Catelyn Winona
patreon
The Chosen One's Parents
🕑 Added 2022-05-06 23:03:43 +0000 UTCSummary: Your daughter, the Chosen One, died trying to kill the Demon King. You and your husband won't rest until he's dead.
Based on this prompt: The Chosen One is dead, killed while facing the Dark Lord. Grief and hatred together give rise to an unlikely pair of heroes who come together to defeat the evil now taking over the world unchecked. The Chosen One’s parents are out for revenge, and there is no room for mercy anymore. (x)
-----.
The days bleed together, time warping strangely around the rising and setting of the sun, colors leeching out of the fields you and your husband tend together.
You know it’s been three whole days since the messenger came to the door. It doesn’t feel like it though. It’s as if you’ve only blinked and your husband has gone from catching you as your knees gave out to standing beside you.
Phil’s hand is wrapped tightly around yours, colder than the shadows slowly growing all around you. His eyes are fixed on the mound of earth lying under the orchard’s oldest tree. Neither of you have spoken a word since that damned messenger left, but you didn’t need words to decide where to bury the medals they returned instead of her body. Antonia spent almost her entire childhood in the embrace of this apple tree. When she wasn’t in the tree, she was in your arms.
And now she’s gone.
She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone and somewhere far away her blood has dried on hands that never had the right to touch her.
You look up at your husband. Already his face is turning gaunt from grief, shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks and slipping down from his heavy brow. You will never see him smile like he did with your daughter. You will never know the pleasurecontenmentpridejoy that flooded through you each time you saw them together again. You will never have so many things all because your daughter was Chosen and you believed the King when he claimed she would not fight alone.
You let that bubble within you, that helpless rage, as you wait for your husband to look at you. Maybe he can feel the weight of your gaze, maybe he can feel the heat returning to the hand clutched in his, maybe he just knows you, knows you like you know him because he turns.
Meets your eyes.
And nods.
------------------.
It is reckless to leave at night, but that’s what you do. Both you and Phil are reckless now as the rage begins to seep up from the bed of sorrow shared between you. Lethargic hands grow quicker, movements jerky, and then aggressive as you pull heavy packs onto your shoulders.
Every moment that the fury grows should terrify you. Again and again it surges, pushing through every boundary until you feel consumed by it. Someone dared, so many people dared, and now you can’t speak for fear of what evil may pour out of your mouth.
Phil holds out your pack and you can see the same typhoon in his eyes. It brings you comfort to know, even now, he’s beside you.
You are farmers and that makes you strong. You have always been thankful for your strong body, without which you would not have been able to bring Antonia into the world, and you are grateful for it now. It means that you are able to carry almost as much as Phil, weapons and food and other provisions that will get to you where you need to go. It also makes you swift, feet sure of the rough road even in the dark.
The moon is full when you reach the closest village. You grew up here, but the nostalgia is conspicuously absent inside your chest as you walk down the empty road.
Or, rather, the nearly empty road.
There are people coming out of their homes as you approach, dressing gowns hastily thrown over their shoulders and children quickly pushed behind front doors. They don’t say a word. Some stay in front of their small homes. Others follow you slowly as if caught in a trance.
All of them stare with such understanding that you’d burst into tears if you had any left to spare.
Phil reaches out and takes your hand.
Together you walk to the edge of town. There’s a small crowd waiting for you there, the hunters of the village and the Chief at the edge of the livestock pens.
“I was hoping,” one of the hunters says, “that we would not see you on this road, Esther.”
You recognize him with the help of the silver moonlight. Gabriel, a childhood friend who once fought a pack of wolves by your side when you were both too young, too weak, too naive.
Phil starts forward, but you pull him back with a shake of your head. It sounds as if Gabriel plans to stop you. He doesn’t. There’s defeat in his voice already.
“Phil and Esther,” the Chief says into the quiet of the night. His white hair glows under the moon, every wrinkle exaggerated until he looks like he might crumple under the weight of grief. “We are sorry for your loss.”
As one, the villagers all bow at the waist. Loss. They all know it too well and, as such, they know why they were going to find you and Phil here and not mourning at home. This is not loss born from accident or hunger. This is loss with consequence.
