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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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It was a dark and stormy night.

Zaphyre V’nae seldom troubled herself about the weather; if anything, dark and stormy nights fed the hate that had been instilled in her since childhood. But here and now, the weather only made her situation more disconcerting.

The Tier’Dal Priestess had been born and raised in Freeport, as cosmopolitan a city as her world Norrath offered. The hidden city of Neriak, her adopted home, was great and wonderful beyond the imagining even of many of her fellow Tier’Dal. But *this* place was truly bewildering: seemingly mountain-high towers of metal, stone and glass, countless multi-colored lights that had no visible means of fueling them, metallic chariots and wagons that had no horses or oxen pulling them and that could run faster than hunting cats, roads paved with some smooth stone-like material that looked almost as if it had been painted on the ground…

Was this whole world run by magic?

Zaphyre’s sense of the magical (as it was now focused through a magic ring on her right hand) told her “no”. By whatever incredible means, the people of this world had brought mere technical skill to the point where it was all but indistinguishable from magic. The only magical beings on this world were somewhere in this city, just as she’d sensed soon after she arrived.

Indeed, as she also sensed, they were more than magical; they were transcendent.

Transcendence had come to Zaphyre’s world with a vengeance in recent months. A being unknown even to the gods of her Realm had appeared suddenly on Norrath and started a systematic program of conquest. Even mighty Innoruuk, the Prince of Hate and the god whom Zaphyre and her dark guild, Darkmoon, worshipped had failed to stop this interloper with the unbreakable, flaming sword and his seemingly endless hordes of flying bat-men. Norrath’s elite could do little more than to try to maintain order and protect their people from these creatures. As a result, the warring between the Norrathian guilds was stopped, at least temporarily, in order to focus on this new and seemingly indestructible invader. With astonishing speed, he was gathering members of all the species on Norrath under his sway and was assembling them for the annihilation of all who opposed him, whether Lovers, Haters or self-proclaimed Neutrals.

Under direct orders from Innoruuk himself (delivered in person, itself an awesome event), the oldest and most venerated guild in Neriak, Darkmoon, had sent Zaphyre V’Nae, a druidic fury priestess and healer, and her husband, Kharm V’Nae, a powerful necromantic mercenary, to seek aid against this new and terrible god. Where such aid might be found, not even Innoruuk was certain.

Kharm thought that the logical place to begin was where the new god had first appeared: in a secluded part of the Mystic Lake, claimed by no people on Norrath, on the Island of Mara. The couple made plans to sail by ship from Port Naythex in Nektulos Forest for several days, landing at the Village of Shin on the Island of Mara. From there, they would travel by horseback to find the secluded, almost entirely forgotten, Mystic Lake and the Direvine Woods.

But something more was needed first, and Zaphyre remembered where it might be found. A quick trip under cover to Freeport brought the couple to a mage at the Academy of Arcane Science, a childhood acquaintance of the priestess, and to the unadorned silver-like ring which she now wore. Entering the darkly lit tome-filled hall, occupied by mages and teachers of the arcane sciences, the couple strode in quietly and found the mage they sought downstairs in the lower levels of the academy, where some of the most powerful secrets and treasures of Freeport were safely stored.

“This ring,” the mage had explained for Kharm’s sake, “is made of no metal of our plane of existence. No art, no magic possessed by mortal or immortal among us can harm it. It is said that not even our gods can affect it in the least. It was left here long ages ago by one we called the Herald of the Nameless: a being of many names, one able to travel with ease from one plane of existence to another. It has been passed down in my family since time immemorial. The Herald said that if Norrath ever again faced such dire need as it did in his time, this ring would enable its bearer to find him and to ask for his aid, which he would grant unconditionally.”

“Thou sayest that this Herald had many names,” Kharm noted. “Were any of those names preserved?”

The mage looked at Kharm with great interest. The Tier’Dal was tall, strong and stern-looking; his mere appearance (let alone his reputation as a highly experienced necromantic mage) was usually enough to dissuade potential adversaries from picking a fight with him. This was all the more true when he was accompanied by his wife Zaphyre (renowned as a fury, a fighting healer) and his favorite guardian minion, *Fate* (an armed and shielded skeletal warrior). For all that, Kharm was nonetheless charismatic and friendly to many. His powers were reserved only for the wicked and the harmful, regardless of race or class.

