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(Author’s note: This is “fan fiction of fan fiction”, inspired by the storyline created by Triond author Leafygreens as based on the MMORPG EverQuest II. In this short story we see my protagonist, Chris Alan Starbright, *en apotheosis* – as something far greater than what he was when I first started writing stories about him here on Triond.)

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Even now, as she looked upon the great new enemy of her world, Zaphyre V’nae didn’t quite understand why she was still alive to do so.

The Hooded Man’s “spell” (Zaphyre had no other word for it) had been like nothing else she had ever encountered or heard of, even coming from Innoruuk. It didn’t just draw upon the hidden powers of reality; somehow (as Zaphyre perceived through her durin ring), it *was* reality, as it were readjusting itself. It had flooded the whole area around Kharm and Zaphyre with dazzling white light, instantly destroying the attacking Daimonae even as they tried to teleport to safety. When the fury priestess opened her eyes and looked up, she was being held tightly by her husband, his cloak covering them both protectively from the blinding light. His dark eyes looked down and a soft smile appeared on his handsome face, assuring his lady wife that they were fine.

Had Kharm and Zaphyre been able to see the “spell” from a point of view in space, they would’ve seen a ripple of white fire expand across the world from the Direvine Woods to their antipodes, cleansing Norrath of Daimonae, bringing joy to every Norrathian servant of Love and terror to every Norrathian servant of Hate as it passed. It would’ve healed the Shattered Moon of its wounds, had Chris Alan allowed the effects of Light Without Measure to extend that far. Zaphyre especially found it difficult to grasp such precise control of such incredible power, let alone why Chris Alan would want to employ it.

Nicholas Blackthorn had perceived the “spell” as well, although he was not harmed by it. Fright had not overwhelmed him yet at any rate. By the time Kharm and Zaphyre had returned with their new allies to Port Naythex, they found him waiting for them on the waterfront in fiery form on a fiery horse, a horse that he had commandeered and transformed into a thrall. Dozens of villagers stood some distance away, talking quietly among themselves.

“Look at him,” Amethyst said with a scornful voice. Chris Alan’s servant Rafael had somehow emulated three almost-magical horses for Chris Alan, Slate and Amethyst, and they were still riding those simulacra. “He’s got the villagers terrified out of their wits. Chris Alan, let me show him a thing or two.”

“And I’ll help her,” said Slate. “I’ve learned a thing or two about fighting since I was his student.”

“This isn’t the time for play,” said Chris Alan sharply. His outer garment was a long hooded cloak of charcoal gray; it was unadorned save for a clasp wrought in gold-colored durin, in imitation of something he called the Ark of the Covenant. His deep sky blue shirt, earth-brown pants and dark-chocolate boots were likewise simple, although tough and finely wrought. He wore a silver-colored durin signet ring with a duringlass gem like white chalcedony, bearing the strange glyph that he had shown to Zaphyre. The finest thing he wore was his duringlass-bladed, durin-hilted sword, the name of which (as Chris Alan had explained) meant “Flame of the Eternal”. It was as indestructible as his ring, being like it a creation by fiat of the Nameless Himself.

Kharm had the urge to smite the hate-driven being before them with every fighting skill and every spell at his disposal. But no, by the standards of his world this was a veritable god, one stronger even than Innoruuk, able to hold the native gods at bay while conquering Norrath. Nonetheless, the necromancer summoned his minion Fate to help out any way he could, even if it was just to buy them time to escape.

“Chris Alan,” Rafael said quietly, “I am ready to assist Fate in Alpha Mode if needed.”

“Negative. Stand by.” Chris Alan called the party to a halt, and they dismounted. “Wait here,” he ordered.

“There are so many innocent people here, milord. They need not be unnecessarily risked whilst thou doest battle.” Zaphyre turned her head at the workers and children all over the port area. She felt Nicholas’ hatred all but color the very air around him and was afraid. All too clearly, he had no regard for fellow servants of Hate if they also were not servants of him – let alone for anyone else.