“You have two paths,” the Chief continues. “One, you stay. You allow your friends and neighbors who you have helped defend and feed for two decades to help you now. You can rest with your grief and allow us to do the necessary work. We will tend your fields. Feed your flock. Be here as long as you need us to be. You are valued in this community.”
It’s a kind offer. The work you and Phil do is hard, back-breaking work. Very few in the village are able to do it and, the few who are capable, have more than enough responsibilities already.
Silently, you and Phil shake your heads.
The Chief nods as if he expected that. He probably did. He’s been the leader since you were a little girl, long before Phil settled down to take you as his wife. He knows both of you too well to have expected you’d be content to be healed.
He knew Antonia too.
“Second,” he says, voice warbling, “is to accept our gifts. Rest until morning. Then...” He clears his throat. “Then we will send you off.”
“It’s a fool’s idea to leave at night,” Gabriel says before you or Phil can protest. He steps up beside the Chief, arms folded over his chest. “Antonia wouldn’t thank you for it.”
It’s cheap, using her name. You recognize distantly that this is done out of care, concern, worry. It is indeed foolish to leave at night, but...
For the first time in days, Phil speaks. “Every moment we delay,” he says, voice hoarse from rage and grief and disuse, “is another moment that thing has to live.”
Gabriel curses. “Don’t let your emotions rule you. There are more demon beasts than there have been in a century. You’ll be eaten before you reach the Royal Road--”
“We won’t be eaten.” You didn’t know you were going to speak before the words were out of your mouth. To your surprise, you voice isn’t rough like Phil’s. It’s smooth and low. Sure. “They will try, but they will not succeed. We leave tonight.”
“Esther--”
This time it’s the Chief who interrupts. “I wish I knew the right words to say here, but I can see you won’t change your mind.” He steps to the side, revealing two packs on the ground behind him. “Take them. Extra provisions never hurt anyone. There are two horses waiting for you at the river crossing. Take them with our prayers.”
Horses. Now you feel tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Fools,” Gabriel curses as you walk past.
You know.
-------------------------.
Antonia first used magic at six-years-old, four years sooner than the mages of the Magic Tower came into their abilities.
That’s what the people who came looking for her were impressed by. She’s got so much mana, they told you and your husband. A once in generation prodigy. A gift in these dark times.
They didn’t care about why she used magic. It didn’t matter to them that she and Colette, her best friend, were playing in the fields when they fell down an uncovered well and, when Antonia found the strength to lift them both out of it, she lifted Colette first.
Antonia saved her friend first.
Being a mother is a unique experience. To know that this person is yours and not yours, created by you and yet already existing, molded by your teachings and yet your teacher as well.
That day when she came home covered in mud and filled with pride, you saw her like a stranger. Because surely nothing in you could have made someone so kind and strong and courageous and stupid.
I’m glad you’re safe, you told her that day, hugging her until she protested. You wanted to scold her for falling down that well, for saving her friend before saving herself, for making you worry. But you didn’t. Instead, you swallowed those words and said, Thank you for coming home to us.
I’ll always come home, she said.
And she did.
Until she didn’t.
---------------------------.
You feel as if you can see her ghost every step you take. The winding road over the hills and onto the Royal Road, you see her skipping over pebbles and running her fingers over the ancient oaks lining the deepest parts of the mountain pass.
“She must have loved coming through here,” your husband says on the fourth night of traveling. He’s looking through the trees to the clear sky, at the explosion of stars painted across the night. His throat bobs. “A real adventure. Like she always wanted.”
She was seventeen, you want to say. Seventeen and so powerful that mages and knights came from across the land to steal her away. You should have made her stay, no matter what anyone said. You should have fought for her then. You should have--
Phil’s large hand settles over where yours has curled into a fist on your knee. Abruptly, your eyes fill with tears. “Yeah,” you whisper. You sniffle. “She must have loved it.”
Phil knows you. His hand squeezes yours. “I need to think of those things. She had joy, Esther. She had joy.” His voice cracks on the word.
“So did we.” The joy of having her, of watching her, of loving her. “So did we.”
You can feel her ghost watching from the trees.