“He called himself Alain Harper the Undying Singer,” the mage answered, “and he showed himself a being of great joy and compassion.”

“He is a Lover, then?” Zaphyre frowned, and her words were filled with venom.

“*And* a fighter like none other. It is said that he could draw upon seemingly limitless magical power at need, and even our gods were wary of him.”

“Surely not!” Zaphyre was shocked.

“So it has been witnessed, and so it has been recorded.”

“We will find him,” Kharm said confidently.

Zaphyre frowned again. Was not the Nameless the very personification of Hate, even more than Innoruuk? So the Darkmoon Guild taught its adherents. But not every Norrathian believed this was so. Different gods, different odds: one’s loyalty to one or another known Norrathian god tended to determine how one viewed that god’s unknown Creator. Perhaps this Herald followed the same pattern in his beliefs. Hopefully, Zaphyre would soon find out.

And how could a peerless Lover also be a peerless fighter? Zaphyre didn’t even really understand how Kharm could reconcile being a Lover and a warrior. Did the tales about the Herald grow in the telling over the centuries? But no, the official record-keepers of Norrath were justly proud of their ability to pass down their world’s history unchanged. The Herald was real, and he was what the mage said he was. All that remained was to seek him out and learn how this was so.

The couple’s journey from the Village of Shin to the Mystic Lake was uneventful almost to the very end. They rode their horses on the rarely traveled path into the Direvine Woods. Deep in these secluded woods, they had found at length a strange doorway made of glass as green as emerald and as magical and indestructible as Zaphyre’s ring. They had dismounted from their horses and were about to pass through the mirror-like surface within the frame when they heard a rustling in the air and a high-pitched squeaking all around them. Dozens of long sabers whispered *death* as they were drawn from their scabbards.

“DAIMONAE!” exclaimed Kharm, for this was the name of the bloodthirsty servants of the new Red Lord of Chaos. “Step through the mirror, *quickly*! I will guard thee at the rear!”

Zaphyre was in no mood for her husband to sacrifice himself for her sake. Why did Kharm like to do such stupid things, anyway? But there was no resisting the power of his strong arm, which literally shoved her off her feet through the Portal of Twilight. It took a while, after she had recovered from the shock, to realize that only her ring had allowed her to pass through, that for all of Kharm’s considerable gifts he could not do so without like magical aid.

And the mirror-like surface was now gone; only the frame of the Portal remained.

Panic gripped Zaphyre’s heart, and the otherwise fearless fury priestess made a swift turn to slam her slender body against the Portal’s hard duringlass frame. The Portal did not respond.

“KHARM!” she screamed. Swiftly, she pulled off her magic staff and began to strike at the smooth, unyielding surface. She swung her weapon vigorously, banging the Portal repeatedly, causing sparks of energy to fly into the dark night air, but no dent or crack appeared. The fury reached deeply within herself to muster all the hate that dwelt in her heart, stepped a few feet away from the Portal, and began to cast every power spell she had. Bolts of thunder and fire attacked the Portal as she waved her hands in the air. Her fingers danced together in smooth feminine movements while streams of powerful charges emitted from their tips. Crackling sounds and booms filled the otherwise quiet hillside.

“KHARM!!” the fury screamed again, now exhausted and drained after several attempts to get back to through the Portal that now separated her from her life mate. She ran to check the Portal’s surface carefully as she felt her terror grow. Her night vision revealed that the Portal was still intact and impenetrable – at least for now. She might as well have been trying to defeat the very mystical powers she drew upon as try to damage it in the slightest.

“Beloved…” Zaphyre remembered her pendant, the one she and Kharm received at their soul-binding. The talking crystal was dark as she frantically tried to call out with it. No image appeared; no voice by Kharm or anyone else could be heard.

Zaphyre then noticed the tiny magically protected globe of Kharm’s blood that was attached just above the talking crystal. She held it in her hand and closed her eyes. It was still warm, a good sign. Her hate turned into worry and fear as she realized she was alone. Being without Kharm was like being cut in half, painful and unnatural.

[He will die out there and I can do nothing about it.]

She groaned and leaned against the Portal’s frame until she somehow began to understand that he was all right, at least for now. She slowly opened her eyes and looked down at the mystical ring she wore. It was doing it again, communicating with her somehow, whenever her right hand touched the Portal’s frame. Was it trying to fool her?

