The Battle
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“This is way too big for you,” Raven observed.
She had helped Philothea into a mail shirt and was now pinching the excess material together around the neck to tighten the collar.
Cyrus’s army was assembled just outside the city gates, waiting for his order to go out and meet Zeno’s forces. At the very last minute, Raven decided that Philothea needed a little extra protection in case someone should try to sneak up behind her and stab her in the back while she was distracted protecting her father’s army.
“I need a pin,” Raven mumbled.
Zoe raised an eyebrow. “…for chainmail?”
“I’ll be right back,” Raven informed, before rushing out the door.
Zoe stared after her for a long moment. “I think she’s going to be jealous when we get your mother back.”
Philothea didn’t make any kind of reply. Not a whimper, not a giggle, nothing.
“You okay?” Zoe asked.
Philothea hardly heard her; she just stared off into space, her hands trembling, her heart hammering in her chest.
Zoe gripped her hand. “It’s going to be alright, you know. The prophecy is on your side.”
Philothea’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth and choked. How could she explain to Zoe that that made things so much worse?
The prophecy did indeed make it seem like she was going to survive this, but it didn’t say anything about the people who were fighting with her.
“What if I can’t protect everyone?” Philothea mumbled. “If anyone dies tonight, it will be all my fault.”
“Zeno’s,” Zoe corrected with a shake of her head. “He’s the one actually trying to kill people.”
“Zoe…” Philothea squeaked. “The most powerful person on our side is me. Doesn’t that terrify you?”
“The Creator is the most powerful person on our side,” Zoe stated.
“You’re right,” Philothea blushed, now feeling silly. “So I don’t have to be afraid, but–”
“Well, you kind of do.” Zoe shrugged. “I mean, considering most of the Creator’s prophets ended up murdered.”
“Zoe!” Philothea squeaked.
“But, even when they died, they still won, you know?” Zoe continued, “Because they were taken into the Creator’s garden.”
“I don’t want anyone taken there!” Philothea squeaked, then, seeing Zoe’s slightly raised eyebrow, she added. “I mean, I want everyone there eventually, just not today.”
Philothea slumped down and buried her face in her hands. She understood what Zoe meant. Whether they all died today or sixty years from now didn’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things. The Holy Creator would win ultimately, and today His will would be done. Still, that knowledge did nothing to make her feel better about the impending fight.
Tears welled up in her eyes and poured down her cheeks. “Why can’t I hear Him anymore?”
“Who?” Zoe asked, sitting down beside her.
“Holy Creator,” Philothea continued. “Before I found my mother’s ring, I used to feel His presence everywhere I went; I could… almost hear Him sometimes when I prayed. But ever since I discovered my powers, I’ve felt Him less and less. I need Him now more than ever… Where is He?”
That’s when Zoe did something extraordinarily unZoe-like. She crushed Philothea to her chest in a hug.
While Philothea was still recovering from her shock, Zoe said, “Can you see me?”
“No!” Philothea complained. “You’re crushing me!”
“Well, I am closer to you now than I’ve ever been,” Zoe remarked. “And I think the Holy Creator is too.”
Her demonstration complete, Zoe released her friend. In response, Philothea lunged forward and attacked Zoe with a hug of her own.
“You don’t have to come,” Philothea insisted. Per her promise, she was not going to transport Zoe away from danger against her will. Yet, Zoe was hardly a warrior. Philothea had no idea how she planned on contributing to the battle.
As if reading her mind, Zoe said, “I’ll come. I’ll stand with you, and I’ll pray.”
Behind Philothea, in the distance, the lights of her father’s castle glimmered in the darkness. She stood on a ridge overlooking the battlefield where her father’s army was assembled. Beyond this, flowing slowly toward them was a sea of enemy soldiers. They marched forward like a slow tidal wave, ready to swallow up everyone Philothea loved.
She breathed deeply, using the memory of the plan to calm herself. Her goal was to freeze the enemy, directing all her power toward holding them at bay. Then, per her orders, her father’s men would rush forward and disarm them.