Chris Alan sighed. [O thou of little faith!] he thought, in imitation of the peculiarities of Zaphyre’s suddenly formal Thexian dialect. [Well, she understands my abilities and my motives in part – and that much is quite a step for her, given her past.]

“What do you suggest?”

Zaphyre quickly conjured up a luminous druidic portal to the Commonlands and pointed to the women and children in the immediate area. “We mayest offer this route of escape to these people whilst thou dealest with our enemy. No one needs to witness this, or to risk being harmed, that does not want to.”

With a wave of his hand – it wasn’t even necessary for him to light it – Chris Alan collapsed the druidic portal. Zaphyre felt the power behind the gesture and shuddered a little; it would’ve killed her instantly had it been directed against her.

“You *really* don’t understand who and what you’re dealing with, *do* you?” Amethyst chided.

“It’s all right, Amethyst. Zaphyre’s learning quickly, and that’s commendable. For her to care about innocent bystanders is quite a step for a Tier’Dal, let alone a Priestess of Darkmoon.” Chris Alan nodded in Zaphyre’s direction with an approving smile. “But trust me, all of you: these people are in no danger; they won’t see anything that they don’t need to see; and I don’t need your help in this battle. Take no action; simply stand and watch.” And with that, he walked slowly and fearlessly toward the Red Lord of Chaos.

Nicholas and his horse returned to normal appearance, and Nicholas dismounted. With a swat, Nicholas dismissed the horse, and it went trotting (with considerable relief) down the waterfront. A Human skilled with horses intercepted it and calmed it.

“So, Christopher Alan,” Nicholas began mockingly as Chris Alan drew near, “not even here can I escape your roving eyes.”

“No indeed, Nicholas,” said Chris Alan as he pulled the hood of his cloak off his head. “and this time there’s no way out for you. I know better than to ask for your surrender, because I know you won’t give it. So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

With a sudden, godlike battle cry that made everyone else on the waterfront, even Slate and Amethyst, cover their ears, Nicholas pulled his durin sword, ignited it and directed it in a two-handed downward sweep against Chris Alan’s pulled and shining sword.

Nicholas’ Lahavyor and Chris Alan’s Shalhevetyah met with the controlled energy of two colliding planets.

Nicholas had expected his blow – and many blows afterward – to be merely blocked. He had expected to be killed only if Shalhevetyah actually pierced him. Never had he expected Light Without Measure to travel from Chris Alan’s blade to his own, extinguish his blade’s flaming Seven-Headed Dragon Mode, and then continue up his arms to annihilate his body. It was the last mistake he ever made.

Lahavyor went spinning high into the air, fell, and embedded itself point-downward in the pavement.

Chris Alan walked over to the sword, pulled it free, then returned to pick up Nicholas’ sword belt and scabbard. Those items were all that were left of the Red Lord of Chaos. After putting the sword in the scabbard, he walked back to his party as the villagers cheered.

“Slate,” said Chris Alan as he drew near, “Lahavyor is yours. May your White Fire turn it to better uses than the Red Fire of its late owner did.”

“Uh, doesn’t it need to be ceremonially cleansed or something?”

“The Lord made it; His Light has cleansed it. It is yours forever.”

“Well, *thank* you, Blondie. Hey, that was one smooth move you just pulled. Looks like the locals think so too,” he added with a grin as the crowd began to surround them all. “What say we find a pub somewhere and celebrate?”

“If Kharm and Zaphyre are willing…then why not?”

“This place is not the best for your preferred kind of celebrating. There is no tavern or pub,” Kharm pointed out. “May we offer an alternative?”

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Kharm and Zaphyre led the party through another conjured druidic portal that took them all to the continent of Antonica and a safe village called Windstalker, which had a pub more than up to Slate’s considerable standards. At first, Chris Alan simply observed everyone else around him, until Kharm took the initiative to talk with him one-on-one for a time. Kharm had noticed changes in his wife that prompted many questions. He could feel she was changing, but she didn’t seem very happy about it. The necromancer took this time to learn about what had happened during their separation. The Hooded Man proved more than ready to tell him all he needed to know – and more. After their talk, Chris Alan had joined in the festivities, yet not once did he or any of his friends make any special mention of his status as a being far beyond the ken of even the gods of Norrath. His friends toasted him (prudently) as Alain Harper the Undying Singer, but that was all.