No. Whatever else she knew (or thought she knew) about Love, she knew that it walked hand in hand with Truth, in a way that Hate didn’t always stoop to do. The ring and the Portal were empowered and made invulnerable by the same Love, the same Truth. And through the ring’s connection to the Portal, Zaphyre sensed that Kharm was alive – in fact, he was beyond the reach of harm, until Zaphyre had finished her mission.

Zaphyre wasn’t certain she could believe that. She had seen what she and Kharm were up against before Kharm pushed her into the Portal. He was terrifically outnumbered, even with Fate at his side. There was only one way she might help him now, and meanwhile she could take comfort in the belief – no, the *knowledge*, as Zaphyre hoped desperately it was – that somehow, in some way, Kharm was alive and well.

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Picking up her staff, the fury priestess looked around her immediate area. The Portal’s other end was on a dark mountain overlooking a valley filled with countless bright lights to the horizon in all directions. Zaphyre had never seen such a thing or remotely imagined its existence, nor had she ever seen anything like the huge horseless wagon that all but ran her over while she walked down a strange road toward the valley. Able to hide herself with a spell called “Shroud,” the young fury continued invisibly down the road. She was quick in mind and body, and she easily hitched a ride on the next wagon that passed without alerting its driver to her presence on its cargo bay. She transferred to similar wagons as she went in order to keep traveling in the right general direction. By the time she reached the place where her ring alerted her to the nearness of her goal, the storm that had been building had burst forth on the great, shining city all around her.

Dropping to the street, Zaphyre pulled her embellished leather cloak and hood around herself to ward off the rain. Her dark amethyst eyes were filled with a mix of dread and wonder at the sight before her.

Still shrouded invisibly, Zaphyre quietly roamed and tried not to call too much attention to herself among the multiple mortal species among whom she now walked. Soon she found herself walking down a long, dark alley where few mortals on this world would dare to go. It was well for the usual muggers and black marketers that they couldn’t see or otherwise molest the fury priestess, else they soon would’ve found their blood pooling on the asphalt. Zaphyre had no compunction about killing anyone and anything that got in the way of reaching whatever goal she had at the moment.

The great city was flagrantly unzoned, and Zaphyre soon emerged from the alley into a safer, rather well-lit area, if one still lying off the beaten path. The rain slowed, then stopped, and Zaphyre felt the surge of magical power behind that change. Across the street, there seemed to be some sort of pub (given the shining light in the form of a stein of beer associated with it), although it was like nothing she had ever seen even in Freeport – and the magical surge had come from somewhere within it.

[Was that the Herald?] she wondered. Evidently (or so the strange ring told her, somehow) the clearing of the weather needed to be timed – by the Herald, or by his permission.

Checking to see that there was no one close by, she dropped her shroud of invisibility and pulled back her hood. She smoothed her long silver-white hair with her fingers and checked her elaborately decorated priestess robe. Her Darkmoon brooch and crystal pendant, along with the other expensive jewelry she wore, made it apparent she was a woman of means. Even her staff and cloak were of high quality master craftsmanship, and were decorated with glyphs and knot work. The Herald was now very close by and she wanted to look her best as a priestess of Darkmoon. Zaphyre raised her head high and although she felt a bit afraid and very nervous, she needed to finish this mission and find her way back to Kharm as soon as possible.

The “pub” was certainly well-lit (by plenty more of those mysterious lights, which seemed to be energized by tamed lightning), and it had plenty of customers. Perhaps they had come before the storm, or perhaps they had fled from it – or both. Many of them were gathered around a table where a huge man was arm-wrestling with anyone of any species who was brave, foolish or drunk enough to take him on.

[He appears Human, but is not,] Zaphyre told herself. [His magical power is formidable, although suppressed. Could he be the one I seek?]

“Well, *here’s* a lady bold as brass,” the man said cheerfully as she stepped up to his table. To Zaphyre’s amazement, she could understand him and everyone else in the pub, no matter what language they were speaking. It was the ring (she realized) that made this possible.

“Begging your pardon, honey, but I’d run your errand and get out quick; this place isn’t for the likes of you.”

