- Seneca the Younger, De Providentia, 5, 9.
Sam had wondered why on earth a place would be called 'Megan's Woe'. 'Woe' wasn't exactly a word he associated with historical place-names, especially concerning military leaders or great battles. 'Triumph' was a good, solid name that could be depended on, conjuring images of conquest and celebration in his mind. 'Folly' was also good, and spoke of madness and stubbornness in the face of impossible odds and crippling setbacks. As adjectives go, 'woe' was kind of overtly poetic, and lacked the powerful dramatic impact the former two did.
Arriving there, though, he could easily see how the name would apply.
"Fucking hell..." the blond swordsman muttered under his breath as he took in the scenery. It wasn't exactly picturesque - certainly not in the traditional sense. Mostly consisting of volcanic rock, the landscape was occasionally punctuated with spurts of superheated water from geysers dotted about the place, topped with wispy plumes of gas leaking from cracks in the earth. The crowning centerpiece of it all, impaled on a massive rocky spire and surrounded by plumes of erupting lava, was what might have been a luxury yacht of some kind but was now a burnt, blackened shell of its former glory. All-in-all, not the ideal vacation spot.
At least it's better than Blackpool, said the inner Nicodemus, but Sam was too busy trying to breathe to laugh at that one. The Grandius had screamed it's head off about the level of poisonous gases in the area before he'd gotten within earshot of the place, and thus he'd had to take out and clean the MantraTech Personal Air Filter he carried with him. He barely used it since the one time he'd had to delve into a poison-filled mine to rescue some workers, but it somehow still worked as well as ever despite the neglect, filtering out all the awful toxins and replacing them with soothing, clean air. At least he wouldn't choke to death here.
But then there were the other, more obvious dangers to deal with. The heat, for instance, was something awful - you couldn't just fry an egg on these rocks, you could cook a three-course dinner! Then the water spurting out of the ground was also an obvious problem, as it would be full of nasty bacteria and viruses as well as being hot enough to remove the skin. And to say nothing of the constant volcanic eruptions going on...
Which is why we left Walter behind, Sam's brain reminded him. This place, apparently the site of a major magical battle in this world's history, wasn't really between them and the next village they had to go to, but he'd been about it being close to their route and had advised them to steer clear of it. Sam would have liked to mention that it was pretty hard to do that when he didn't know where the place was, and his suspicions proved to be right when the grass abruptly died beneath his feet. So he'd left Walter behind with the others whilst he went out and scoured the area for trouble.
It was a decision he was regretting already. In fact, as he leaped away from another blast of superheated gas, he was considering just ditching the exploration and-
"YOU!"
The shout made Sam jump about ten feet in the air out of fright. When he came down again, he was startled to find a figure emerging from round the back of a large stone construct - mostly because he didn't think there was anyone else in this godforsaken land. The newcomer, to his surprise, looked a lot more like someone from his own world than anywhere in this one - the outfit looked just as dumb, spangly and zipper-covered, for a stat. Moreover, the sword he was carrying looked like something ripped from a dumb teen's fantasy novel.
Yet there was an ominous light in his eyes...
"You're Nicodemus, right?" was the first thing the new boy asked.
"That's right," Sam responded. "Although I prefer- ARGH!"
Replying had been a mistake, as Sam was quick to learn. With lighting speed, the youth had shot forward and slammed a fist right into the blonde's face, and the former Destined Hero knew by the impact that there was going to be a lump there in a few hours. Somehow, he managed to keep his footing, skidding back several feet from the force of the blow before managing to brake himself, face singing with pain.
"Dude!" he shouted, nursing the bruised cheek. "What the f-?!"
"My name," growled the brunet, "is Bartholomew Weatherby. Son of Margarat Weatherby. And that," he added, his voice rising to a yell as rage burned in his eyes. "was for what you did to my home at Whitestone, you son of a bitch?"
Sam groaned. There were a lot of questions on his mind at the moment - who the hell was this guy? How did he get here, and how did he know about Whitestone? Although the last one kind of answered itself, seeing as there was no way people wouldn't have learned about Whitestone by now. But still, how did the dude learn about where he was? And... Weatherby? Wasn't that?
Sadly, those questions were going to have to wait.
"Look-" he tried.
"You're not a Destined Hero!" snapped the newcomer, brandishing his cartoonishly over-sized weapon. "A Destined Hero wouldn't let Direwulves into a town just because a few people were being corrupt, he'd try to sort it out diplomatically! Except you were too busy drinking yourself senseless to think of any other solution, because you don't care about anyone other than yourself!"
Sam grimaced, reflexively reaching for the handle of the Grandius. "Dude, if you've got a problem with-"
"Save it!" Bart was already crouching into a fighting stance. "You wrecked my home and killed my friends and neighbors! Now I'm going to make you pay ten times over for what you did!"
And with that, he lunged forward with a yell, blade above his head. Nicodemus was already moving just as his enemy did, though, the Grandius sliding from it's holster with that theatrical schwing that he had long grown to completely ignore. If this jerk wanted to pick a fight, then the blonde was more than happy to oblige, muscle tense as his foe barreled towards him like a brown-haired missile. And as the distance closed, the Destined Hero swung the blade around and upwards, the blade briefly scoring the ground before slicing up and clashing against the enemy's weapon as it came down.
The two warriors grunted as they came to an impasse, equal forces cancelling each other out, and began shoving against each other to try and dislodge somebody's weapon. In their efforts to gain an opening, they stepped closer together, until their faces ended up a hand's width apart and their feet slipped on the cracked volcanic ground beneath them.
"You know," hissed Sam as he glared at Bart,"I didn't have to do anything! I could have just left the shithole to rot - it was a lot more than it deserved!"
