Around midday, the first flurry of the year drifted to the ground in small white clumps of snow. It was the damp stuff that never stuck because the ground had yet to freeze, a clear sign that the harvest season was coming to an end. A cold breeze swept through, making Foster pull his jacket tighter. Foster's body was nigh indestructible, so he did not need to worry about something as trivial as hypothermia. That didn't mean he couldn't feel it, though.
Forty-six houses. Parents, husbands, wives, children, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. The denizens of forty-six families all mourned a loss. Some were stoic, some cried. Some were angry with Foster for dragging their baby into a conflict zone and then abandoning them. Foster's apathetic blanket struggled to keep the cold at bay. Autumn was quickly becoming winter.
He was going to need a warmer blanket.
"I'm going to visit a carpenter I know—get a frame made for my painting. Do you wanna come?"
"I… I think I'm just going to head home and get some rest. But here," he handed her the rolled canvas he'd carried with him all day, "Get this framed for me too. Please?"
Aurora, ever the stoic warrior, just took it with a nod, saying no more.
Foster hesitated, curiosity briefly breaking his lethargy, "Can I… see your painting?" For some reason, Foster was a bit bashful asking this; the question felt… intimate for some unknown reason.
Aurora didn't miss it, a subtle smile playing on her lips, "At least take me to dinner first, brave hero~"
"Whatever, forget it! I don't wanna see it."
"You can see it when it is hanging on my wall. Until then, hold on to your suspense." Her tail swayed as she turned from him, and then she vanished like she was never there. Her talent for spatial Zyph likely carrying her all the way to her carpenter friend.
Foster sighed, finding himself alone on the sidewalks of the residential district. His current location happened to be rather close to one of the warp anchors he installed for the employees of the War Room. This one hid in plain sight, about a block ahead of him on the sidewalk—its circle formula cleverly disguised by another one of Monica's ingenious illusions.
Sure enough, after a short walk, he found it. Staring at it, Foster almost stepped onto it, but the voice of his prickly physician interrupted his thoughts. No Zyph body, no physical enhancements—don't even infuse a lamp until I give you permission otherwise. Curse it—curse it all to hell. Kicking a rock into the street, Foster began his lonely journey back to the War Room.
~~~
Another week passed, then another. Foster still observed his own life through the artificial window. His routine maintained a steady lateness. Wake up late. Eat breakfast late. Be late for Regina's check-up and get his ear chewed out. At some point, Sebastian gave a speech about 'the principals of Ether' and 'the gallant Hero who finally slayed the Demon Lord' in a public broadcast, illusory projections in every town square across Ether.
A parade was held in Foster's honor—not that he could be bothered to attend. Soon after that, the War Room hosted a private funeral and wake service for the fallen members of the Black Griffons. Foster had to force himself in front of a crowd of grieving families to deliver a heartfelt speech on their behalf.
It wasn't that he didn't care… Quite the opposite, actually. In that moment, when he looked into the crowd and saw the accusatory, the mournful, the sad, and the stoic, he pulled his apathetic blanket tighter around himself. He forced himself to not care, to watch life through the artificial window, to see the faces that looked so like his fallen brothers and sisters and not despair.
One face he locked eyes with startled him greatly, an emotion contained within them one he expected least. Pity. The old lady who gifted them paintings, Mrs. Citrine, pitied Foster for some reason. Her weathered eyes ate at him the rest of the day—still ate at him to this day, in fact.
With another empty schedule for the day, Foster shifted his eyes towards his newly framed painting—Aurora picked them up yesterday from her carpenter friend, along with terrible news. The carpenter's son had gone missing. Poor boy. Lately, his feline friend chaced leads for the carpenter instead of guarding Foster's useless hide in her waking hours. She still slept on his throw rug, though. He meant to go take a peak at the painting hanging in her room, but he never really got the chance.
That was a lie. He had plenty of chances, just not enough motivation.
Motivation was overrated anyway. The burning desire, the striving, the hoping, the achieving, the conquering… He'd done it all. But what did it get him?
Glory?
Sure.
Honor?
Yep.
Wealth?
Oh, most definitely.
But look at him now. The honorable hero, gloriously lounging in bed between sheets made of silks so fine, they could bankrupt an entire fief. He shook his head. Staring at the painting, Foster dissected the faces in the carrion—the faces of his fallen comrades. They all had their own version of the same smile on their faces. Pained, hopeful smiles.
The Hero still lived.
Did he, though? Was this living?
What was a hero without a villain?
A knock rapped at the door. He knew that knock. His belligerent physician had come for his daily checkup.
Foster sat up against the headboard, "Come in, Regina."
The door swung open, and the petite blonde strutted in. She must've come directly from a mass today, considering she still donned the ceremonial cream-colored habit of the saintess. Already the day of rest? It feels like the last one was just yesterday.
"Zyph and spirits, Foster, you're still in bed? It's half past noon."
"I saved the world, what's wrong with a little stay-cation?"
"You didn't save the world, you ended a war. This world is still far from being saved."
"Well, I've done my part to save it."
She scoffed, unconvinced. The habit pulled tight against her curves as she swept her hands behind her to sit next to the bed.
"What are you staring at?"
Distracted, Foster almost landed himself in a heap of trouble, "I was just admiring your a—uh, clothes? You picked a wonderful outfit today."
Regina looked down at the uniform she wore nearly every day while inside the walls of the church.
"Ah, yes. My outfit. Maybe I should tell Monica about your admiration for my 'clothes'… I bet she'd find your choices in women's fashion intriguing."
"Uh—no, no! No need! Haha, that really won't be necessary!"
Regina tilted her head, picking at the fabric, "Are you sure? I can lend it to her if you like. Maybe if you ask nicely, she'll wear it for you."
Foster nearly shredded the sheets in his white-knuckle grip. He saw it. Monica, dressed as a nun, all doe-eyed and innocent, sitting on the bed with a curious look in her eyes.
Foster ground his teeth and made a valiant effort to suppress his imagination, "Are you just here to torment me? Or are we going to get this show on the road?"
She slid a pair of gold-rimmed glasses onto her face, "Hmm, very well. Let's take a look."