The necromancer excused himself politely from the celebrants and went to find Zaphyre, who had gone to their inn room upstairs. She was in no mood to celebrate, preferring to find some peace from all that had happened. Kharm wasn’t sure what he would do once he entered their room for the night, but he didn’t like the way Zaphyre was acting and wanted to help her somehow. When he entered the room, she was standing by the window looking up at the night sky.

“Beloved, I am troubled,” she said quietly.

“Thou hast been through much, Dearest.” Kharm went to her and held her once again; both were relieved that they were safe this night. He stood behind her so they could both look out into the starry night together.

The fury spoke softly, so unlike her, “When I spoke with the Hooded Man, in his own Realm…I hardly knew what to think or to say. I thought he would kill me with a word, simply for questioning him.”

“Because his path is Love and thy path is Hate?” Kharm shook his head. “Dost thou understand Love so little, even now?”

Zaphyre thought she understood it better now. Kharm’s consistent example of self-sacrifice, for her and for so many others, had taught her much despite herself. Chris Alan’s mercurial personality was not as stern as Kharm’s, yet his character shared the same fundamental quality of putting the interests of others above his own. Chris Alan had explained it this way, while the party traveled back to Port Naythex: “There came a time, while I was yet Human, when no one could take anything from me that I hadn’t already given freely. In that moment, Darkness ceased to have any power over me. Kharm has the same capacity, Zaphyre, although he hasn’t grown into it fully as yet. You can’t change his path, but he may yet change yours.”

“He was right, Dearest,” Kharm said when Zaphyre reminded him of that conversation. “No one *can* take ought from me, for I have already given all, except thee. The loss of thee would be like the loss of half of myself, and I would never be the same. ”

“When I was cut off from thee by the Portal of Twilight, I felt as if I was dead while I yet lived. Is this not part of the very weakness of Love of which Innoruuk speaks: this terrible sense of loss?” asked the troubled fury. She took comfort in her husband’s embrace as they talked by the window, still gazing at the starry sky and at Luclin, the Shattered Moon.

“Dearest,” Kharm replied, “my speech in the pub with the Hooded Man taught me much. He told me and showed me, in words, in pictures, and in images in my mind, all that thou saw and heard from the time thou passed through the Portal until thou returned. And he also told me that by the will of the Nameless, no one who truly loves ever is truly lost. Once, the Hooded Man also had a beloved wife. She lives forever, as he lives forever, and he can go to the place where she dwells at will.”

“What dost that mean for *us*, Kharm?”

“The Hooded Man testifies that the fate (as we know of it) of those who live in our Realm is not their ultimate fate. The loss that Lovers feel shows forth their ultimate reunion with those they love, somewhere beyond the plane of Norrath. The evil, too, have an ultimate fate beyond our plane. ‘All this implies that your plane won’t always be as it is. Innoruuk either doesn’t know this or else refuses to reveal it,’ he told me.” Kharm shook his head. “Verily the Hooded Man is one of plain speech when he wills it. Methinks he would have said as much as a mortal Human, in the very presence of the Seraph of Hate, even had it cost him his life.”

“How can a sense of loss point to a reunion?”

“I asked the Hooded Man the same. He replied, ‘For every genuine need, there is some means that fills the need. People have a genuine need to be with those they love forever. Therefore, by some means they will be with those they love forever – all else being equal.’ Never had I thought of it that way before.”

“‘All else being equal’?”

“Even Nicholas Blackthorn was loved once – by many, many people,’ he said. ‘One can choose to turn away from Love…just as one can choose to turn away from Hate.’” Kharm nodded thoughtfully. “And the Hooded Man said one more thing to me: ‘The fear of the Lord is hatred of evil. Not all that is called hatred is contrary to Love.’”

