Homecoming

“Does my mom know I’m alright?”

It was the first thing John thought of after his phone exploded with notifications upon returning to the real world. Exactly one was from his mother, asking when he expected to be home, the following thousand were from Liam. He didn’t have time to check them before a different notification blocked the view of his phone.

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<Quest Complete!>
Trial by Fire
+400 exp
Skeleton Key acquired
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<Level Up!>
+5 Stat points
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Not now, UI. I have shit to do.

He dismissed the windows in time to take in his surroundings as Erica answered his question. They had a moment, seeing as a fresh host of knights swarmed Moira the instant she came into view.

“That’s difficult to answer.” Erica grimaced. “Let’s just say that the Order has ways of covering up when people disappear, and that your mom is fine.”

“That’s disconcertingly cryptic,” John said. It wasn’t like Erica to be anything less than blunt with him.

“I’ll let Lord Brighton explain,” she sighed. “He’ll do a better job than I will. Just trust me, okay?”

John narrowed his eyes to scrutinize Erica’s face before answering. The way her brow creased and her attempt at a reassuring smile made her look uncomfortable, but not guilty.

“If anyone else in this crack house asked me that, I’d say no. Even Moira.” John returned Erica’s less than confident smile. “I mean, look at this place! What the hell is this?”

John gestured widely to the area around them. They had emerged from the gate into a wide, circular room with high walls and a domed ceiling. Everything was smooth concrete and reinforced steel, illuminated by fluorescent lights that ran around the circumference. There was only a single exit, but it was large enough to drive two 18-wheelers abreast through, leading to a similarly large corridor. John couldn’t get a good look, but he was certain that the exit housed a blast door that was currently retracted.

“I told you the Order wasn’t medieval Europe all the way down.” Erica smirked with no lack of smarm. “The deeper down you go, the more modern it gets, and this is as deep as you can go.”

John noted that the interior of the chamber was littered with console bays of some serious looking hardware - of what purpose he had no idea - and that several members of the Order had **** rifles slung behind their backs. Further inspection revealed that the chamber’s exit was flanked by a pair of heavy-duty mounted turrets, unmanned but under guard. They both pointed directly toward the center of the room, where the gate stood.

The gate itself was disappointingly unremarkable, by comparison. It was made up of two stone pillars toppled towards each other in such a way that they formed a lopsided triangle, with the leftover length of the taller one extending beyond the frame’s shape. Each pillar had likely been rectangular, once, but untold centuries had worn away any sharp corners or polish. Aside from the size, a bit longer than six feet to a side, the only thing of note about the pillars was a ring of surprisingly well preserved glyphs carved around each one, just below the top. The triangular space between them held no obvious portal; it had no swirling mass of plasma, no rippling pool of raw mana, no energy-rimmed windows to the other side, not even a curtain of solid white light. Nothing. It was as if someone had failed to completely tip over Stonehenge, then built a military base around it.

“This all feels a little unnecessary,” John said through tight lips.

“It’s not, and let’s leave it at that,” Erica said, pointing through the open blast door. A nearby bend in the tunnel leading in was brightening with the approach of a pair of headlights. “You have other things to worry about.”

“Oh, joy.” John grimaced. “Lord Brighton?”

“Most likely,” Erica said. She glanced towards Moira before continuing, “But I have to ask something before your interrogation.”

“About what?” John asked. He appreciated having anything to think about other than staring down an angry, incredibly powerful father.

“Has Moira been acting weird at all recently?” she asked. “Since after you dragged her to the Abyss, I mean.”

John felt fortunate that his heart was already in his throat at the premise of explaining himself to Lord Brighton. It made **** on Erica’s question much easier to mask.

“You mean besides not looking like she wants to pound me into the dirt every time we make eye contact?” he deflected. Obviously the answer was yes, but was Erica in the know about Moira’s circumstances? The fact that she was asking suggested yes, but that wasn’t enough to be sure, and John wasn’t about to risk giving the Brightons another reason to kill him. He could ask Moira about it herself later, if bringing it up to her wasn’t also a dangerous idea.

“Answer the question.” Erica shot John a flat look.

“Maybe?” John offered an unconvincing smile, but it wasn’t unusual for him to be trepidatious when talking about Moira. “I don’t really know what counts as normal for Moira; I’ve never spent a long time with her before, alone or otherwise. Between that and trying to avoid irritating her, I’m not the best judge of how she’s doing, you know? I guess maybe she’s been a little antsy?”

A half-truth was the best John could do for now. Even if Erica did know, John couldn’t tell her about what happened last night. He had a promise to keep.

“Hmm.” Erica crossed her arms and took one last, scrutinizing look over Moira before turning her attention back to the entrance. She caught John’s eye and inclined her head in that direction. “Well, you’re up.”

