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Hero Treatment

Idris

I dris’s duty had always been a thankless one, and he possessed no desire to stoke his ego with illusions of glory. His was an Order of punishment, after all. But as he stepped out of the flaming barn, the crowd erupted into cheers, and for the first time in his hard life, Idris felt like a victor.

A hero.

Making his way toward the townsfolk, Idris tried to construct a narrative in his head that might control the rumors. Would they believe a rabid wolf was to blame? Anya certainly hadn’t believed his rabid bear excuse, but she’d seen far more than the citizens of Brine. Rumors of antlers and mangled forelegs would be hard to explain away, but by the will of his Order, he would have to at least try to diffuse the inevitable talk with a sensible explanation. Perhaps he could convince them the deformities of the monster were mere tricks of shadow…

Idris was still turning over ideas in his mind when Anya broke from the crowd and stormed toward him. The sight of her—cheeks flaming, hair disheveled—halted any further consideration of the abomination.

She appeared rather…angry? Her eyebrows were pinched, lips set in a determined line. It stopped Idris in his tracks, but her approach did not falter as she entered his personal space. Her body collided with his, her hand gripping the back of his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers.

All thought left him, save for the scent and sensation of Anya.

Her kiss was furious. It reminded him of a hard rain, cutting through his layers, soaking him through. Delayed by his bewilderment, Idris’s arms finally encircled her, crushing her softness against him. Who was he to deny her? Who was he to deny himself in this gloriously confusing moment? He was principled and strong, but not enough to resist her .

She tilted her head, lips pleading under the hungry press of his own, mouth opening for one thrilling brush of her tongue.

Then she yanked free of his embrace.

His body rocked forward in her absence, pulled by her magnetic force.

He met her eyes, and in them he saw anger and fear and relief. How dare you almost die , they said, and in spite of all self-restraint, he felt fucking smug to have gotten such a rise out of her. To have perhaps impressed her with his heroics.

Fates , was his ego already so inflated?

They didn’t have a chance to linger in their charged standoff, for the crowd was rushing in, patting his back, offering him free ale at the Lark, asking him impossible questions about the creature, overwhelming him with attention. Anya disappeared into the chaos, and Idris didn’t have a chance to question her passion— surely it was just an expression of relief, nothing more? —as the townsfolk bombarded him.

His body buzzed not with adrenaline now, but the lingering effects of her attention, a ravenous excitement he hadn’t felt since his adolescence. He was mildly ashamed of how distracting his desire was, how quickly he’d forgotten everything else happening around him, and how his body still clung to the ghost of her brief but passionate touch.

He realized he wanted the kiss to mean something more than just the hero treatment. And that went against everything else he stood for.

“Please, people, please!” Percival said, elbowing his way through the crowd to Idris. “Give our hero some space , would you?” He offered Idris a grandiose bow, one toe pointed, his arms outstretched. “You’ve Brine’s most sincerest gratitude. We are in your debt!”

“No debt,” Idris said.

Percival leaned in close, rising on his tiptoes to whisper, “However did you manage this feat? What was that creature?”

Idris fixed his face into what he hoped looked like casual certainty. “Rabid wolf.”

Percival didn’t seem to believe him. “But the other men said it had—”

“Illusions of light and shadow,” Idris interrupted. “Fear plays tricks on the mind.”

There , he thought to himself. I’ve done my duty .

Idris spotted Len nearby and broke from Percival’s attention to address the farmer. “I’m sorry about your barn, but inside was—”

Len patted Idris’s shoulder, his eyes shining with the glow of his burning barn, which was now fully engulfed in flame. “Couldn’t imagine stepping in there again,” Len said. “You did me a favor. I know the whole town wants to treat you to an ale, but…”

It was clear that there was no evading the town’s gratitude; was it so wrong to enjoy his duty, for once? Idris smiled. “They can get in line behind you, I reckon.”

Len’s answering grin was a little wan, but he patted Idris again heartily, then started down the hill. Idris walked alongside him, cutting through the crowd. Hands reached out toward him, patting his back appreciatively.

Then Idris spotted the boy who’d interfered with the fight. He paused again.

The child was tucked safely against his mother’s leg, his face tear-streaked and blotchy. She didn’t appear much better, her eyes red-ringed and puffy, her hand gripping the boy’s bony shoulder. The dead farmer’s family, Idris deduced. He thought of the husband she’d lost, the father her boy would grow up without, the sorrow and uncertainty of their lives now.

Idris knew that pain. It felt like the sun disappearing from the sky, dire and disorienting.

“My sincerest condolences,” he told the widow, knowing the inadequacy of his words even as he spoke them. “Your husband did a brave thing; he died more a hero than I.”

She bowed her head.

Idris crouched down to the boy’s level. His eyes were watery, but his jaw was set; he was trying to be brave. It reminded Idris of himself, the fear and loss that had plagued his own boyhood. He held his hand out toward the boy; after a hesitant moment, the boy took his palm, and they shook.

“You have your father’s bravery, I see,” Idris told the boy. “Remember it, when you find yourself missing him or doubting yourself.”

The boy sniffled, curling his fist against his chest.

Idris rose to his full height again and turned to Percival, who’d been following on his and Len’s heels. “You say you are in my debt?”

Percival bobbed his head.

“Look after them,” Idris said of the mother and child. “Ensure they never go cold or hungry. That is all I wish.”

By the standards of the competitive city streets of Fenrir—where another person’s success was nearly a direct threat to one’s own—Idris’s request would’ve seemed extravagant. But Percival didn’t hesitate.

“We will—we already are ,” the mayor said. “Brine is not just a town, but a community. We look out for one another.” He said it like it was obvious—a given.

The sentiment seemed so far outside Idris’s own experience with civilization that he was momentarily struck. He swallowed thickly, then rested a palm on Percival’s tiny shoulder and shook it approvingly. The moment passed, and he started down the hill again, leading the entire crowd toward the tavern in the square.

Idris resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder in search of Anya; he had the suspicion that if he did, he’d get flustered all over again. It took enough willpower just to set the moment aside in his mind.

“I insist you stay the night in Brine,” Percival continued, jogging to keep up with Idris’s purposeful strides. “For free, of course. You’ll suffer no expense! It’s the least we can do for you, in thanks for what you’ve done.”

Idris thought of Anya’s earlier request, about staying a night in the comforts of an inn. It was not for himself, but for her, that he said to Percival, “I gladly accept.”