It is assumed that light cannot exist without darkness - the crux of the anti-hero's path through legend.  Good and evil, black and white, those are simple concepts.  Simple balms for simple people.

Blaze and shadow, love and war - they're all the same in the end.  Both find themselves the dependents of vision, and thus are simple fever dreams afflicted on the heart by the brain.  Shades refracted in the mind's eye.  Did anyone understand how easily used twin ideologies become, and how utterly useless they are in their stagnancy?  Were the people that blind to history repeating?

What was the point being a McDohl, or a Genkaku, young hero of infinite guises idolized in spirit for eternity?  Why might one desire to bring the rage of the righteous down on their name for decades, cast in the tyrant's mold?  What could be the reasoning behind saving the world, when only their part of the world could be saved?  Did they think that that was noble or righteous somehow?

Heroes were so blind, that way.  They couldn't understand that through the looking glass they were naught but nightmares to an enemy populace.  Blinded by the contrast between light and darkness.

Blinded into thinking that their perspective was the only one.

Jess wondered if it was relevant to common psychology.  Probably.  Heroes dominated the public will.

It was all scrawled down in the book, whatever the case might be.  Theory was an important thing to record - far more valuable than any pathetic whining journal.

Dawn found itself reflected on the upturned face of a more pensive than usual young man.  But then, there wasn't really much else to do in the Highland wilderness than be pensive - or reduce small animals to ragged carcasses.  Needless to say, that was not Jess Stanton's department.

Morning chill didn't seem to reach his bones through a thin set of clothes that needed much washing.  Ochre trousers were nigh threadbare, and beyond the care of wash-basin or even professional cleaner.  Which was alright.  He had packed extra for the city.  The annoyance lay more in a nagging sense of offended dignity - things like that tended to wear on during enforced idleness.

Well, not quite idleness.

He'd been receiving letters, trapped in this idyllic nostalgia. The winger seemed to have lost interest in him once the fact that he wasn't some kind of bank robber penetrated her thick skull.  For the better, that - it wouldn't do to have something so conspicuous weighing him down when he left for L'Renouille. Lawrence and Danae, however, had made an eventual giddy return.  Then left, of course, to fetch his precious scraps of parchment.  Holy runes were so useful that way. Really, despite the general foolishness inherent in first love, he was happy about the situation.  People in love will do almost anything to keep their partner from getting hurt, and after a couple of asides their loyalty was far from wavering.

Interesting, that he could blackmail each with the other's secrets.  Amusing, in a way.  Idiots. They deserved it.  Love was for people with weak minds and too much time on their hands.

His general placement had the side effect, however, of rendering this sojourn with his mother something of a reworking of another life.  An impressionist's rendering, bold in the sepia tones. It had been a long time since he'd left home, after all - there was only a year between the time when they left Father and his entrance into boarding school.

The absence had never really been something he'd grown accustomed to.  Not in a particularly unpleasant thing, mind you.  Jess and Marcus Stanton had never been veery close. No, the feeling was more akin to an itch which one never can quite scratch.

"Jesse, dear!" a viola twittered.  She was bringing him some coffee, tell tale aromas pronounced.  Probably so that they could have a Talk, and she could try and get him to graft a rune.  Again.  Jess did of course care for her, but... he really should be leaving soon.  Anyone searching would have found the politician by now, unless they were too incompetant for even that.  But then, Anabelle wouldn't hire anyone of such an ilk.

"You're brooding, sweetie.  Care to talk about it?  I know you've been avoiding it this whole week, but I really think it would be best if..."

"You know," his eyes measured her - evaluated her worth as though weighing a bag of flower.  "You know as well as I do.  Thre's no need to dredge up unproductive memories.  Do I look like I need catharsis?"

The man who said that time flies was a liar.  He really should be shot.   Time wears on, wears down, and stretches moments to painful extremes.  The sky was cold bright steel that morning - heavens more blatant in their unforgiving nature.  Wind made it's presence know on the lower frequencies when given half the chance.  A patch of grey and goldenrod sat unmoving.  Shorter, stockier rose robe did likewise, though standing.

Time wore her patience to the wire.

"You still love him - your father, " the woman stated.  More of a lament than anything, though the obvious motive for it's use would be to provoke an emotional reaction of some sort.  Mother had always wanted him to be more emotional, but then that was simply her character.  No control at all, not really.  Not on the inside where it counted.

That was alright, though.  That wasn't what she needed.  It was his job - no, his advantage - to know these things.

"Not really.  Just kind of feel his absence.  Does that surprise you?" the politician looked up to where she offered him a lukewarm mug, allowing her to take a place on one of the clearing's moss-carpeted boulders.  His voice was steady, for there was no hurt to betray.

"You should, you know, being his son.  But then, as an influence he... " another tirade.  This particular string of expressions was as familiar as the red book in his lap, and had once been just as inviting to the senses.  Bah.  Idiocy.  There was no use whining about things.

" No offense, Mom, but I've heard it.  As a matter of fact I agree.  But that's not the point," Jess rationalized.  If anyone was going to be told this, it would have to be her.  Put her fears at ease before he left - she was owed that much, much as it pained him to dredge up this corpse of a verbal dance.