--------.
The Demon King’s castle is still a week away when you first run across one of the people who left your daughter behind.
Phil is purchasing dried rations. You can see him haggling, leaning over the table like he’s an old friend of the merchant. You prop your chin on your hand and watch him from the edge of the town’s fountain. It’s as dry as the surrounding land, the ravages of the Demon King worsening the further north your travel, but still the center of town. You listen idly to the villagers gossiping as they go about their day.
“--a full silver mark up, completely ridiculous--”
“She fixed it! I’ve never met anyone so handy--”
“--patient. He was part of the hero party.”
Your head whips around.
A woman wearing an apron is standing in front of a tavern, arms crossed. She’s scowling as she looks over her shoulder. “Hero or not, he’s drunk early and will be drunker later. If you don’t call the guard, I will.”
The young man she’s talking to scratches the back of his head. “I’ll talk to him, how ‘bout it? Man’s been through enough without--”
You stride past them, heart thundering in your throat. The tavern owner squawks at you, but you pay her no mind. Your eyes scan the dim interior, over sparsely populated tables and stools until you find one man sitting at the bar. You recognize him in an instant.
“You.”
Knight Arden turns. He stares at you uncomprehendingly for a long moment, a giant tankard of ale locked in his grip. Then his eyes focus and all the blood drains out of his face. “I-- I--”
You take one step forward only to be stopped by hand on your arm. The man from the entrance looks between you and Knight Arden. He doesn’t release his grip. “Look, the man needs a break. I don’t know who you are, but--”
“Marc,” Knight Arden says. “It’s-- it’s okay...”
Okay? Okay? Nothing is okay. You stalk forward, hardly having to expend any effort to drag Marc along with you. He swears when his grip falters and he darts around you.
“Lady,” Marc says, “calm down. I don’t know your grievance with the knight, but he’s been through more than anyone can possibly know.”
You lash out. Marc ducks at the last second and you fist your hand in the front of Knight Arden’s tunic. “You left her.”
He doesn’t try to defend himself. He hangs limp in your grip and swallows hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” You’re shaking. “Sorry doesn’t bring her back. You promised you’d bring her back.”
“Let go of him!” Marc throws himself onto your back. He’s not strong enough to move you, but he is heavy enough and surprising enough that you stagger. “It’s not his fault!”
Fault? This isn’t about fault. It’s about principle. You go to sling Marc off of your shoulders. A second before you can, however, he’s ripped away from you and thrown to the ground.
“Do not touch my wife,” Phil hisses at Marc. Your husband looks bigger than he is, looming over the lean lad. He’s got a pack of rations over one shoulder and his beard has grown out over the days of hard travel. He bares his teeth. “And it is not about fault.”
Even in this situation, Phil is like your other half.
You whirl on Knight Arden. He’s fallen to the ground without your grip to support him and you tower over him. “You promised us blood if you failed to bring her home, Arden. Where is it?”
“I-I—” Arden stutters. He looks very different to the dashing young knight who came to your door. He isn’t wearing his gleaming armor and his green eyes aren’t sparkling with intellect and confidence. The clothing he’s wearing are stained, his face ravaged by guilt, his eyes dark. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. “Take it. Take my blood if it will appease you. I failed.”
Hearing him admit it doesn’t do what it should. You don’t take his life or do anything more than stand over him, chest heaving from how hard you’re breathing. The time and place presents itself to you suddenly – you and your husband both standing over beaten men, the tavern quiet around you, the few spectators frozen over early pints. Antonia still dead.
“Tell us how she died,” you say. Your husband starts behind you, but you keep your eyes on Arden. “The last day. The last hour. The last moment.”
Arden’s eyes immediately go glassy. A fine tremor runs along his shoulders as he slowly climbs to his feet. “I-I don’t know if I can do that. It’s—no parent should need to hear that. None.”
“Tell us,” your husband says. He comes up behind you, his presence warm against your back. Marc hovers off to the side and looks between the three of you. Phil meets Arden’s gaze evenly. “We need to know.”
“I—I can’t,” Arden says. He pulls at his tunic. “I won’t be the one to relay—”
You lose your patience. You step towards him again and he flinches before you need touch him. “You’ll tell us,” you say in your low, even voice. “Because it is what we ask, Knight Arden.”
