Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Twenty-Four

“In the days of old, when the Earth was still flushed with flora and fauna, and the skies remained a blue untouched by the pollutants of man and the greedy ambitions of non-man, there had been heroes who would brave the forests and bogs to challenge a Fae.”

The fire thrived in the forge.

 “In those times, the trees had covered this land from sea to sea, and man had numbered so few that they could have easily been pushed into the oceans by the wild and the feral. Everywhere you looked, from horizon to horizon, had been ours. Everywhere you stood, from sky to ground, had been ours. Everything had been under our rule and eyes, and life was good and unhindered.”

The hammers struck ugly sparks into the air.

“Man dared not to cross our borders, and we watched their barbarian lives from afar. At times, they took up arms against us. At times, we took up arms against them. And at times, we took up arms together against a foe more greater than us two combined. Yes, in the days of old, heroes were many and common. They harnessed weapons of the highest calibre and machinations of that time, and shields that bore their crests and honour. They wore armour built from the greatest mines and blacksmiths, and worked themselves into the latest night and the earliest day to perfect their skills and bodies. They understood, quite well, what a hero was.”

The water hissed as the red-hot blade slivered into the pool.

“They are not seen today. They are few and rare. Those who proclaim themselves heroes are weak and undisciplined. Those who are seen as heroes are cowardly and unskilled. They know only how to stir the crowd, but do not take arms themselves. They know only how to arm themselves, but do not know how to move their people. They are unworthy and pale in comparison to the heroes of old.”

The blade slid from the water, drops of rain falling onto the forest floor.

“My limbs grow weak, my heart falters, but my mind remembers.”

The blacksmith inspected the blade one last time before deeming it worthy.

“I remember what a true hero looks like.”

The blacksmith turned to her. “Milady, your blade.”

Nocte finished the last butterfly knot on her shoes and stood from the ground, leaves and grass rustling at her motion. She did not falter under the eyes of the blacksmiths, of their burning forges, or of the elven soldiers. She did not even blink when the centaur blacksmith handed over the scimitar, a platinum crescent reminiscent of the silver moon, and quietly nodded when another placed a round shield in her other hand, a shape and colour in likeness to the full moon. Etched, through careful tools and skilled hands, were protective runes along the edges of the sword and shield — her “name” on the bottom of the hilt and on the inside of the shield.

Nocte took an expert swing of the sword, a wind cut into two and she almost marvelled at the craftsmanship. With little magic here on Earth, technology and innovation was needed for advancement and survival. She grimly acknowledged the blacksmiths for their hard work and sought out the eyes of the old storyteller in the corner, surrounded by Fae children of all kinds of species and ages.

The wizened centaur, so aged that his eyes had paled and so weak that he now required a twisted staff to aid in his walk, turned his head slowly to meet her eyes, so young that they were deep and bright, and so strong that her legs held steady under the weight of the sword and shield.

“You are not our hero,” the old storyteller conceded.

The Fae shuffled noticeably and Nocte rearranged the shield to get a better grip on the object.