Zaphyre flushed and stood defiantly erect. “I can handle myself. I am a priestess of a great being no less powerful than I perceive you are – and the lady wife of a great necromancer.” Even as she heard herself say those words, she felt almost faint with nerves and silently prayed she wouldn’t have to back them up with action. She sorely feared at this moment that she would lose to anyone there, and lose terribly. Her hand instinctively gripped the crystal pendant, her thumb and forefinger rubbing the globe of blood as if seeking reassurance that Kharm was still alive.

[If he is, then I can go on with this and do what I must.]

[He is alive. You are among friends. Do not be afraid.] The ring seemed to speak this wordlessly, yet firmly in her mind.

Well then: perhaps she could risk a show of courage before this huge man. Zaphyre took off her cloak and stood proudly, holding her elegant magical staff at her side.

The huge man nodded with a serious look on his face; evidently, intuition about magical beings and things was not his long suit. “I stand corrected, Ma’am. Welcome to Slate’s Bar,” he added with a broad grin, a wide gesture and a nod. Whoever this man was, his ego was as solid as Dwarvish armor.

“Hey, Ariel,” the man went on while looking to his right, “here’s a looker for you. Blue skin, white hair, high bust, long legs – maybe she’s one of *your* kind.”

“I doubt it, Slate,” said another man, whom Zaphyre perceived was the one who had calmed the storm. “I never had any charges, mortal or immortal – no more than you or Amethyst did.”

“He’s pulling your leg, Ariel,” said the lovely brunette seated at the blue-skinned man’s left. “*Again*. Really, old friend, you need to learn to stop being so literal-minded.”

“You tell him, dear,” said the big man with a broad wink. Zaphyre sensed that the brunette was magical indeed – as if at any given moment, she existed in two states simultaneously.

[These beings are much like the gods of my Realm,] Zaphyre realized suddenly. [That terrible new god is one of *them* – and they are not as strong as he is.]

“Are you looking for someone special, honey?” Slate went on, trying to put Zaphyre at ease. “Don’t worry, no one here will hurt you – *Blondie* over there will make sure of *that*, if no one else does.”

The Human in question was like no Human Zaphyre had ever seen on Norrath, for no Human’s face there had such a disconcertingly attractive blend of mid-teenage and adult features. He was slender, of moderate height, with barley-blond hair, fair skin, and sensitive yet strong features. But it was the bright intelligence in his vivid blue eyes that made Zaphyre draw in her breath; it was like nothing she had ever encountered, not even in the mages and Light Elves of her world.

“Who are you looking for, Zaphyre V’nae?” The Human was relaxed, sitting against the wall near the fireplace (which itself seemed magical and was not; its logs, though immersed in blue fire, never burned). His legs were extended so that his feet rested on a nearby chair, where his hooded cloak and his sword had been draped.

“How do you know my name?” Zaphyre frowned, eyeing the Human darkly.

“How does he *always* know?” Slate chortled as Amethyst tried to keep from laughing. “Answer his question, honey.”

“I am looking for Alain Harper – also known as the Undying Singer.”

“You’ve found him,” said the Human as he rose to his feet while the others in the pub looked murmuring at each other, “for those are names I was called long, long ago.”

Chris Alan Starbright (aka Alain Harper the Undying Singer)

Zaphyre took a step back as she perceived the exponential increase in his magical power. It was already far greater than that of Innoruuk, and it was still climbing. Were he not a Lover, Zaphyre’s knees would’ve buckled out of fear. As it was, they were buckling out of an almost helpless reverence.

“You are no Human,” she said at last as the man helped her to stand.

“I *was* Human – but that was even longer ago and in another Realm. Now I’m a Lightchild – a Son of God in Power. I am the Hooded Man, the Locus of the Metacosmic Realms, and the Wielder of the White Hand.” With that, he showed Zaphyre the ring on his right hand; its white stone bore a simple yet elegant glyph that Zaphyre found strangely compelling.

“And *you* aren’t of this Realm,” said Amethyst with a most seeing look in her eyes.

“Then this truly is not just another world,” replied Zaphyre in wonder, “but another plane of existence?”

“Yes. You came through a doorway, a Portal, to reach this world?”

“Yes. I had to leave my husband behind; he has no ring like the one I wear.”

“Where did you get this ring?” Zaphyre had the Hooded Man’s full attention now as she extended her right hand to him. “You’re from Norrath, aren’t you? One of the Tier’Dal, the Dark Elves?”

