I already said what we will do,” Phaedra said. “The treasure we take. The people? They go back to Roothome.”

“They weren’t the ones who saved you,” Lu Bu snapped. “You don’t owe them anything!”

Phaedra didn’t answer, she just closed her eyes and counted to ten.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she heard Medea whisper. She wondered if they didn’t realize just how good her hearing was. No. She was Leviathan’s daughter. She likely knew exactly how good her hearing was. “Look at her hand. It’s just like Lord Fenrir, she’s on the verge of going fully feral.”

There were a few moments of silence and she could feel them staring. “Very well,” Lu Bu said. “Lady Phaedra. I do hope our next excursion will be one with more… glory to it.”

“Of course,” Phaedra said. “My… apologies that this one was not at all to plans.” She glanced to her hand against the wall. It had become a claw entirely and dug a deep gouge into the wall just from tensing up. She sighed and leaned forward, resting her horns against the wall. She heard the door open and two of them leave, but judging by the steps, one of them remained. It wasn’t hard to guess which one stayed. “Hey, Medea.”

“Lady Phaedra,” Medea said.

“Thank you,” Phaedra said.

“I was merely offering him a suggestion to avoid things getting worse,” Medea said. “I can’t help but notice that you aren’t suffering the struggles that the rest of us are.”

“Struggles?” Phaedra asked.

“Every breath is a struggle,” Medea said. “Yet you seem unphased from that. Your struggles are… something else. Is that magic, or a gift from your mother or your father?”

Phaedra just gave a shrug. “I have no idea. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Of course,” Medea said.

Nothing more was said and Phaedra wondered if that was it, but Medea didn’t move to leave. Finally, Phaedra sighed and glanced back. “What is it?”

“Is that… truly the sword of Medon?” Medea asked before motioning towards the sword laying in Emma’s tiny hands.

“Huh?” Phaedra asked. “I assume so.”

“You are not going to just… let her keep it, are you? A mouse?” Medea asked. “Aren’t you going to take it for yourself?”

“That seems a bit greedy,” Phaedra said. “She endured the torture, after all. Besides, I did want her to have a nice sword. I can hardly take it away the moment she gets one that’s too nice. What kind of precedent would that set?”

Medea stared at her as if she had lost her mind before bowing her head politely and then turning to leave. She did pause before glancing back. “It was called… Wolfbane, was it not?”

“Indeed,” Phaedra said.

“Your father won’t like this,” Medea said.

“On the contrary, I imagine it is exactly the kind of thing he would do. He loves a challenge,” Phaedra said with a small smile.

A moment later she heard the door close once more and she was alone. She then sighed and leaned her head forward once more. She just had to endure a bit longer. Once they fixed the balloon, they’d get those people home. Then they’d go home themselves.

Then she’d talk to Yroth. Then she’d tell her what happened. Then…

Then she’d be free. Then Yroth could tell her how much she hated her. How much of a monster she was. Could curse her. Scream at her. Yell at her. Slap her. Make her feel as bad on the outside as she felt on the inside. She just had to hold it together a little bit longer. If nothing else… at least everyone seemed too scared to approach or challenge her for the moment.

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