Roughly an hour later, Foster found himself in the gated residential district of Andeir—an area of the city reserved for the upper-middle and lower-upper-class residents of the capital. Wealthy commoners like merchants and untitled mages lived here alongside low-ranked and/or poor nobles. Though the Knights of the Black Griffons were paid by the kingdom as ranking military officials, they were not paid nearly enough to afford a home in this area.
Luckily, the War Room could more than afford to pay for all of its employees to have a home here. They weren't huge, at least not compared to the sprawling estate of a lord of a fief, but they were moderate Victorian townhouses, all with matching black stone roofs and red brick exteriors, and they were enough to comfortably house a family of five or so. The Black Griffons, being employees of the War Room, were naturally each afforded a house in this area as a result.
Back to her silent and stoic human form, Aurora proudly displayed her ears and tail while wearing her off-duty knight's uniform. In the past, she once hid the features that made her different. Nowadays, nary an ill whisper was directed towards Aurora, given her role as the official Companion to the Hero, a dear friend of three of the royal children and the Saintess of the church of Sabrina. It also helped they all had their own ways of stifling gossip that was in poor taste before it got out of hand.
Foster usually just beat the living shit out of the guilty party, then hid from the repercussions behind his title.
Foster kicked a stone as he walked up a path leading to the first house he needed to visit, trying to think about anything other than what he had to do.
"I can do the talking if you like."
"No… No, don't be silly, Aura. As captain of the order, I should be able to do at least this much for them."
"If you say so…"
Together, they came to a stop in front of the door. With a hand that trembled more than it ever had before, Foster hesitantly grabbed the knocker and gave it three sharp cracks.
Knock, knock, knock.
There was silence for nearly a full minute before they heard a slow shuffle. The dragging footsteps came to a stop on the other side of the door, and it creaked, displaying the vestibule beyond holding an elderly woman clutching a cane.
"Gawaald, I told you, you don't need to knock… Ah, I see."
The pitiful old lady lowered her head as much as her feeble body allowed.
"Greetings, your eminence, your ladyship. Please forgive this old woman, my back will not allow a proper curtsy any longer. Come in, it's not much, but I have a pot of tea on the stove."
"While I appreciate the gesture…" The old woman ignored him, choosing to leave the door open and hobble her way deeper into the house.
Foster looked to Aurora, who looked back. Then, with a shrug, she stepped into the house, making sure to wipe her feet first. With little option, Foster followed.
When Foster walked in, he looked around the entryway. A massive number of fine oil paintings left him in awe. Landscapes, portraits, realism, cubism—the hall represented every style of fine art he could imagine and more. If not for the sheer mastery of each painting, the walls would look overcrowded.
A biblical scene in one of the paintings caught his eye. It depicted a famous piece of Ether history: the first King of Ether, the Hero King Andeir Ether, lost in the darkness and surrounded by the carrion of the fallen, only to be found by the holy ghost herself, the Goddess Sabrina. A beam of light illuminated the King as the Goddess rushed for a consoling embrace.
The story recorded in the official texts and scriptures circulated by the church made the moment seem grand, epic, and romantic—a scene out of an ancient myth. But this painting explored the humanity of the two figures. The frantic confusion and relief of finally finding someone dear who was thought lost, the lamentful mourning of a man surrounded by the nameless corpses of his slain brothers.
Foster firmly believed that any gods or goddesses in this world had long since died or abandoned it. This piece provided proof of that in the pitiful appearance, the raw humanity, of Sabrina and Andeir. In the painting, Andeir is surrounded by violence, and Sabrina, despite being a symbol of faith, definitely lacked the otherworldly grace she was usually depicted with.
Violence, money, pleasure, faith. An idle tangent brought about by the masterwork. As ironic as it was, they were the cornerstones of a civilized society. The tools wielded by the powerful to control the powerless. It ran rampant among the ruling class and the clergy. It did not matter if Sabrina was a real goddess or just a powerful spirit. All that mattered was the faith the people had in her and the faith they had in the will of the church.
Violence, money, pleasure, and faith. An abundance of one could buy the other three. These were the forces that turned the wheels and fed the machine—the means to all ends. Foster was no exception, being a purveyor of violence himself.
"One of my pieces caught your eye, Your Eminence?"
Shaken from his daze, Foster looked to the source, finding the shriveled mother of one of his fallen knights, the mother of Gawaald Citrine, offering him a teacup and saucer.
Foster took the proffered cup.
"Gawaald had mentioned his mother was a gifted painter. Still, this is…"
"Blasphemous?"
"Well, technically, I suppose. But I was going to say it was a massive understatement."
"It is indeed quite a masterpiece, Mrs. Citrine." Aurora chimed in from her other side.
The old woman chuckled.
Working up his nerve, Foster delicately chose his words, "Mrs. Citrine, about the reason we're here—"
"Last time he was here, Gawaald asked me to make a gift for his commanding officers."
"Mrs. Citrine, I—"
"Spoken words have a way of solidifying ambiguity. Young Hero, please allow this foolish old woman to bask in obscurity a little while longer."