“It is all we ask,” Phil says.
Head bowed, Knight Arden suggests all of you head to a private room.
-----------.
Antonia is eight-years-old. She is eight-years-old and it seems like everyone wants to take her away from you. The mages that come to teach her magic are awed by her talent. She picks things up so easily, so intuitively, it is as if she is the Great Sage reincarnated.
You stare at the man who says it. “She is my daughter.”
“I know,” the man says, backtracking as quickly as he can. Many mages have come and gone in the two years since Antonia’s power woke. His hands wave in the air. “It’s just a saying! I know she is Antonia.”
Phil is watching the mage through the window. He’s playing in the garden with Antonia, but the window is open and he heard. He meets your eyes over the mage’s shoulder and you shake your head slightly. He goes back to finding worms with Antonia.
“My daughter’s birthday is next week,” you say. “We’ll be taking three days to visit her grandparents. You’re welcome to stay here while we go.”
“Next week--!” The mage catches himself. “Can it not wait a little longer? The full moon next week is unique. I feel that it could be the key to unlocking a new level of power.”
For her or for you? you want to ask. But you don’t need to. He’s already failed your test.
You prop your chin on your hand and look out the window. Antonia is running circles around Phil, hands in the air, a grin on her face. Her pile of worms is bigger than Phil’s which means she gets to use the good fishing rod when they go down to the pond.
You think of her face while this man teaches her magic. Her small mouth pinched tight, her eyes narrow, her arms shaking from the weight of bending power to her will. You know about hard work. You are a farmer. But is it the right type of hard work?
“No,” you say absently. When the mage makes an inquiring sound, you remember his presence. “No, we can’t delay. My parents are expecting us.”
“That’s…wonderful,” the mage says through gritted teeth. He tries to smile. “Perhaps when you get back.”
“Perhaps,” you say.
He is gone before your daughter’s birthday.
---------------------.
Arden’s hands tremble around a pint of ale. His friend, the thin lad, sits next to him. He pulls the ale out of Arden’s hands and gives him water instead.
“Yes,” Arden says, a wry smile darting across his face, “yes, I suppose that’s better.” He takes a long drink.
“I’m sorry for jumping on you,” Marc says to you. He flushes under his freckles. “I—I didn’t realize you were the Hero’s mother.”
“Am,” you snarl without thinking. You gentle your voice as much as you can, but it still comes out too firm. “I am her mother.”
“Right,” Marc squeaks and jerks his gaze away from your and to the grain of the table.
“We don’t have long,” Phil tells Arden. He’s not sitting at the table with the three of you. He is leaning on the door at your back, arms folded. “Get on with it, Arden.”
“I don’t know where to start,” Arden says quietly. “It all happened so quickly.” When neither you or Phil speak, he sighs shakily. “We—we got to the Demon King’s castle the night before the full moon.”
“The night before he would be able to summon his forces,” you say. You remember that from the night they pleaded with you to let them take your daughter.
Arden nods. “Yes. We didn’t have enough time. We knew we didn’t have enough time, so we were reckless. Maybe we relied on the Hero too much. She seemed hardly fazed by the long journey—”
“Antonia,” you and Phil say at the same moment.
“Pardon?”
“Her name is Antonia,” Phil growls.
“Antonia,” Arden says. His eyes flick from you to Phil. “Yes, you’re right. I apologize.” He takes a moment to collect himself and continues. “We went right through the front door. I was more than a match for the goblins waiting inside. Our archaeologist was able to decipher the inscriptions running along the walls to find the location of the Demon King. He was not in the tower as we had thought. He was under the castle. Deep underground.” He covers his eyes with one hand. “Antonia didn’t want to go. But we were strong and confident in her power which had not faltered. Your daughter was incredible. Miraculous. We thought the prophecy guaranteed our victory and so we convinced her.”
You look over your shoulder at Phil. Antonia convinced? Phil asks, “And then?”
Marc lays a hand on Arden’s arm. “If it’s too difficult, you don’t have to—”
“Who are you?” you snap. “You weren’t there. You aren’t part of this, why are you here?”