"But that's not the point!" retorted the stranger. "You're supposed to help people! That's what the Destined Hero does - he solves all the problems, no matter how big or small! Only this problem wasn't one you could beat with a sword, so you just tried to bullshit your way through it! You dodged your responsibility by creating an even bigger problem!"
"My responsibility?!" With a roar, Sam shoved the other away from him, before pursing with a flurry of blows and swipes from the Grandius. "I never asked to be the Destined Hero, and I don't believe in all that 'chosen by fate' bullshit! It's not my fault everyone keeps lumping their troubles onto my shoulders and expecting me to mow all their lawns for them!"
"Maybe not," snapped Bart sword blurring as he parried the attacks headed his way with a series of clangs. "But you were chosen anyway, and that meant you had a duty to perform! Standards to live up to! And it is your fault when you start looking worse than the villains you have to fight!"
"Dude, what is this?" bellowed Sam as he aimed a kick at the ribs. "Psycho-analysis day?"
He was rather surprised when his opponent suddenly zipped out of the way, and his missed kick caused him to stumble forwards, flailing rather comically. His mind connected the dots, recalling the earlier instance where he nearly got his jaw fractured, and came up with the infuriating answer of Super speeder. Damnation. Fighting one of those was like trying to keep hold of soap in a bathtub full of-
"ARGH!" Another punch to the face, blurring by him to fast for his eyes to register, sent him cartwheeling to the dirt. By the time the dust settled and Sam's ears stopped ringing, he could see the vague shape of his enemy standing over him, massive blade pointed at his neck. Nicodemus briefly wondered how he could even run without that thing dragging him back like an anchor.
"My mother," growled Bart, "would have listened to you. She would have been able to bring a stop to the exiles and prejudice going on. But you didn't even give her the time of day, and look what happened! Some hero you are - you're nothing more than a glorified mass murderer-"
FWOOSH went the blast of star fire, throwing the brunet back several feet into a jagged rock formation. Much to the surprise of the entire universe, it didn't crumble to pieces upon impact, with Bart merely sliding down it onto his feet, winded and shocked. Made a change from his usual angry glare, at least, and it certainly went well with the sight of Sam rising upwards, glowing ominously as he delivered the best comeback he could think of.
"Better that than a complete nobody."
Man, did that feel good. Sam knew he'd pressed a button by the way Bart's face screwed up in anger, which he thought was enough payback for all those the brunet had been slamming through this whole ordeal. But the blond didn't get to dwell too much on that, because in the next moment the other Uber had shot forward, tackling him out of the air with the force of an express train, making him drop the Grandius as he went. Both hit the ground in a plume of dust and bounce-rolled across it, spitting sparks like a Catherine Wheel as the two traded blades for fists in a mad, freewheeling brawl.
"And another thing!" Bart roared as he thumped a fist against Sam's chest. "You get drunk and high at the same time, you sleep around like it's out of style and you insult everyone you meet! And when you're not being selfish, you're being useless - bitten on the ass by sea monsters, used as a pinata by minotaurs, getting eaten by giant crocodiles! What kind of role model is that?! Why does anyone even look up to you?!"
"Rocks for brains, probably!" was Sam's blunt-as-ever answer as he drove a flame-wreathed foot into Bart's stomach.
No sooner had he said that than, though blurred vision, he saw a massive pillar of rock loom into view and regretted his poor choice of words.
Both fighters were tumbling too fast to dodge the obstacle or stop themselves, so it was inevitable that it did the stopping for them, refusing to yield as they crashed headlong into it with a noise like a car hitting a brick wall. Sam was unsure if any his lungs collapsed or his ribs cracked as he found himself sandwiched between Bart's body and the pillar, or if his spine rattled as, bouncing off, he hit the floor shoulders-first like a sack of potatoes. All he was aware that it all hurt very much, more so than it ought to have done, and he wished very much that it didn't.
He soon found himself wishing, in addition, that his enemy hadn't ended up on top of him.
"You're nothing, Nicodemus," snarled Bartholomew as he pulled himself onto his knees. "I'd call you a self-centered, pathetic joke and a hypocrite, but even that's being generous. You don't deserve the responsibility of being a Destined Hero, and whatever good in you clearly shriveled up and died in you long ago. You happily swagger about with the blood of my people on your hands, complaining that nobody gives you any respect, when you never deserved any to begin with and, thanks to what you did at Whitestone, now deserve even less!"
A gloved hand clenched in anger.
"This is the most you deserve, you fuck."
Sam flinched as he saw the fist rise up-
-------
-and woke up.
He blinked. He was lying on his back, in the middle of the dusty ground, exactly where he left off before he encountered Bart. He still had the Grandius, his face and body didn't hurt in the slightest and his clothes were still fine. Moreover, his eyes stung a little bit and his mouth tasted of rotten eggs and burnt charcoal, but otherwise he felt completely fine, as if nothing in particular had happened at all. For a few seconds, as he collected himself and picked himself up from ground, he was bewildered as to what had happened.
Then it clicked. The whole fight had never happened at all. There was no Bart, nobody was coming after him for revenge. It had all been a mad hallucination - either it had been the gas, in which case the air filter on his face needed checking, or it had been some property of the place. In fact, he recalled somebody from earlier saying the place was steeped in weird magic and strange things turned up there, so maybe it was the latter. Did something within him manifest here somehow, coaxed out by the unnatural atmosphere of the land into physical form...?
Chakram above, his inner dictionary groaned, didn't we get enough of that shit back at that fucked-up fountain in Orvance? Well, it's over now, so on we go to-
"Samuel?"
Sam whipped around.
"What on earth are YOU doing here?" asked Christine Brynn-Marsello.
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