Speechless, Foster looked to Aurora for direction. She nodded.
"…Alright."
"Thank you. Please sit in the living room while I fetch my son's gifts for you."
They made their way to the living room, awkwardly finding a place to sit. After a minute or so, she returned with two rolled canvases under one arm while the other kept its grip on the cane. Foster stood to help her to a chair, but she waved him off.
"It is a relief you liked my depiction of Andeir and Sabrina," she handed him both canvases. "This one's for you, and this is for Lady Aurora. Please, have a look."
Foster handed Aurora her's, then carefully unfurled his.
What he saw left his mouth dry.
A nearly identical replica of the earlier depiction of Andeir and Sabrina stared back at him, with a few glaring exceptions. Instead of the first king, a man with a stone body and glass hands stood alone in a beam of light. A cracked bronze halo shrouded in frost and mist floated above the figure's head, and he clutched a bloody sword of glass. It was Foster, depicted as nothing more than a broken man in an unbreakable body.
At his feet, the men were no longer nameless. As though they were shredded to ribbons by a beast, his beloved brothers and sisters-in-arms lay dead. Within the mangled mass of flesh and bone, Foster recognized Gawaald, Tulihan, Yennaker, Deela, and many more; all of their eyes looking into the darkness without seeing it. There was no Sabrina, and nobody took her place. Still, the light shone down upon him. Foster was looking at that light, lamentful mourning clear in his features and in the tear tracks on his face. There was also something else, hidden in his posture and hidden in the light he seemed to so long for.
It was hope.
He was down, his comrades were dead, yet there was still hope. The hero was still alive, standing, looking for the source of the light. It was tragic, and he was alone, but he would continue.
The hero was alive.
Others may look at the bloody scene and see it as an accusation—and perhaps it also was. Art could have many meanings, after all. A man holding a bloody sword, surrounded by corpses. Without context, the meaning is rather obvious. But even if Mrs. Citrine softly and unconsciously accused him of this, that suited Foster just fine. Though indirectly, their blood stained his hands, and he needed to carry that shame.
Foster wiped his damp eyes, "It is beautiful, thank you. Does it have a name?"
Mrs. Citrine seemed almost bashful as she looked out the window and spoke, "I didn't have anything in mind… Gawaald was the one who wanted it to be a remake of my Andeir and Sabrina… Personally I thought it was a tad too morbid for the message he wanted to convey, but he said, 'the captain won't understand it any other way'. You should pick a name."
Foster's earlier idle commentary on society resurfaced, "Violence and Faith. What do you think?"
"I think I couldn't've picked a better name myself." Skin as thin as tissue paper around her mouth arced up, forming a fragile smile.
Foster looked over to Aurora; she was smiling a somber smile down at her own painting.
She looked up, "Does mine have a name?"
"Honorguard."
"Thank you, Mrs. Citrine. This means more than you know." That voice of Aurora's, soft yet unmistakably heard, calm and mature, soothed Foster's rather turbulent emotions.
Foster took a deep breath. It was time to discuss the reason they were here. Mrs. Citrine sat, she seemed to sense it as well.
"Mrs. Citrine, I am afraid I cannot delay this any longer." Foster was the Hero. Not only did that make him a very high-ranking member of the aristocracy, but it also gave him an honorary position in the church roughly equivalent to that of an archbishop. Even disregarding that, the people of Ether put their faith in Foster as a symbol, and the painting recently gifted to him only proved it.
Foster knew that. He was special, the kind of special that allowed him to throw a severed head at the ruling monarch of a kingdom and not be immediately executed for it. Foster only bowed in mock reverence and never kneeled.
Such a man got down on his knees before a woman he had to turn into a grieving mother. Aurora kneeled beside him. "Is there any other family present?"
"It's… Just me."
Aurora pulled a scabbarded blade from thin air, presenting it to Mrs. Citrine. She gasped, recognizing the sword to be her son's.
With a heavy heart, Foster began his requiem, "I, Foster Grey, The Hero of Ether, express my deep regret that your son, Gawaald Citrine, was killed in action in the Demon Lord's Domain on the twelfth day of the Harvest season in the 441st year of the Ether Standard Era. While I detached from the unit to infiltrate the Demon Lord's castle, the Black Griffons were beset by three elder demons, attacking simultaneously with cursed speech in my absence. Gawaald fought bravely, and it is thanks to his sacrifice that I was ultimately able to slay the Demon Lord. May he return to the loving embrace of Sabrina."
She took the sword from Aurora and brought it close. Silence held true as words solidified the ambiguity and pulled her from obscurity. Foster and Aurora began to rise.
"…Thank you for… Bringing this news to me in person." She wasn't looking at them.
Foster nodded his head all the same. "A squire associated with the Black Griffons will be by within the week to make funeral arrangements. If there is anything I can do for you please let them know and I will see to it."
Foster and Aurora turned toward the door. This was not shaping up to be a good day.