“I’m the one who picked up the pieces,” Marc declares hotly. “Arden was a mess when he came back to town, physically and mentally—”
“We went down,” Arden interrupts as if unaware of our words. His eyes are locked over Phil’s head as if seeing something very far away. His hands twist together. “There were only a few beasts standing in our way. The levels descended further and further. But too soon we were there.” He shudders. “And the Demon King was waiting for us.” His gaze refocuses on you and his hands open. “Please, believe me. We fought. We all fought as hard as we could. But he was more than what the scriptures claimed. He was more than man, more than demon, more than beast. We all nearly died by his hand.”
You can feel his fear. You can see the image of what he describes, an eldritch being looming over them all and crashing down. Your jaw firms and you fight to keep your breath even. “Antonia?”
“I ordered the retreat,” Knight Arden whispers through bloodless lips. “I cleared the way to the stairs and saw the archaeologist, the other knight, the ranger away from the battle. And when I turned for Antonia, she was…he had her by the throat. She was hanging there from his hand and I felt her magic flicker and—” his breath hitches in his chest “—and—”
You watch the knight sob. He cries like the world has been ripped away from him, as if he’s falling without any idea of when the pit might end, like there is no joy or happiness left within him. He collapses in on himself until all you can see is the top of his head against the table, shaking so hard that you can feel the tremors through the wood.
You feel as if you are underwater. You thought yourself prepared to hear this, but there was never any way to be prepared. A hand wrapped around your daughter’s throat, crushing it. Was she afraid? Did she cry?
Did she call for you?
“I’m sorry,” Knight Arden wails into his arms. A little boy lost in the dark. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—"
You stand blindly. The room spins and it is only your husband’s hand on your shoulder that steadies you. Did she call for us? Cry for us? Beg for-- You grab for his hand and hold it there, trying to give as much strength as you’re taking.
“We must go,” you say. Your voice is flat. “We have to—”
“We’re leaving,” Phil says. His hand tightens on your shoulder and he uses it to steer you towards the door. He helps you through it before pausing in the doorway. “Knight Arden?”
You can’t look. You breathe deeply as you stare down the hallway, waiting for Phil.
Phil says again, “Knight Arden.”
You hear the knight sniffling wetly. “Yes, sir?”
Sir. He didn’t call Phil sir when he came to steal your daughter away.
“Find your forgiveness wherever you can,” Phil says gently. Then, voice hard, “Because you won’t find it here.”
Phil slams the door shut as the sobs start anew.
--------.
When Antonia is born, you feel something kind inside of you die. Or, rather, the surety of kindness. Unlike Phil, you’ve always lived in this town. You know the townsfolk like your own family. You’ve hunted wolves to keep them safe and tended fields from dawn to dusk to keep them fed.
But you hold her in your arms moments after she’s born and know that you would rob your neighbors to keep her from starving.
“It’s more than being kind,” Phil tells you when you confide in him. “It’s being protective. It’s sacrificing more than yourself for somebody else.”
“No,” you say, watching the way Antonia breathes. Fast and soft. Like a bird. “No, it’s different than that.”
“I believe you,” Phil says. He kisses the back of your knuckles. “I feel that way too.”
“It’s love,” you decide. You like the way that settles in your chest. Antonia snuffles in her sleep. “I love you, my daughter.”
The firelight flickers and you feel home in a way you’ve never felt before.
--------.
The last leg of your journey to the Demon King’s castle passes like a dream. You keep hearing Arden’s words in your head. He had her by the throat. I’m sorry.
The day before you arrive at the Demon King’s castle, you say, “I won’t ever forgive him.”
“No,” Phil says. He reaches between your horses to take your hand. “Neither will I.”
“We should talk,” you say. You remember the sound of Knight Arden’s sobs. You did not cry like that for Antonia. There is work to be done and the crying comes after. “After we do what needs to be done, we need to talk about the people who left our daughter to die.”
Phil squeezes your fingers and let’s go. “Alright.” There are dark promises under the word. “After.”