"Then why won't you try and protect yourself?  Goodness knows I worry about you, after he came home so many times with those horrible injuries.. and him a mage too!  Now you're galivanting about..." she sipped at scalding liquid, lips pursed perhaps in the minor injury oft caused by ingestion of the vital liquid.

"I'm not going to let that control my whole life, mother.  You know my opinion of uneducated rune users. Besides, I protect myself in other ways... don't worry about it.  I highly doubt that Dad could have politically maneuvered himself out of a wet paper bag.  Dad was a Hero.  A big old magical superstar.  But nobody remembers that now, now do they?  Nobody but us and a few peasants saved from bandits.  And we're the ones he left behind... isn't that ironic?  He did go out to make some sort of name by adventuring.  Idiocy.  I should be emotionally scarred or something, " the politician cracked a rare genuine smile at his own joke.  Inhaling caffeinated vapors, Jess allowed his lanky frame to inch towards relaxation.

"I can understand that he hurt you by leaving, that horrid..."

"Hurt me?  It made me stronger. And really, it doesn't matter anymore.  It's been a long time."

"You father was scum, dear, " her tone rose, spiralled, and gained an alarming height in it's certainty. " He left us behind to rescue total strangers.  Us.  His family.  The ones that he was supposed to care about the most he abandoned for months at a time for a rage rune and greatful foreigners and glory.   But a rune... a rune won't make you like him, Jesse.  He couldn't break you, no matter how awful..."

"He wasn't awful," a shrug.

"You don't mean that," and opposing eyebrow raised.

"Don't I?  He helped hundreds of people.  The semi-legendary Marcus Stanton.  Rescuer of peoples in distress, amateur treasure-hunter, and renowned world traveller in his day.  He was a goddam hero.  He did the right thing every day of his life."

Another uncomfortable silence.  The breeze rippled through hanging laundry and cotton-candy clouds.

"You know when he told you those stories about his adventures?  When you were a little child?" the woman sighed, age more apparent in unusually subdued demeanor.  Perhaps it was the shadows of the dawn, deepening the spider-thin cracks of age..

"Yeah.  Too young.  Hero-worshipping little fatherless Jesse... I got over that at the age of eight.  What's your point? " her son queried.

"I wasn't finished, dear, " Cecelia reprimanded automatically, " Your eyes used to light up, light up like when you're reading those books of yours.  I swear that you thought you were the adventurer sometimes.  It was so sweet!  It wasn't your fault that the quests kept growing longer, that I wanted to stay... he was just ..."

She'd always been emotional - on the verge of tears even now.  A sensitive woman, his mother - people often didn't realize how sensitive the strong could be.  Intellectually Jess recognized the foolishness of her hoplessly romantic nature. But... well... she was his mother.

"I know, Mom.  I know.  But don't worry about it.  Just let me be.  I'll be fine, and I know that I'm not like he was.  Abandoning his responsibility, his real work, to run off and save some fool stranger's world."

"That man didn't..."

"Oh, he did.  He'd probably weigh in as a much better person than I do.  But most of the time I didn't miss him, Mom.  Not once we left the house."

"Are you..."

"I don't want to talk about it.  It doesn't matter, " he fixed her with a pointed look - the sort of gaze perfected during scheap adolescent independance.

" ... Yes.  I'll put these away," Cecelia rose, age slowing her ascent as joints imperceptibly labored once too often.  "But it hurts that he was doing the right thing all along, helped more people than he would have by staying around more.... even you have to admit that with all your fancy words, Jesse," a pleading look coloring dark eyes.

"Yeah.  It does," placating nonsense.  She deserved that, too.

He coldn't blame anyone, not even the matronly shadow draped in pink which slowly drifted away.  Of course not the minor hero Marcus Stanton.  He had been doing the Right Thing.

Rising, the politician strolled out to a more secluded section of the glade.

The past was inconsequential.  So often a scapegoat for the tyrant and the fool. There was no use blaming it, or whining about it, or ignoring it.  Jess Stanton refused to do anything so moronic.  He was going to hurt people, and he was going to cause suffering, and he was going to be the greatest of the scavengers of war by his own free will.  Not because Dearest Daddy had been out kissing someone else's boo-boo's better.   There was no denying that, and self-pity was unproductive.  His father.. had done nothing but open Jess' eyes.

Someone always has to suffer. Always.  Better to know and proceed, than recline in the ignorant bliss of ideals.  Ignorance was the tawdry harbinger of general stupidity.

Stupidity was unacceptable.

 Light and darkness were such foolish things to be blinded into action by.  People were so willingly their whores - rushing about deluding themselves into righteousness or damnation.

 If light and dark were figments in the mist, it was better to know exactly what or who one was destroying rather than blindly living for a dream.  Self-interest was a common denominator.  Even heroes - even his father - only tried to save only their own worlds.  Worlds defined more by the need to preserve self-image than any benevolance.   Dad had made himself all nice and warm and cozy and righteous in his own little cocoon of heroics.  Pain caused to knights on horses inverse of white was unseen, and collateral damage lost in light.  But Jess was different,  that was what was important.   He could see exactly what he was doing, and that there was no real rational thing to do but not care about it.

