The Victor Owns the Peace

Boom. The glass groaned, and his knuckles stung, but Lord Brighton was still not free.

William smashed his fist into the glass as rapidly as he could manage, each blow backed with the Memory of the Rose. But the prison was requisitioned under his orders, and he did not tolerate cut corners: it proved its craftsmanship by resisting him as well as it did. A dozen rapid blows and he was rewarded with a single crack. Boom. A second, thinner one. Boom. Nothing. His fist slowed.

The Memory of the Rose suddenly fell away in that same, startling way. He looked through the glass, half-expecting the Warlock to appear with that accursed eye of his, when he felt the ground vanish from under him. He pushed off the glass as he aimed for some ledge, one he could perceive at his peripheral, formed by the edge of the tunnel. He reached with his other arm-

... that he no longer had. The pain of his loss ached, but the fall was mercifully short.

Lord Brighton planted his feet upon the bullet casings and chips of stone that now carpeted too much of his home. He had been deposited back to the battlefield, though he couldn't fathom why. He took quick stock of what had come to pass: he remained near the center of the driveway, now squatting between two **** Knights whose injuries were likely internal. The portal leading to the empty vault had been closed, but apparently not before one more joined John Newman's side: Galley Gallows, somehow with her arm restored. How? The old Lord couldn't ponder-

"D-Daddy?" Lord Brighton’s heart sank in his chest. No. He was outdoors... he was out in the open world, where Deanna must never be. It was his first and last hope for Deanna: a world free of the Abyss, of mages, and their evils; a world without suffering or duty or hate; an existence, however limited, that could not be found anywhere else on Earth or outside of it. Nothing more could be gifted to his adopted daughter; the world would consume her if he let it. Her purity of heart, and corruption of body, would allow no other outcome. Doing his best to restrain his trembling anger, he turned... and saw, apart from an utterly naked Laksha, apart from his daughter standing--Lady be praised--healthy and alight, Deanna's wide, tear-filled eyes of black. The bands of gold in her flesh, where they were visible, practically glowed in the sun. A pure white sundress remained matted against her frail body, slick with the moisture she produced. She can't be here- "Daddy, y-you're hurt..."

Lord Brighton started... and finally realized the source of her fear. He looked down at his body, marred and scarred and ruined for most to see through the tatters of his clothes. He had always been careful to not let Deanna see the true badges of his office; Moira’s reaction had been more than enough, those years ago. Save for his pants, he was ill-dressed to face his daughters… or the task of war on his homefront.

Laksha, wearing nothing, didn't seem nearly as concerned; she all but ignored Lord Brighton’s appearance as she waved at the Gamer. "Nice to finally meet you while you're conscious, John," she cheerfully greeted, though the cheer didn't reach her steady gaze.

Travolta twitched as he readied to charge. Though he invited no critique, Galley shook her head at him. "Don't bother... she'd wipe the floor with you."

"Oh yeah?" Travolta was tempted to say more... but the naked, fit Warden did seem off somehow. "Stronger than ol' one-arm?"

Galley only sighed in response.

"Lord William Brighton of the Order of the Golden Rose," John declared, "I am here as a representatives of Collide, a mage guild that wishes to make peace with the Order."

The old Lord's eyes looked over the bodies of his men and women... "Peace?"

"Peace." A tunnel opened behind Lord Brighton's head. It's other end hovered over John's open left hand. Wordlessly, he hid his right as he began to charge his spell. "This has already cost us both a great deal... too much, and it won't end in any way either of us will enjoy."

Moira stared, stunned, at her husband. Gone were the oily hints of something awful in his voice, or the bloodlust he had expressed, or the hatred, unbound, he had previewed upon escape. She felt certain this was John before her... but how did this moment come about? She looked to those in his company. Certainly not "Rave," a troublesome rogue mage that now seemed so petty by comparison... Tricia? Moira met the worried eyes of the Gorbachev. As if in response, Tricia's closed, third Eye cycled another lid. It was only following that where Moira's eyes passed over her father's head... and she noticed the plain, gray dot of the back of a tunnel anchored near the back of his neck. "N-No-!"

Laksha's hand clasped onto Moira's shoulder like an iron shackle. The Wardens exchanged glares until the older hissed, “It’s too close… I don’t even think I could make it there in time."

Moira looked to John again... and now realized what he must have been charging behind his back. This was a demand for peace... at the tip of a ruinous sword.

Lord Brighton could feel the air was somehow wrong against the back of his neck; his hairs raised as he realized what the boy likely had in store. The stump of his lost arm ached. "You think... you can threaten me, child, and find a lasting peace? Did you believe that everything you’ve done… here, to my family, to the people… could readily be ignored?"

"No... well," John redacted, "not exactly."

All who were aware sensed it; none could react in time. John's glowing hand slammed his index finger through the portal.

"NO!" Moira screamed.

Lord Brighton's eyes closed as he felt the jabbing finger hit the flesh of his neck, just over his spine. Lady, please... protect Moira-! The paragon spell, unstoppable, unrelenting, cut off that final prayer.

Blue light suffused his form... and the Wardens watched, in horror, and then in wonder, as light grew from the misshapen stump of Lord Brighton's shoulder. Deanna cried anew as she had caught on to the fears expressed, and she continued to cry as confusion warped her emotions. Her father's flesh... reshaped, reformed, and pushed away the darkness of curses and ruinous wounds. Scars filled with unmarred skin. Fingers formed on the glowing appendage of blue. Long locks of a wild red mane fell from where careful comb-overs for scars were pushed aside by healed follicles and their prestigious spurts of hair. Chunks of muscle, sundered from his body in youth, reinforced his incredible physique. The glow faded... and the blue wrapping of healing light shattered and vanished, leaving behind a better arm than was stolen less than a day ago.

The portal behind Lord Brighton's head closed shut. John let their stunned silence remain until, at last, Deanna broke it with crying and an attempt to rush to her father. Moira restrained the slippery girl as best she could while Lord Brighton finally spoke. "You returned what you stole..." Lord Brighton let his right hand rub his lower back; the dip, where a few pounds of flesh had gone missing more than a decade ago, was gone. "... and then some. But you can not repay what you owe with this-"

"I wasn't repaying you." Lord Brighton's eyebrows twitched at that. Moira looked confused... and a glance at Laksha confirmed that she wasn’t alone in her confusion. Laksha's expression was suddenly still and cold as rocks... and her grip on her spear was too firm for calm. John smirked as he met the old man's gaze. Quietly, he dropped the last of his manaberry harvest down his gullet before he finally continued, "I know Moira cares for you, and I know it must've hurt her to see you that way. But more importantly... I just wanted you to be at your best."

Moira shook her head but was already drawing a fresh warhammer from her shield. Laksha's spear reformed into its long, curved blade tip to become a quasi-halberd. The few Order staff that remained filed out and made a human wall between John and the Brighton Manor. The roar of the carrier plane was finally close enough to be audible.

John smiled. "That way, when I beat the shit out of you, in front of all your people...”