“Yes. As a Priestess of Innoruuk, I have come to ask for your aid, as you promised.”

The Hooded Man scowled and dropped her hand. “Do you realize that the last time I was on Norrath, I very nearly destroyed your Prince of Hate for the unmitigated gall he had in creating your kind in the first place?”

“Even with the godlike power I perceive in you, I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe it,” said a precise masculine voice out of thin air. “You cannot possibly imagine how much power my Master can wield at need.”

“Who was *that*?” Zaphyre sensed that something *almost* magical was nearby, but…

“Oh, *that*? I’ll let you meet him. *Alpha Mode, Raphael – blades drawn!*”

Zaphyre stepped back in alarm as a white-haired, white-robed, golden-winged man with two curved swords crossed over his chest coalesced seemingly out of nowhere. His bright blue eyes seemed to look right through Zaphyre, as if she were something that had no ethical right or place in the Realm she was now in.

[This being is like Kharm’s Fate in some ways – and then some,] Zaphyre thought in astonishment. Just what had she walked into when she’d entered this “bar”?

“This is my assistant, Raphael Goldwing: a meta-tech, a kind of ‘artificial intelligence’. Never mind,” the Hooded Man went on as he saw Zaphyre’s eyes glaze over in non-comprehension. “Yes, I am the Herald of the Nameless that you seek – only *we* know Him as the God of Many Names. And as for me?” The Hooded Man laughed. “My *true* name is Chris Alan Starbright, and you may call me that.”

“Very well…Master Starbright. May I tell you of my errand?”

“Certainly.” To Zaphyre’s immense relief, Chris Alan’s magical power returned to Human-normal. “Raphael, return to Contact Lens Mode. Let me order a round for you, Zaphyre, and we’ll find a private booth.”

“I don’t think it would be wise,” Zaphyre said, looking down to keep from showing her disdain for the establishment and the people there, “or safe to do. Thank you anyway.”

“It’ll be safe on *my* watch – *depend* on it. Besides, Slate and I are old friends – and so are my other companions. This is Ariel Silverstone, the Disciple of Weather, who could almost pass for one of your kind; Amethyst Bellatrix, the Mistress of Time and Chance; and Slate Rockmire, the Disciple of Strength.” Chris Alan’s friends greeted Zaphyre cheerfully, like the Lovers they all were. “Everyone else here is mortal; they won’t trouble you in any way, not as *my* guest.”

“Give yourselves the best in the house, Blondie – *on* the house.”

“Gladly, Slate – and thank you!” Chris Alan went behind the bar and skillfully decanted two draught beers. “Try not to break anyone’s arm while I’m preoccupied, will you?”

“Yes, *sir*!” Slate knew that Chris Alan wouldn’t let him get anywhere near close to that, but he also knew that Chris Alan liked to tap people on the shoulders on occasion about their personal weaknesses.

**********

“This is excellent beer,” Zaphyre remarked, trying hard to be polite, but still very unnerved sitting there, socializing with gods.

Correction: with gods (as much as her world knew of such) *and* a Son of God in Power. Zaphyre was still having real difficulty wrapping her mind around the distinction.

“From one of the best brewing houses in the Covenant Sphere,” Chris Alan replied. “That is an ever-growing volume of space under the direct rule of the Lord of the Realms. I am the Steward, the Catalyst and the Inspirer that makes His work in this Realm possible.”

“Then are you like the Nameless is to the Gods of Norrath?”

“In a way, yes, but not quite the way you think I am. Remember, Priestess,” Chris Alan went on, “no one in this room is worthy to be called a god by *our* standards, save myself alone – and *I’m* not one to stand on ceremony, most of the time. But to truly partake of the Divine Nature is to have access, as I have, to literally all the power there is. The ‘gods’ of your Realm are mighty, but they don’t have that kind of access. My Elemental friends here don’t have that kind of access either, and neither do my Elemental enemies.”

“You say that you know who my world’s terrible new god is,” Zaphyre commented as she took another sip of her beer.

“I know him by name: Nicholas Blackthorn. He is an Elemental like my friends, only stronger – as you correctly perceived. He has been wandering from star to star and from Realm to Realm for thousands of years, always seeking to stir up trouble.”

