THE APOSTATE SAINT

Fridok still couldn’t believe the sword he held in his hands was truly his own. The Soul-arm, forged through the will of the Son and the support of his newfound ally, Art, captivated him more than anything he had ever seen. It was a long-bladed weapon, considerably longer than the gladius he had purchased and lost in the melee, and it emitted a subtle, ethereal glow all along its tip and edges. Neat indentations resembling a meticulously laid stone wall ran down the blade’s face—a feature influenced by Fridok’s many years as a stone worker. The blade curved elegantly on both sides, similar to his gladius, but much, much longer. The most confounding aspect for Fridok was its variable weight: perfectly balanced for both one-handed and two-handed combat, shifting seamlessly between the two depending on whether he had one or two hands on the hilt.

The hilt, the only part not of Fridok’s design, bore an unfamiliar, albeit intriguing, signature of Art’s influence. It depicted a many-armed sea monster; its pointed head formed the pommel, its sinuous body the handle, and its tentacle-like arms the guard. Fridok had never seen a sword so remarkable, even those crafted by master artisans, except perhaps the blade of the Son and the one Alaric had forged the night before with his mother’s help.

A particularly restless night preceded the morning's events, his fixation on the new blade mingling with the nerves of venturing into untamed lands teeming with demons. Art's incessant chatter had also played a part in his sleeplessness. Even before dawn, Art’s voice pierced the morning silence, rousing Fridok from his fitful sleep.

“You’re going to be late, you know,” Art chided. “Look at you, sleeping like a wee baby. You sound more like a dying cow with all that awful snoring. Try sleeping on your side more, less like you're trying to cover every inch of your mat with your limbs. Nobody's going to take that sweat-crusted thing away from you. Have I mentioned how nice the beds were at the manor?”

“More than enough,” Fridok replied, recalling Art's enthusiasm for the brief pampering he enjoyed after temporarily losing his strength during the sword’s creation.

“It was the softest thing I ever laid on, I swear to ya,” Art continued. “Felt like I was back in me mother’s womb or atop a cloud or something. I recommend being filthy rich—it’s got its advantages, I tell ya.”

Fridok wasn’t equipped to handle such early morning energy, especially after so little sleep. Art, despite his wobbly legs from recently restored mobility, exuded a vigor that contrasted sharply with Fridok's grogginess.

Once Art had recovered sufficiently from the Son's ritual, the two decided it was best to leave. Despite Alaric's insistence they stay, they knew their welcome had worn thin. Sneaking off to Fridok's humble apartment after everyone had retired, they left without goodbyes, Alaric too occupied with his ailing mother to notice.

Art, steadying himself against the wall, looked down at Fridok with a stern, almost maternal gaze. “What are you, my mom?” Fridok muttered, irritated.

“Son,” Art mimicked a woman's voice with perfect mimicry, “get your hairy arse off the floor and get ready to go off to your little war.”

Grumbling, Fridok reluctantly rose, feeling every bit of his sleepless night and hangover from too much wine. This was not how he envisioned starting his grand adventure. He packed what he could into his worn sheepskin satchel: basic survival items like a skinning knife, flint, a waterskin, and some well-used cooking utensils. With the sack hung on a long stick for balance, he was ready.

As they walked toward the main gate, where the Son had called his followers to meet, the streets were unusually busy, filled with people eager to witness the procession. Fridok, lacking a proper sheath for his new sword, had wrapped it in a patchwork cover of rabbit furs tied with twine. This humble covering perhaps kept him unnoticed in the crowd.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, idjit!” Art yelled at a man who nearly collided with them. “Don’t want to be hitting a bona fide hero, now do ya?”

Fridok shook his head, telling Art to stop, but Art persisted. “Not only did you almost hit a hero, you almost hit the great man’s companion as well!”

“Cut it out. I’m not a hero of anything, yet.”

“You? Who says I was talking about you?” Art’s cheeky remark made Fridok realize he genuinely enjoyed the Farraige man's company.

Upon reaching the gates, the crowd was so thick it was difficult for Fridok to push through. “Excuse me,” he said, trying to maintain good manners. “I must get through, pardon me!” No one moved, making Fridok feel foolish and frustrated.

“Are you going to do it, or am I?” Art asked. Fridok shook off the offer of help, preferring to force his way through with dignity. But Art had no such qualms.

Before Fridok knew it, Art had snatched his sword, holding it high and removing the hide cover. “Hey, move it!” Art shouted. “Out of the way! Don’t make me slap you with the broad side of my majestic and wondrous sword, Peter-lily, here—that’s right, move it!”

To Fridok’s surprise, people actually listened. They scurried out of the way, intimidated by the sight of the magnificent sword. “That’s enough,” Fridok said, embarrassed, as they made their way through the now-open path. “And don’t ever call my sword that again.”

As they neared the clearing, Fridok noticed Art suddenly lose his step. He barely reacted in time to catch him before he collapsed. The sword, still clutched by Art, had changed, its light dimming to a dark, oppressive shadow. Fridok took the sword back, its weight and balance restoring as he did.

“What was that about?” Fridok asked, concerned. Art, pale and disoriented, seemed at a loss for words. Fridok vowed silently that no one but he would ever handle his sword again.

“Is he alright?” a familiar voice asked. Alaric, resplendent in the finest armor, knelt beside them. He resembled the marble figures lining the Hero’s Park. “What happened?”

“He stumbled,” Fridok explained. “When he grabbed the sword, it was like he lost all control.”

“Not all control, mind you,” Art interjected weakly. “I didn’t shite meself. Yet.”

Alaric and Fridok exchanged glances, struggling to contain their laughter.

“When you’re ready, let’s head up there,” Alaric said kindly. As Art regained his strength, the three walked toward the Son and the others. Fridok felt out of place among the well-armored, well-prepared wealthy Citizens, but he reminded himself that he had earned his place among them.

Just before they joined the group, Art stopped. “This is as far as I go,” he said. “I got your hairy arse here. Now it’s your turn to get on with those rich folk games. Go on, cut up some demons real good for me. Bring me back a trophy—an ear, a snout, or something wicked. But go. I’ll keep your shithole nice and… well, I’ll make sure nobody messes with your stuff that much.”

Fridok nodded, bittersweet at leaving his friend but knowing Art was right. This wasn't his battle. He looked back one last time to see Art waving a rude gesture—a final farewell.

As he approached the group, he noticed the magistrate who had accepted his entry for the melee—the one Fridok had promised his sword to if he didn't win. Fridok’s old sword was lost, and he certainly wasn’t parting with his new one. That man would have to accept his losses.

Fridok was now part of something bigger, with no time for petty squabbles. He had a greater purpose. The Son smiled at him, and Fridok knew he was ready, even if he didn’t feel it. This was his time to prove his worth to the City and the world.