Of course, after is still in question. Antonia had enough magic to lift you, Phil, and three cows and move you around like puzzle pieces. She made the fields grow twice as fast the year she sneezed because of a summer cold. It seems impossible that two farmers, two ordinary farmers, will survive what you are about to do.
But you know in your bones that you will do this. You know that you have to do this. For the world to be set to rights, you will see the beast who killed your daughter dead.
You ride on.
-------.
“Mom,” Antonia says at 13 years old, “I’m very different, aren’t I?”
You miss the fence post you’re hammering into the ground. Your heart races as you turn to look at your daughter. She’s beginning to show signs of your husband’s height, but it’s your broad shoulders that are hunched up around her ears. But when her bright brown eyes dart from your and away, there is that stranger again. So incredible and so different than you. Better than you.
“That,” you say, “depends on what you mean.”
“Everything,” Antonia blurts out. She waves across the open fields and to her own line of fenceposts. What takes you three swings to knock down, she accomplishes in one. “My strength. My magic power. Even the way I think. The last mage told me he’s never seen anyone climb magic ranks so quickly. Everyone has told me all my life how amazing I am and I just—” her voice cracks “—doesn’t that make me different?”
“It does,” you say. You say it like you’re commenting on the weather. “And?”
Antonia’s head whips around. “And? And?!” She throws her hammer down, barely flinching at the crater the blow leaves. “I can’t even sow the fields anymore because of this power! The other kids in the village won’t meet my eyes because they’re afraid I’ll curse them! The only people who act like I’m normal are you and Dad!”
As usual when she gets mad, the wind picks up. You want to check the sky for clouds to make sure she’s not blowing any in, but you don’t. You keep your eyes on your daughter. “Your father is the only person in the valley who’s ever killed a dragon.”
“I know the dragon story—”
“When I was a little girl,” you say, “I was abducted by the fae for three years. Nobody is sure if what came back was me or a changeling.”
“Mom, you’re obviously you—”
“Everyone is different, Antonia,” you say firmly. “Some people will avoid you for it. Others will embrace you for it. There’s nothing wrong with you, no more than is wrong with me or Dad.”
“I can’t do the things I’m supposed to!” Antonia cries. “I can’t do my chores like a normal girl—”
You point at the fenceposts. “Yes, you can.”
“But I can’t help with the fields—”
“Not until harvest or you get that particular power under control,” you agree.
“STOP PRETENDING I’M NORMAL,” Antonia screams. The ground rumbles and she desperately grabs at her hair in an attempt to reign in her power. “I’m not! I’m not normal at all!” She bursts into tears.
You feel your control slip. You throw your arms around Antonia and hold her to you as she sobs. You sink to the ground and pull her into her lap. It’s a little awkward now that she’s nearly as tall as you, but you manage easily enough. You pat her back. “Sh, sweetheart, I know. I know. It’s alright. You’re okay.”
“I just want to belong,” Antonia sobs. “I try so hard and it doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.”
You let her cry it out. You feel as if your own heart is rending in two. The insecurities you’ve had over the years rise like an ocean tide. Were you and Phil doing the right thing, raising Antonia like this? Isolated and under such strict tutelage to control her powers? Was it right to keep her on the farm when so many claimed she would flourish in the capital? And what about friends? There aren’t very many kids in town. Should you have taken her somewhere else? But this moment isn’t about you. It’s about her. You search for the right words.
Your own voice is thick with tears. “I’m so sorry it’s hard. You’re carrying such a heavy burden and I wish more than anything that I could carry some of it for you.”
“No, Mom, you do enough,” Antonia says. “It’s me, I’m wrong, I’m—”
“You are not wrong,” you say, practically snarling the words. You stroke her hair and pull back from the embrace so you can look her in the eyes. You’re both still crying but you need her to see the sincerity in your eyes. “You aren’t. Someday, you’re going to find exactly what you were meant to do. That’s not now. It may not be for years. You belong here with me and Dad until you find the place you want to be.”
“What if I never do?” Antonia asks. The sky is mercifully clear as the wind slowly starts to die down. She sniffles like a child and shakily accepts the handkerchief you hand to her. “What if I just—feel like this forever?”
