Unkept

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

-Arthur's POV

I stand defiantly before the king, fury churning within me like a tempest. My voice, laced with indignation, echoes through the grand hall. "Your majesty, Ilka's sacrifice was monumental – she gave her very life for mine. She deserves to be celebrated, immortalized!"

The king, an unyielding statue of calm in the face of my storm, sighs deeply. "Arthur, your sorrow is palpable, and I share in your grief. Yet, you must grasp the gravity of our situation. The public's perception of the hero must remain untarnished, unchallenged."

His words strike me like a cold, harsh slap. "How can you stand there, so detached? Ilka's bravery allowed the hero to triumph, and you propose we just erase her from history?" I can barely contain the disbelief, the raw emotion spilling over in my voice.

Unmoved, the king maintains his stoic demeanor. "I do feel your anger, Arthur. But we must think of the greater good. The people's faith in the hero is paramount. Ilka's tragic end could cast unwanted shadows over his strength."

I'm about to unleash a torrent of further arguments when suddenly, the king's index finger rises. In a flash, a bolt of lightning streaks towards me. Instinctively, my sword is drawn, cleaving the lightning in two. The force of my action inadvertently bisects the castle, leaving a gaping fissure.

The king, far from shocked, simply exhales a weary sigh. "You are still lacking in strength," he remarks, his voice tinged with a hint of disappointment.

★ ★ ★

-King Henry's POV

Seated upon my throne, a heavy burden weighs upon my heart. Arthur, the hero anointed by the goddess of faith, pleads passionately for a memorial in Ilka's honor. My chest tightens with guilt as I face him. I offer my deepest sympathies for his loss, but the idea of a statue is fraught with complications.

"Arthur, your anguish is palpable, but our kingdom is embroiled in a war of survival," I say, my voice struggling to maintain its composure. "The demonic forces grow stronger each day. We must focus on prevailing."

Arthur's gaze hardens, his anger simmering. "What has this war to do with denying Ilka the recognition she rightfully deserves?" he demands, his voice seething with resentment.

"Arthur, you must understand," I implore, my words heavy with sincerity. "We can honor her with a fountain, discreetly placed in a less conspicuous location."

He retorts sharply, "Ilka's valor warrants more than just a hidden tribute. She should be honored where all can witness her sacrifice."

I exhale a weary sigh. The constraints of our reality bind my hands. "We cannot erect a statue for a commoner. It would raise too many questions, cast doubts on your own powers. This is a risk we cannot afford," I explain, hoping he understands the gravity of the situation.

I see a glimmer of resignation in Arthur's eyes. "Very well," he concedes, his voice tinged with defeat. "But at least ensure the fountain is in a place of respect. Let her be depicted with the sword she wielded so bravely."

"I assure you, it will be done," I reply, watching him depart from the throne room. A sense of regret lingers in my heart. Ilka was a warrior of unparalleled courage, deserving of remembrance. Yet, in these tumultuous times, we cannot afford to stir doubts about the hero's strength. I can only hope the fountain, modest as it may be, will suffice to honor her memory.

Why, of all the gods, was Arthur blessed by the goddess of faith? Her blessing endows him with immense power, yet it is intrinsically tied to the belief of others. His strength ebbs and flows with their faith. Public knowledge of Ilka's death could indeed shake their confidence, a risk too great to take in these perilous times.

★ ★ ★

-Arthur’s POV

It's been months since I've wandered down this forgotten alley, to where the Fountain of Ilka sits. This place, it's special – a quiet nod to a friend I lost. Today, I'm back, scrubbing off the dirt and grime that time's layered on it.

Center stage of the fountain is Ilka's statue, kneeling down, holding that cursed sword like she's about to hand it off to me.

Sitting on the fountain's edge, I take in the sight. It's not grand, but it's something. Remembering how I asked the king for a statue and got this instead – in some backstreet where hardly anyone sees it. It's not what I wanted, but I guess it's something. The king's got his reasons, I know, but it still feels off.

Closing my eyes for a sec, I let the sound of the water chill me out. Then I start talking, like Ilka's right here. "Hey Ilka, been a while, huh?" I say, opening my eyes to look at her stone face. "We had this crazy battle last week. Lost a few good folks. Wish you were there, you always knew what to do... Feels like you're still looking out for us, you know?"

I keep chatting to the statue, spilling about the stuff I've been through – the fight with a lich, that showdown with Ducan, all my thoughts about this never-ending war. This spot, hidden away from the world's chaos, it's where I can just talk to an old friend.

When it's time to leave, I lean in close, whispering, "Catch you later, Ilka. I'll be back soon." This fountain, it's more than just a tribute. It's where I find a bit of peace, remember the good times. Ilka taught me everything... and I'm not about to forget that.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

-Back to the present

As I trudge toward the fountain, the stench hits me like a punch in the gut. I'm this close to gagging, but I clench my teeth and push through. Cleaning this mess is the only way to snag that accursed sword. With a deep, reluctant breath, I dive into the task.

First up, the trash heaps and debris become my foes. It's backbreaking, soul-sucking work. Every bit of me screams to bail, but I'm not one to quit. After a grueling six hours, the area around the fountain is finally debris-free. I pause, catching my breath, trying to soothe my protesting muscles.

That's when the sound of a river, hiding beneath a decaying building not far from here, grabs my attention. Bingo! A river nearby means I can speed up this clean-up gig like nobody's business. I head over, and what do you know? A bunch of ancient-looking buckets are just lying around. I fill them to the brim and haul them back to the fountain.

The river, though, is a whole other story. It's a serene flow of water, cutting through the abandoned building, embraced by lush greenery. Oddly, there's hardly any trash here. Finding this place feels like winning the jackpot.

But what really snags my attention isn't the pristine water. It's this flower, a mythical blue Taurea, stubbornly thriving among the weeds. "Damn," I mutter, "I've gotta get it." This flower's petals are a stunning ocean blue, glowing like some sort of mystical beacon in the dark, casting a surreal light all around.

Taurea flowers usually chill near rivers in hidden caves, the air sweet with their scent and the river's song adding to the calm vibes. The petals are soft, velvety, dancing in the breeze like they've got a life of their own. The center's this vivid yellow, with these star-shaped stamens around it.

This magic-infused bloom isn't just a treat for the eyes; it's ancient, powerful. How it ended up here, who knows? Must be thousands of years old.

Shame I can't snag it right now. These babies die the second you pluck them. Best to leave it be until I'm ready to handle it right.

So, it's back to the grind. I ferry water bucket after bucket, starting the monotonous task of removing the fountain's black sludge. It's slow, tedious, but giving up ain't my style. I scrounge up some rags and sticks, scraping off the remaining gunk. After that, it's all about scrubbing the statue like there's no tomorrow, getting rid of every last bit of moss and stain. Finally, I rinse everything off and refill the fountain with the river's clean water. 

The entire ordeal takes over a day, but the result? A sparkling clean fountain and statue. I can't help but grin. All that effort, totally worth it.

Now, here's the deal. This whole clean-up mission? It's to keep Ilka's spirit, snoozing under the fountain, from throwing a fit. Her tomb's right there, with that cursed sword sealing her spirit inside.

My protagonist, Mason, blundered into this mess, waking Ilka with the stench. When he asked to use the sword, she said no dice. I'm trying to get to that sword and bond with it without waking her up.

The cursed sword and Ilka have been doing this weird merge thing for thousands of years. Given my own cursed status, I should be able to soul-bind the weapon. But if Ilka wakes up before I bond with the sword, she'll throw a wrench in the works. She despises the sword and won't let anyone in my novel use it. Hence, the stealth and care in my approach.