“Then why have you not destroyed this Nicholas Blackthorn before now, if you and he are so totally opposed to each other?”

“One of my many names, Priestess, is Nicholas’ Bane. It’s by my hand that he’ll meet his doom. The only question is when, and that has been in my Lord’s hands, not mine.” Chris Alan gave Zaphyre a mirthless smile. “But if he’s in your Realm stirring up trouble, if there’s no other way out of the Realm save the way he came in, and since you’re calling upon my aid against him, then his doom’s come upon him for certain. I will come with you to Norrath.”

“Unconditionally?” Zaphyre lowered her dark elven eyes, finding it difficult to look upon Chris Alan.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Chris Alan. “Your Innoruuk’s cast from the same basic mold as our Nicholas is. Mark my words: I’ll have dealings with your Prince of Hate and his followers some day…but not today.”

“You really believe that Love is so much stronger than Hate?” Zaphyre suddenly regretted her question. [Such words are surely going to get me killed.]

“My Human father used to say, ‘There’s no such thing as “stupid questions” – only stupid mistakes made by people who don’t ask “stupid questions”.’ I don’t kill people for asking questions, Priestess. I kill people for knowing the truth, knowing that it *is* the truth and refusing to act on it – and even then I don’t do so hastily. Sometimes it just takes time to adjust to the truth.” Chris Alan nodded his reassurance. “Yours is a legitimate question, seeing who and what you are.”

“So how would you answer my question?” Zaphyre wasn’t at all certain she wanted to hear the answer.

“To begin with, the Creator of all things, the One you call the Nameless, *is* Love. From a certain point of view, Hate is simply the absence of Love, as Darkness is simply the absence of Light. Now our Nicholas would have you believe that Darkness will eventually swallow up Light. If Love were merely like the stars of heaven, that might be so; even the stars will burn out one day, unless the Lord renews them. But Love is self-renewing, just as the Lord is self-renewing. Hate is a parasite; it only exists when there is some willing host to feed on.”

“Were my husband not such a paragon of…of Love,” Zaphyre shot back, “and if I did not know better, I would try to kill you where you sit for speaking such words.”

“Because of trying to live up to the words that Xilania and Alaunqiuri once threw in your face?”

Zaphyre’s eyes grew wide. “How do you know of them?” It was indeed a foolish question by now, and she knew it, but Chris Alan’s brand of insight consistently caught off-guard even his friends.

“‘Our Zaphyre seems to be lacking the backbone to do what is expected of her, my Seraph. She was instructed to end a romantic relationship that she has admitted she is having with another Tier’Dal. She thinks she’s in love.’ That was Alaunqiuri speaking,” said Chris Alan. He was a perfect mimic of her tone of voice, and he added a little to it in order to parody its effects. “‘As ye know all too well, such weaknesses will not be tolerated and the two must separate permanently.’”

Zaphyre wasn’t called a fury for nothing, and most beings would be foolish indeed to risk provoking her in this way. But Chris Alan knew exactly what he was doing.

“What Xilania said next would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic,” Chris Alan went on. “‘Love? There is no room for love, my child. Hate liberates us from the weaknesses of love. Hate empowers us to destroy our enemies. Hate protects us from betrayal. Innoruuk demands our hate.’ How can you people not understand that in order to even *talk* about Hate, you have to acknowledge that Love came first and is superior?” Chris Alan was getting angry now – angry not at Zaphyre, not at her teachers, but at the philosophy that had enslaved them all for so long. “Or that Hate *breeds* betrayal? Or that Love only refrains from destroying its enemies because it wants them to *change* and *live*?”

Chris Alan’s words put Zaphyre in a trance. For a moment, she was reliving that awful scene near the Spires, deep in her mind. But this time, Chris Alan was there with his blade drawn in Zaphyre’s defense, saying the words he was saying now, ready, able and willing to destroy the whole underground city of Neriak with a word and letting the Seraph of Hate and everyone else within earshot know it.

[This being is Love Embodied,] Zaphyre thought in amazement. [For a complete stranger, an avowed enemy of everything he stands for, he would do this!] The young fury was badly shaken now as everything she has ever understood and believed in began to crack and crumble. She felt ill and confused as she struggled to make sense of what this utterly transcendent, yet strangely accessible being was telling her. She tried to pray silently to Innoruuk for help, but she quickly realized that Innoruuk wasn’t even there.