“You won’t,” you say. You know she won’t. How could she? Your beautiful, brave daughter will always be able to find the best of life. You believe in that. “You feel that way right now. That’s okay. Dad and I are here for you. You take as long as you need and we’ll be right here.”
“I’ll just stay here forever,” Antonia says and buries her face in your shoulder.
“As long as you need to,” you say instead of agreeing like you want to. One day, you’ll need to let her go. But not today. You hold her tight and wait until she pulls away. You could stay like this forever.
You and Antonia sit like that for a long time.
-----------------------.
And then, of course, her destiny came for her. It knocked on the door, called her a Hero, and asked her to come with it. You wanted to say no. Phil wanted to say no.
But Antonia said yes.
------.
“Something’s not right,” you say. You are mere feet away from the Demon King’s castle doors. It smells like brimstone and the only sound coming from the dead forest is the wind. “It’s too quiet.”
Phil stands with an axe in one hand and his old adventurer’s sword in the other. His eyes shift uneasily from the door to the surroundings to you. “The Demon King’s army isn’t here.”
You were expecting an army, you realize. The sort of world-ending thing that could drag your powerful daughter from your home. But this? This is an empty building standing in the middle of a burned forest. “We have to go in.”
The door groans when you nudge it open and you both tense. Knight Arden described goblins when they first entered. Surely there would at least be goblins.
In a way, there are. Goblin corpses litter the ground exactly in the spots they fell when Knight Arden cut them down. The vast hall beyond the doors echoes with your footsteps, but nobody comes running. The place remains as still and dark as the forest surrounding it.
Phil edges ahead of you, leading the way deeper into the castle. The walls bear the same inscriptions that Knight Arden described and there are signs of battle all the way to the first staircase that will take you down. This is the Demon King’s castle.
So where are the demons?
You ask yourself that question all the way down the first level, then the second, then the third. Each level, the sick feeling in your stomach grows. There are corpses of howling bats, horned rabbits, demon-wolves, griffins, and worse. It seems ridiculous to image Antonia fighting these things, her frame tiny in comparison to some of them.
But it’s not ridiculous. You can see her sword’s form in your mind’s eye and know that it’s Phil’s teachings that helped her survive to this point. Those hot summers of learning the form and the strategy paid off here, so deep under ground that the temperature feels like early winter.
“Here it is,” Phil says. He stops in front of a large, ornate door. It’s ajar and you can see the last set of stairs descending into darkness. His eyes are black as he looks back at you. “Ready?”
“What if that thing isn’t here?” you ask. You’re holding a spear. It was always your preferred weapon when hunting wolves. “The rest are dead. What if it’s—”
“Then we’ll find it,” Phil says. He can’t hold you with his hands full of weapons, but he leans his weight against you for a moment. “We’ll see this through.”
You close your eyes. Breath deeply. And nod. “Okay.”
You and Phil burst through the doors at the same time and rush down the stairs side by side. Like upstairs, the ground is pitted with magic backlash and the scent of blood is heavy in the air. You leap the last few stairs, scanning the room for enemies and--
--and freeze.
Phil stumbles. “Oh my god.”
You sprint forward and Phil follows a step behind.
-------.
The moment that the Knights and Mages who came to declare Antonia the Chosen Hero leave, she’s begging to go. “Mom, Dad, please, I—”
“No,” Phil says. His arms are folded across his chest, and he looks very menacing in the firelight. He’s standing on the opposite side of the table from where you sit, closer to Antonia. The menacing aura is what chased all those people out of the house as soon as they started talking nonsense. “Absolutely not.”
Antonia stomps her foot, unflinching in the face of what sent grown adults scrambling. “Dad! It’s a prophecy, I’m the only one who can!”
“Prophecies are broken every day, Antonia,” you say. You hate to see the way the hope in your daughter’s eyes flicker as you take Phil’s sides. “You’re still too young. Your gifts are great, but they’re talking about a Demon King—”
“Mom,” Antonia says. She comes around the table to kneel by your side. She takes your hands in hers. They’ve gotten rough over the years of sword training, farming, and tree-climbing. “Mom, this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
You know what she’s talking about immediately. You remember the day she was 13, sobbing in your arms, and you promised she would find her purpose one day. Your mouth goes dry. “Antonia…”
“This is what I was meant to do,” Antonia says. The firelight flickers in her eyes. “I have to do this.”