So he was a traitor.  What of it?  Traitors switch sides in a war.  In a war all parties are destined to be hurt and to hurt one another.  No real moral difference in practice or effect.  Was there any reason to be loyal to some group of strangers related to one by geography, or to an excuse of an ideology most likely cloned by one's opponents?  Was there the slightest difference in the end?

Of course not.

Dad would be appalled when he heard.  Dad had never, ever understood.  Dad had never known that light and darkness - good and evil - don't matter at all, in the end.  The "good guys" always win, to someone.

Was it his fault, that none of the world's moralizing twits grasped the concept of survival in the fittest?

Was it his fault that that was the real way of things, cloaked in concept?

Morons, the lot of them.

"I assume you're going now," Cecelia chirped, found cleaning out her mug with an errant rag apon his return.

Fleeting surprised crept into unprepared cheekbones, " How did you know?"

"I'm your mother, sweetie," porcelain was set aside with a grin, " Mothers can tell these things."

A crushing hug was delivered, matched blow for blow, " I can't write, I don't want..."

"Shhhhh.... don't worry about it.  I'll be gone soon anyway, looking for that source of magic I told you about."

"Really?" it was Jess' turn to raise an eyebrow, tone flat.

"But of course!" she bounced while breaking away, eyes twinkling.  They knew this game too well. He did so hate to visit without these little mental excuses. Her Jesse had never taken well to charity. "And it's a good thing that you needed to hide out, dear.  Now are you sure I can't convince you to..."

"No," eyes rolled in accustomed derision.  "My pack's ready.  I'll just get my horse and we can be off."

"Good, good... I was getting sick of you, " Cecelia jabbed.  "You know you'll find Mr. Cuddlekins there, don't you?"

"The cat?"

"Yeah.  He doesn't seem to like me... poor kitty.  Don't worry.  I packed you some nice extra collars for him."

"But I don't want a..."

"Hush.  Of course you do.  Now get out of here before I start hugging you again and you have to act all embarassed."

"Yeah, yeah..."

If there had been a sunset, and Jess had cut a more heroic figure, he might have rode off into it.  Instead, he disappeared into the foliage with a faint wince of disgust.

That hight, the politicain awoke in a cold sweat.

He was dreaming about fish.  Again.

Again.

What in the world was happening?  Never mind that his mother had left him with a stupid cat -which had made itself quite comfortable n his chest - but he was plagued by foating fillet of salmon?  What the hell kind of moronic subconcious meanderings could possibly induce that?

Blinking away accustomed blearyness and about to knock away the offending weight of beast, Jess noticed a pink ribbon wound about the cat's neck.  Typical Mother.  At least he could pick the bloody thing up by it and get the hell back to sleep without that bloody purring noise which seemed ot be made for no reason whatsoever driving him bloody mad...

It was then that he noticed a slip of parchment tucked withing rose bonds.

Curious, if somewhat pertubed by the really inefficient way that mother had left him a note, Jess deftly unwound the silken scrap fo cloth.   What had she been thinking with this?  What if the moronic feline had run away?  Honestly, mother and her stupid pseudo-melodramatic delusions of...

Dear Jesse,

I'm so glad that you decided not to throw Mr.Cuddlekins of of your horse!  I was worried about that, you know.  You dont' have the best temperment when it comes to animals, sweetie.

Now, I know you have trouble with runes.  That's alright, dear.  But a mother has to protect her only son, and when I found Mr.Cuddlekins here and a certain rune I just knew that...

Certain rune?  His cat had a rune?  Perfect.  If it hadn't been three in the morning he would have to have had the energy to be highly exasperated.  But it was three in the morning. Goddmaned three in the morning.  As such, the politician instead fought a losing battle with his eyelids.

.. nothing bad would ever happen to my poor baby with it.

Don't roll your eyes at that last one, dear.

Mr.Cuddlekins has grafted to him yet another rune you would have found one of your silly excuses to reject.  An important rune.  The True Rune of Dreams, in fact.  I bought it off some ignorant peasant in Toran.
So try and be kind to Mr.Cuddlekins.  He'll protect you if you need it - the kitty seems to like you.  Though you may just want to take the rune off.  Honestly, if you weren't so stubborn I never would have had to resort to this.  Hmph.  And don't charge back here with it, dear... I most certainly do not want to live forever.

So anyways, that should explain any strangeness about.  Do remember to wash him once a week, and once you get to L'Renouille you really should have him declawed.

Oh, and I put the cutest little squeak toy for him in your pack!

Love, Mom

He really, really needed to get back to sleep.

In the wilderness, a woman rode with a lack of skill made up for by vicious enthusiasm.

Turned.

Paused.

And came to L'Renouille.

She'd never been hunting before, but that goddamn rat-bastard made good enough prey.

Grinning, she took a swig of scotch to warm her travels.

Or maybe to warm her soul.