Zeno would most likely respond by attacking her directly. To counter this, her father had a row of archers lined up on the ridge behind her. Even the mighty Emperor Zeno couldn’t both kill Philothea and fend off Cyrus’s attacks at the same time. By the time he finished taking out the archers, his soldiers would be disarmed and helpless. Then, Philothea could direct her protecting power to her father’s men, allowing them to capture Zeno unharmed.
It sounded simple, straightforward, easy. Yet, looking out at the approaching forces made Philothea aware of several complications–first, her brother’s army was at least twice the size of her father’s. Second, Zeno had a number of fae warriors at his command, and Cyrus had only Raven.
Given that she was the only other magic wielder on their side, Raven was tasked with protecting Philothea.
Several days prior, Raven had sent a message to King Avis, hoping she could convince him to fight for his granddaughter. After all, it was perfectly clear that he disliked Philothea least of his two half-fae grandchildren. Yet, the battle was now upon them, and they had received no response.
Philothea had come a long way since she was almost killed by her grandfather’s guards. She was stronger now than ever, yet as she looked out at Zeno’s fae warriors, she wondered if she would be able to withstand so much magic.
What they needed was a miracle. Apparently, Zoe had decided that requesting miracles was her department. She stood on Philothea’s right, armed with nothing except the little multipurpose knife she always wore on her belt.
She had been offered arms, of course, but refused every time.
As they stood watching Zeno’s army move closer, Raven decided to give Zoe one last chance to protect herself. She looked around Philothea at their stoic friend and said,
“Are you sure you don’t want a dagger?”
“I wouldn’t know how to use it,” Zoe replied. “I’m here for prayer. Prayer and…” She squeezed Philothea’s hand. “Emotional support.”
“Prayer can’t stab people in the face,” Raven grumbled.
“What is it with you and stabbing people?” Zoe remarked.
“It’s kind of the point of a battle.” Raven shrugged.
“Um, the point of a battle is victory,” Zoe stated. “Prayer is great for that.”
Raven rolled her eyes and mumbled. “I wouldn’t know.”
Philothea hoped to the depths of her soul that her two friends would still be around to bicker with each other in the morning. The desire to protect her people burned in her soul stronger than anything she’d ever felt. But was that desire enough? Was her will strong enough to withstand Zeno’s?
In all of Philothea’s life, she had never felt so small.
Zoe must have read her thoughts because she squeezed Philothea’s hand even harder.
“You aren’t doing this alone,” she promised.
Those simple, monotone words gave Philothea a peculiar feeling. For while they came from Zoe’s lips, something told her it was the Holy Creator who spoke them.
It brought to her heart warmth and peace. No, she wasn’t alone. None of them were.
She prayed for strength and courage as Zeno’s army suddenly charged, pouring down into the valley like water rushing over rock.
Philothea watched, letting them approach her father’s side. Closer, closer, they rushed while Cyrus’s men stood their ground waiting. Just before the collision Philothea raised both hands and willed the advancing army to stop. The rush of men froze mid-stride.
Cyrus’s army recognized their queue, charged through the enemy line, and set to work ripping the weapons from each frozen soldier.
So far, so good. Philothea felt slightly relieved as she watched the men below working away as planned. But this relief was short-lived. A deep red glow bloomed across the horizon beyond the frozen enemy, and as it spread across the sky, a black figure rose up from somewhere in the distance and remained hovering in the air–a silhouette against a blood-red sky.
In that very same moment, Philothea felt an all too familiar tightening on her chest and neck. Zeno must have known that his only hope of victory was taking out Philothea while her power was directed toward holding his army at bay.
She tried to direct some of her magic inward, to defend herself against the pressure on her chest, but the moment she did, her grip on Zeno’s soldiers slipped. A few broke free from her magical grasp and began fighting with her father’s soldiers.
From her left, she heard King Cyrus ordering his archers to fire on Zeno.
At once, a cloud of arrows shot through the air toward the silhouetted figure. The tension lifted from Philothea’s chest as her brother directed his magic toward the hail.
The archers were keeping Zeno busy, all according to plan. It was working. It couldn’t really be this easy, could it?