The headlights revealed themselves to belong to not just one vehicle, but two. The first was a black Rolls-Royce lifted straight out of the ‘60s, shiny and pristine as if it had just rolled off the lot. At first glance, John thought the driver’s seat was empty, only to realize he was looking on the wrong side. It was a right-hand drive model, probably shipped across the ocean with the rest of the Brightons’ things. Lord Brighton’s personal car, John guessed, as the man himself was behind the wheel. It was followed by a much larger vehicle, painted a dark, matte grey, driven by Moira’s faithful butler, Reginald. The Humvee was imposing by scale and design, but it did not overshadow the aura of affluence and regality coming off the car in front of it. That one vehicle looked like it had belonged there and the other stuck out like a sore thumb emphasized the effect.

“Wish me luck?” John swallowed the lump in his throat and took a final glance towards Erica. In return, she gave him a firm slap on the back to urge him forward.

“Enginn er allheimskur ef þegja má,” she said. John spun back around to regard her with absolute incomprehension.

“Gesundheit?” he offered.

“Hilarious.” Erica crossed her arms and shot John a look of reproach.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Viking,” he said.

“It’s not ‘Viking’ it’s…” Erica shook her head and sighed. “Nevermind. Just go - you already know that lesson.”

“Whatever you say, Brunhilde.” John rolled his eyes and turned back to meet his fate. He didn’t need to see Erica’s scathing glare to know it was there, he could feel it on his back. For some reason, it made him smile in spite of himself.

The sight before him was not what he was expecting. The cloud of followers around Moira had finally parted, but only because Lord Brighton was stepping out of his car. He looked as imposing as ever, but some of his imperiousness was undercut by how quick his stride was. He took long, swift steps, closing the distance between him and his daughter in only a moment. John could see Moira start to snap to attention, but Lord Brighton rushed past such formality and enveloped her in the kind of hug only a father could give. Being of much larger frame, Lord Brighton’s embrace was as overwhelming as it was protective, holding her tight as if, as long as he held her, he could shield his daughter from all the evils of the world. Moira herself was initially rigid with shock, but the instant that fell away, she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed back, wrinkling his suit. She stopped being the Warden of the Golden Rose and he, the Lord Protector, if only for that moment.

John looked away. His heart swelled with a rush of complicated emotions he had neither the time nor wherewithal to properly deal with, but he had little choice. Erica had fallen back in with her unit and everyone present was busy pretending not to be watching the Warden and her father. He noticed then that he’d formed his own halo of Knights upon exiting the Gate, only his was a sparse ring of distrust, not a gathering of admiration. Not a soul stood closer than ten feet from him, not even Erica. Not anymore, at least. He was isolated, unable to retreat or advance. His thoughts avoided the onset of panic by turning inwards, fleeing to his tumultuous heart.

He first thought of his mother, still worried for her safety and wellbeing, but those thoughts swiftly changed to wishing he could hug her and tell her that everything will be alright. He wanted the warm blanket of her embrace. He wanted to be held like he used to be, when he would run to her with tears in his eyes whenever he’d get a cut or scrape a knee. John’s chest tightened and all of the sudden, he found it difficult to breathe. His excursion had taken more out of him than he’d realized. Finally safe and given half a minute to process it all, realization fell upon him, the realization that he was being held together by bubblegum and shoestrings. Teetering on the brink of a breakdown, John briefly thought of his father. He wondered how long it had been since they last hugged.

“Mr. Newman.”

Lord Brighton’s voice cut through the dense fog protecting John from reality and dragged him back to the surface. It was deep and cold, like stone, resounding throughout the room so that all eyes, not just John’s, turned to him. He stood straight and tall, expression locked in stoic condemnation. Moira matched his stoicism, but not the condemnation. It seemed difficult for her to fully mask her emotions, shifting between tiny glimpses of joy and concern every time her eyes would flick between her father and John.

“Yes, sir,” John said. His voice had a slight warble to it, but it was full and clear. That was good enough for him. He collected himself, stowing away his thoughts to stand at attention. His little inner pity party would have to wait; there was one last encounter to clear.

“You will meet me in the study,” Lord Brighton said. “Reginald will escort you.”

“This way, Mr. Newman,” Reginald said, gesturing towards the Humvee with an open palm. It took everything John had not to squeal in alarm. The Brighton butler was standing directly next to him where no one had been just seconds ago. John hadn’t even noticed Reginald exit his vehicle, let alone walk over to him. Reginald stared at John with a small but pleasant smile, oozing malice from every pore in his body. John hastily looked back to Lord Brighton.

“Yes, sir,” he said. That one came out shakily, obviously afraid. Part of John resented that he was being subject to such scare tactics right away, but also that he had fallen for them. Having seen the face of ****, he thought he’d be above these kinds of things. It was only a small part, however. The rest was preoccupied with the aforementioned terror.

“As you were.”

Lord Brighton regarded the Knights’ presence with a stiff nod before pivoting in that oh-so-Brighton way and walking back to his car. Moira followed suit, but not before offering the assembled a deep and gracious bow. John took Reginald’s cue to lead the way and began to walk. He could feel the butler’s footfalls on his shadow every step of the way, alien and chilly. John caught one last glimpse of Moira’s red hair as she ducked into the Rolls-Royce.

Beside himself for it or not, he deeply missed her protection.