That’s the moment that Antonia wins the fight. Oh, the conversation isn’t over. You and Phil spend half the night pleading with her, promising her future opportunities, even swearing to lead her to the Royal Adventurer’s Guild yourselves, but she won’t hear it. She needs to go. She has to go.
And you both know it long before you agree to let her.
----------------------------.
The Demon King is standing in the middle of the room. He is worse than Knight Arden could ever have described. Over 24 hands tall, at least, with fox-like features and teeth the length of your palm. His cloak lies in tatters around his body and his eyes blaze with red light. He doesn’t move as you and Phil rush forwards which is good because neither of you are prepared for an attack.
Dangling from his hand is Antonia.
Phil roars as he swings his sword in a great arc. It is old, but it is a sharp, dragon-killing blade. It goes through the Demon King’s arm like kindling. Antonia’s body falls with his hand still wrapped around her throat.
You catch her before she hits the ground and pry the cursed thing away from her body. You’re sobbing as you pat at her face. “Phil, she’s not breathing!”
“Neither is he,” Phil says. He plants himself between you and the Demon King, sword drawn. “But he’s bleeding.”
You can’t look away from Antonia’s still face, but you can hear the trickle of liquid hitting the stone. Antonia’s eyes are wide and lit with the eerie green of her magic. Your heart stutters. “It’s—it’s a spell. She cast a spell.” You sob. “You beautiful, brilliant girl, it’s a spell!”
“There was no rot on the demons,” Phil realizes. He steps back from the Demon King so he can see your daughter’s face. “A time spell. She froze time.”
You don’t know a lot about magic. Was that a real spell? Could it be? You stroke Antonia’s face. “Sweetheart, wake up. Please, wake up.”
Antonia’s is as still as a doll, the only indication she might be alive the swirl of power in her eyes.
You scramble for any memory of magic. Simple spells just need mana. Bigger spells work with the elements. A lot of mages have powers tied to their emotions. Stagnant spells have a one time cost, but continuous spells need to be tethered to something— Antonia’s eyes are open. If she was dying, that’s one thing, but she was casting a spell. And the Demon King was the last thing she saw. That’s it. “Phil, stab his heart!”
Phil doesn’t question you. He picks up your dropped spear and drives it through the Demon King’s body until it pierces the other side. He lets go and steps back. “It’s not falling over. Should I cut its throat--?”
The magic in Antonia’s eyes flicker. Her mouth opens slightly. Then she convulses in your arms as she coughs, rolling onto her side as she desperately sucks in lungful after lungful of air.
There’s a huge thump as the Demon King falls backwards, but you hardly notice. You’re crying so hard that you can hardly see Antonia at all, hands fluttering around her as she fights to get her breath back. Phil falls next to her other side and he’s crying as hard as you.
“--thought you were dead—”
“Antonia, thank god—”
Antonia finally has the strength to look at you. “Mom? Dad?” Her eyes widen and she struggles to get up. “The Demon King!”
You shush her. “Dad ran him through—”
Antonia raises her hand and blasts pure, unfiltered magic past you and Phil. As one, you follow the trajectory of the shot and find the Demon King in the process of rising again. Or, rather, most of him rising. Antonia’s magic has blasted off his head.
He falls backwards again and doesn’t move.
“You have to destroy the head,” Antonia says weakly. “I aimed for the heart first.”
You press a kiss to her forehead. “Clever, clever girl.”
Phil gathers you both to his chest and cries tears into your hair.
“Can we go home?” Antonia asks through tears.
“Of course,” you say. “Of course, we can.”
And, eventually, you do.
Thanks for reading! Eventually I may have to collect all of these Chosen One stories in one place. I am addicted to this trop :)
Comments
Oh I can't tell you how much I needed this one to have a happy ending!! Phil and Esther are wonderful parents ♡
MistyIsle
Great story. Liked the format of present and pasts. I was not ready for that ending though!
God I love these stories! I'm a huge sucker for angst and revenge too. This is a great addition to your literary universe!