That question was answered in short order when Zeno swirled in the air, directing the wind around himself. The arrows whipped around their target, and then Zeno, with a thrust of his hand, rained them down toward the armies below.
All this happened in an instant. Instinctively, Philothea released her grip on Zeno’s forces so she could create a shield of protection over the field. The arrows bounced harmlessly off this.
“Is he trying to kill his own men?” Cyrus cried.
“Don’t think he’s that picky,” Raven replied. “As long as he takes out yours at the same time.”
With the arrows deflected, Philothea froze Zeno’s army once again. The tightening on her chest resumed, stronger this time. Zeno was putting the full force of his magic into breaking her.
Raven drew a ball of fire from the air and hurtled it toward Zeno.
“Keep fighting, little one,” Raven encouraged as she hurtled a second fireball. “I’ve got you.”
And as Philothea held Zeno’s army at bay, Raven continued throwing fireballs. Zeno attempted to redirect these, but his action dissipated the flames into the air. Frustrated, he thrust both of his palms down toward the battlefield.
Philothea sensed an attack coming and released his army once again to create a shield of protection. Not a moment too soon, a blaze of fire shot from his palms, colliding with her invisible shield.
Sweat dripped from Philothea’s forehead, and she struggled to hold the barrier intact against the roaring flames. As Zeno continued shooting fire, he began barking orders to his men that Philothea couldn’t make out.
The crushing pressure on Philothea’s chest resumed, but this time it wasn’t Zeno causing it. He was still focused on simultaneously dodging Raven’s projectiles and maintaining his own cascade of flame.
Where was it coming from?
It occurred to her that many of the warriors now loose within her shield were Zeno’s fae.
He must have been ordering them to direct their magic toward her, even while he sent a hail of fire downward on the intermingled armies.
If she refroze the fae warriors, her shield would break, and everyone on the battlefield would be incinerated by Zeno. Yet if she didn’t refreeze them, they would use their powers to kill her, and the battle would be lost.
“Come!” Cyrus called to his archers. “We need to take out the fae.”
A portion of the archers broke off and followed their king into the valley.
“Just hold that shield, little one,” Raven ordered as she sent another ball of flame sailing into the air. “We’ll take care of everything else.”
Philothea focused and prayed. The crushing increased on her chest. Her arms burned, and her chest ached as she fought against the fae magic to hold her shield in place. Philothea’s body trembled; she thought she was going to snap in two.
Shouting, noise, and chaos erupted from the valley below as her father and his archers met with Zeno’s warriors. The crushing continued, growing stronger, tighter. Philothea gasped and then, for a moment, everything went black.
The next thing Philothea knew, she was lying on the ground staring up at the stars. Raven and Zoe were kneeling on either side of her. Raven had her hands pressed against Philothea’s chest as she tried to counter the force of the enemy fae with her own magic.
“Come on, Philothea,” Zoe encouraged. “Get up. We need you.”
Philothea struggled to her feet; her body felt so heavy as the enemy magic pressed in on her. Yet she resisted, and with Raven’s help she was able to fight her way back toward the ridge.
Part of the battlefield below her was scorched, and the rest was a shouting, clashing cluster of fighting men. She couldn’t have been down for more than a second or two, because Zeno was in the same position where she had left him, though he had ceased his hail of fire.
Philothea’s arms were like lead as she forced them upward.
She knew she couldn’t fight for long. If Raven was helping her resist the fae magic, she wasn’t hurtling fire at Zeno. They were all finished, yet… Philothea had to try. Even if it was all in vain, she was going to fight to protect her people until the very end.
Some of Zeno’s men froze under Philothea’s magic, but in her weakening state she couldn’t hold them all. Now, Zeno was flying toward her, carelessly dodging the arrows Philothea’s guards sent in his direction.
He was ready to kill all of her guards and then cut her down with his own hands.
As he drew closer, Philothea observed his calm, relaxed expression. Yet, behind that facade, a fury burned in his eyes. He was winning, yet he hated the challenge. Had anything ever challenged him before?
Suddenly, Zeno froze, his eyes widened in alarm. He brought his hand up to his throat and seemed to gasp for breath.