For Zaphyre, what Kharm had just said marked a turning point in her mind. In Darkmoon’s dogma, by implication if not by statement, Love’s alleged weakness was tied to its alleged injustice. But Chris Alan, even more than Kharm, had shown Zaphyre that Love was not weak – and now through Kharm, he had shown that it was not unjust either.

“Dearest,” said Kharm, “being a Priestess of Innoruuk has not been easy for thee. Yet our fate is not to serve the Hooded Man or the One that he himself serves; he and his friends plan to depart for their Realm on the morrow. When they do, even the Portal of Twilight will depart from Norrath, until the Nameless or the Hooded Man sends it again, or until your ring summons it. This too the Hooded Man has shown me.” Kharm paused, as if collecting himself. “But there are other ways we can serve our world.”

Kharm could almost see the waterwheels turning in Zaphyre’s head, yet clearly her mind was not made up as yet. “Wilst thou give me more time, Beloved, to think of this?”

“Verily. And if thou needest to speak of thy thoughts, I will listen. In the meantime, get thee to bed. We all have need of rest. I shall return in a short time.”

“Aye, Beloved, I am tired.” The fury took off her jewelry – including her durin ring, which she put on the small nightstand – finished undressing, and climbed into the large feather bed. Kharm tucked her in and kissed her softly.

Leaving a candle glowing in the room, the necromancer left, locking the door behind him. He could sense the Hooded Man nearby, and he yet had words to say to him.

Walking around the second-floor balcony, he quickly came upon Chris Alan, hooded, cloaked and armed, who was leaning on the railing and looking at Luclin.

“It would be so easy for me to fix that, you know,” he said without turning.

Kharm looked at Chris Alan in wonder. “It would be at thine ease to ‘fix’ so many evil things,” he replied. “Why dost thou not?”

“As I told Zaphyre,” Chris Alan said after turning his head to face Kharm, “I’m not sent to make everybody do what is right. Now isn’t the time.” Chris Alan stood up and turned to face Kharm fully. “Most people need to learn by experience that only the Lord’s way works in the long run. If I went around fixing all the effects of people’s wrongdoing before they learned that lesson, what would be the point?”

Kharm nodded, yet he wasn’t fully convinced. “Still I would have thee and thy friends remain among us. There is much evil that you could fight on Norrath alone.”

“Why?” Chris Alan’s question sounded almost childlike in its innocence. “When we are gone, Norrath will have you and Zaphyre.”

With that, Chris Alan simply faded away with a smile – to what place on Norrath, in the Realms, or beyond the Realms, only he and the Nameless One knew.

[Gods,] Kharm thought in perplexity as he turned to head back to his room.

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Back in the room, Zaphyre rested, her eyes closed, trying to get some sleep. Chris Alan’s durin ring was powerful, and it was comforting in its way, but it was also distracting. It was as if its very presence on her finger posed a constant argument in her mind for Love against Hate. Having it off her finger, Zaphyre felt more able for the moment to weigh her options carefully, on her own terms. Perhaps the symbolism of dreams would help her do so.

It was only a matter of a minute or two when she suddenly felt it. Her eyes shot open suddenly, but she saw nothing. Instead, she heard it clearly in her mind as she felt her breath being taken away.

[I see that thou needest to come home again, my daughter. Thou art straying from me and I will not let this happen. Come to me. It is my will.]

Zaphyre gasped and writhed in the bed. She tried to call out: “*Dark Father! Nay!! Ahhh!!!*” She tried desperately to breathe but could not. Slowly her body began to relax as her spirit left her body.

Walking toward the room, Kharm felt Zaphyre’s spirit withdraw and looked down to check his pendant. The globe of Zaphyre’s blood was black and the bond between them had been severed. Kharm ran for the door and unlocked it, but it was too late.

Zaphyre, his only love and soul-bound, was dead.

(Continued in THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY 3…)

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Thanks to Leafygreens for her help in understanding her characters (Zaphyre and her husband Kharm) and for the beautiful screenshots of Norrath (which I’ve framed). Amethyst Bellatrix and Nicholas Blackthorn are inspired in part by various paintings by Jonathon Earl Bowser.