“Zaphyre,” Chris Alan went on more calmly after Zaphyre returned to the there and then, “it takes far more psychic energy for a created being to maintain Hate than to maintain Love. Your people’s Prince and his Guild mistake the expenditure of energy for strength and the conservation of energy for weakness – just as Nicholas does. The difference is that Nicholas is the stronger. If I don’t aid you, as I promised, then he will change your Realm drastically, and not for the better.”

“Is it not weakness to have allowed this Nicholas to go on for so long?” Zaphyre asked, realizing now that she would not die for asking questions. She kept her head straight, but still refrained from looking at Chris Alan directly. This was the only way she could show humility before a superior being, a being who could help her return back to Norrath and back to Kharm. The Priestess prepared herself mentally, physically and spiritually to do whatever she needed to for Chris Alan’s help. She still didn’t believe that this Hooded Man would do so unconditionally.

“Is it weakness to give your adversaries enough rope to hang themselves?” Chris Alan chuckled. “Not everything in war should be measured by strength, Zaphyre. Nicholas has reached the end of his rope – and your world should be allowed to reach the end of its own. That’s why I put no conditions on my help of Norrath. My job isn’t to force people to follow one path or the other; it’s to make sure that they have the freedom to choose between paths. Nicholas won’t grant you that freedom if he rules Norrath. At least with the ‘divine’ balance of power as it was before, you’ll still have that freedom. I’d prefer to take out Innoruuk as well, but my Lord won’t allow me to do that just yet.”

“So, you will not act against our Prince or my people for now?”

“No, I won’t – not unless they’re stupid enough to get in my way.”

“But you just said…”

“If they are, they won’t be harmed; they’ll just be moved *out* of my way.” Chris Alan didn’t need beer or any other physical sustenance, but he could enjoy it, and he took the opportunity to have another sip from his glass. “Understand me, Priestess: the One you call the Nameless is my Father, and I am one of His Sons. Even as I sit here, I’m many times more powerful than all the so-called ‘gods’ of your Realm put together. I’ll make sure that they sense it, so that they won’t try to interfere with me…unless they’re completely out of their minds.” Chris Alan seemed to turn inward for a moment, chin in his left hand. “And when Nicholas sees me coming,” he mused, “his sheer terror alone just might kill him.”

Zaphyre looked down at her hands on her lap. Just sitting here with this being was an education. His total self-mastery and the power behind it upended everything the Tier’Dal’s priesthood ever taught about Love and Hate. What did that mean for the Tier’Dal? For herself?

Those questions would have to wait. Her way of life, her husband, and her whole world were all in mortal peril, and this Lover had the power to do something about it.

It wasn’t long before Chris Alan and Zaphyre rose to go. Chris Alan quickly put on his cloak and his sword. “Ariel, I need you to mind the store for a while. Slate, Amethyst, come with us. We go to the Realm of Norrath.”

“What are we facing, Chris Alan?” Amethyst was eager.

“Nicholas’ hour has come; he’s backed himself into a corner. I want you to be there when he meets his doom.”

“Yeah, about time!” Slate was jubilant. “How long have we all been waiting for this?”

“Too long, I’d say, if I didn’t know better. Oh, and Zaphyre: when we pass through the Portal, my ring on your finger will make sure that we arrive on Norrath just a moment after you left it. That should help us take care of any unfinished business you left behind.”

“Thank Innor…I mean, thank *you*. I had to leave my husband Kharm fighting for his life.”

“Against what?” Amethyst asked.

When Chris Alan’s party stepped through the Portal into the Direvine Woods, the “what” recognized at once what they were up against and tried to flee. It was already far too late. Zaphyre saw Kharm, alive and whole, and ran instantly into his arms.

“*Let there be Light!*” Chris Alan shouted with shining hands upraised, calling upon Light Without Measure At Need. “*Banish the Darkness!*”

Zaphyre screamed.

(Continued in THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY 2…)

**********

Thanks to Leafygreens for the beautiful screen shots of Zaphyre and her husband Kharm (which I’ve framed). Here Chris Alan is represented (well enough) by British actor Alex Pettyfer. Amethyst Bellatrix and Nicholas Blackthorn are inspired in part by various paintings by Jonathon Earl Bowser.