The tension on Philothea’s chest broke, and she gulped in sweet air as the weight lifted from her shoulders.
“Ho, ho, ho,” laughed a familiar voice from somewhere in the sky above Philothea.
A great, black bird circled downward from the heavens and landed on Raven’s arm. “Ho, ho, ho,” Fae laughed. “I brought the fae king. I am a good girl. Ho, ho, ho.”
“Ah! You got my message!” Raven grinned at someone behind Philothea.
Philothea dared not turn around lest her grip on Zeno’s army slip.
She jumped as a thin, bony hand rested on her shoulder.
“Fight, Philothea,” came King Avis’s voice from over her shoulder. “We’re here now. He’s finished.”
Looking down into the valley, Philothea noticed fae warriors materializing among the armies. As each one appeared, he extended a hand toward the emperor.
Zeno began to sink down toward the ground as he struggled against their combined magic.
Philothea sent a pleading glance toward her grandfather. “Don’t kill him.”
Avis shot her a sympathetic glance. “We don’t have a choice.”
“He’s my brother,” Philothea pleaded. “I-I can contain him.”
Avis made no reply. He turned his attention back toward the fae army.
Philothea glanced back down. Cyrus’s army, combined with Avis’s forces, had Zeno’s men outnumbered and disarmed. Philothea released her grip on the enemy. With their weapons gone and their leader now on the ground struggling for breath, they fled, causing Philothea’s side to erupt into victorious cheers.
Philothea gripped her grandfather’s arm. “We have him now, let him breathe; I’ll contain him.”
“I’m sorry,” Avis replied. “I can’t let him hurt anyone else.”
“He won’t,” Philothea argued. “My mother suppressed my magic when I was a baby. We can do the same thing to him.”
“You were helpless,” Avis replied. “You couldn’t fight back.”
“He won’t be able to fight back against all of us,” Philothea pointed out. “We’ll put him to sleep and suppress his powers. When he wakes up, he’ll be human… basically.”
Avis stared out over the battlefield thoughtfully.
“Philothea is the most powerful person alive,” Zoe pointed out. “And you’re questioning her orders?” She thrust her hands on her hips. “I bet you never questioned Zeno.”
Avis rubbed his forehead.
“If anything goes wrong,” Avis sighed. “He must be stopped. Understand?”
Philothea nodded. “I’ll contain him. He will live to make amends to the people he’s wounded.”
Zeno lay unconscious in a circle of scorched earth. His skin was stained with the ash created by his own searing flame. All around him, scattered across the blackened soil, was debris from the recent conflict. When Zeno’s fae temporarily disabled Philothea, her barrier of magic snapped, and everyone immediately below Zeno was devoured by his fire. Metal, bone, and bits of broken weapons were visible in the charred ground.
Though weak, exhausted, and grieving those she couldn’t protect, Philothea tried to keep her focus on the task at hand. She was about to make absolutely sure that no one, no one else, was going to die today.
The fae army circled around the crumpled emperor, prepared to intervene if he should wake before Philothea had completed her task.
She knelt down beside her brother and looked to see if he was still wearing his seal. Once she’d suppressed his powers, this seal would act as the key to unlocking them, as her mother’s seal had done for her.
She gently rested her hand on his forehead and focused. His power was like a furious torrent that crashed through every part of his being. It was wild, untamed, and locking it away would be like trying to plug a geyser with a cork.
Still, Philothea slowly and steadily asserted her own will, driving Zeno’s magic down, down into the deepest recesses of his soul. To the human onlooker, she didn’t seem to be doing anything more than kneeling silently in the ash, staring at the fallen emperor. From her perspective, however, she was locked in a raging battle, will-to-will with a madman.
Zeno’s experience gave him the advantage even in his weakened and unconscious state, and Philothea would have fallen away defeated if Raven and Avis hadn’t sensed her distress and come to her aid.
The seal on Zeno’s finger shimmered as his power gave way beneath that of his enemies. Finally, sensing her task completed, Philothea plucked the ring from her brother’s finger and held it up triumphantly.
At long last, Zeno the tormentor was powerless.
The Fables of Para Sympan 