Mirandis was clean and safe, just like Hildebrand had imagined.

The last time she had come to the city, it was ailing. The Black Carpet had encroached into the region and devoured the farmlands and the cattle the city was famous for, leaving behind twisted horrors that stood on two feet like men and swung their severed heads like clubs. The city streets were empty, other than the wails of mother who would never see their sons again, of wives who lost their young husbands. The thing that haunted Hildebrand the most was the cries of fathers, already broken by war, who bargained with the gods, offering their own lives instead. When their pleas fell on deaf ears, they cursed so gods so bitterly they spat blood. There was no point in saving men who hated the world so much they cut their stomachs open with their own hands.

Now the streets were filled with laughter and joy. The sight of families walking hand-in-hand was inescapable. Gone was the stench of death and despair. In its place was the salty breeze of the ocean air that reminded Hildebrand of the sea salt milk candy she loved. It was so sweet that her memories were even bitterer now. It was perfect, just like she imagined.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked Hugo, rubbing her eyes.

As if admitting defeat, he answered, “Yeah.”

“You never got to see the city before, right?” Hildebrand asked. “It was already in ruins before you ever met Rinaldo.”

“Yeah,” Hugo said.

“Good!” Hildebrand said. “Then this lovely angel will give you a tour of heaven!”

She marched them into a long line leading to a small eatery.

“Does heaven have a wait list?” Hugo asked.

“Shut up…”

Maybe I made it too perfect, pondered Hildebrand.

Hugo moaned and groaned like an impatient child, so much so that Hildebrand couldn’t take it. “Wait here,” she said, running into the eatery.

“He’s the Hero,” she explained to the owner. She pointed to him waiting in the queue; he stuck out like a nail, standing a head taller than the crowd. She even compared him to a poster, but to no avail. By the time she stomped back to Hugo in a huff, he was already at the entrance.

“Stubborn old mule!” she grumbled.

“Don’t smite him,” said Hugo. “I know you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m not!” Hildebrand yelled.

“Two?” asked the owner.

Hildebrand nodded.

***

Hildebrand scarfed down the creamy seafood and beef belly pasta like she was a cow face first in a feeding bucket.

“Is it that good?” Hugo asked.

“Yes,” she said, wiping the lower half of face. “What, you don’t like it?”

“Eh,” he muttered. “It’s a little too rich. And it’s sweet. And there’s too much pasta, not enough seafood.”

“I almost forgot,” Hildebrand said. “You can’t just enjoy anything.” Hugo was one of the fussiest critics she knew. “You really know how to ruin the mood,” she said.

Hildebrand paid with the large silver coin that Rinaldo had given her. She expected it to be just enough, but she got a small pouch-full of smaller silver coins back as change.

“Were these always worth this much?” she asked Hugo.

“Before the war,” he said. “They used to be enough to live for a week, maybe two.”

“That’s right,” Hildebrand said. “I forgot.” Hildebrand placed the pouch of coins in front of Hugo. “You don’t have much money on you, right?” she asked. “Take it. The Old Man probably meant to give it to you anyway.”

“I’m surprised money still exists in this world,” Hugo said.

“I’m not crazy,” Hildebrand said. “Seriously.”

They stood and the ocean breeze swept them back out into the streets. The cobblestone paths that had once been trampled flat by charging monstrosities were now bumpy and uneven, a sign of their good condition, too good even. Even in the comfortable shoes Hildebrand wore, they were unpleasant to walk on, but Hugo trudged through with no problem as if on a leisurely stroll.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she answered, brushing away the limp and hesitant hand Hugo offered. As if to prove her words, Hildebrand quickened her pace, marching ahead to places unknown.

A thriving market now occupied what were once abandoned slums. So thriving it was chaotic. Hildebrand found herself squeezing her way through the crowds that ebbed and flowed like tides. It was better not to fight it. That was the best way to slip through crowds. There was no destination she had to be, just something to leave behind. She accepted her unpleasant fate, and it brought her to a little book stand.

She looked through the books, which had illustrations printed in black or gold. Whether it was her childhood in the slums, or the quiet days at the temple, or even the long trips from battlefield to battlefield, stories were the small solace that fueled her hope.

She picked up a familiar book and opened it up.

“That one’s a little dreary,” said the peddler behind the stand.

“Isn’t it?” Hildebrand said. It was thicker than the Good Book, and heavier too. It was written in fine print and full of difficult words. It was full of violence and deceit and betrayal and tragedy. It was “realistic” as Anya, the strange witch, put it.

Hildebrand turned to find Hugo standing by her, as she had come to expect. “Why didn’t you go see Anya?” Hildebrand asked.

“I—” Hugo stammered. “We never had much to talk about…”

On the face, Anya was perfect. Beautiful, smart, strong, and even kind. Underneath that perfection was a perfectionist, someone who strived and slaved for the best result. She was diligent in everything she did. Sometimes it even felt like she was more of a machine than a human, so unlike the stereotypically eccentric witch. There was little she didn’t commit to, whether it was practicing etiquette, or mastering magic, or engaging in research, or maintaining her appearance.

It was little wonder that someone like someone like Hugo had nothing to say to her—there was nothing for him to criticize. Maybe he could criticize the gods, for limiting Anya’s potential to that of a mortal. Even Hildebrand found Anya intimidating.

When Hildebrand and she were both in the academy, they were something akin to rivals. The Saintess’s beauty and charm made some things easier for Hildebrand, and yet Anya never fell behind. Even when the war started, she was ever unchanging, compared to Hildebrand, who quickly abandoned the conceit of decorum for utility. She was nobler than most noble ladies, and so unlike her cousin, the Ice Witch, Sasha.

“That’s right,” Hildebrand said. “Have you ever even read a book once in your life?”

“I have,” Hugo said in his own defense.

Hildebrand giggled and flipped through the pages of the thick book until she reached the end. Then flipped it back to the cover. The title read simply, “Of Men” in gold print. It was Anya’s favorite book. Hildebrand set it aside and looked through more books. The covers were more ornate than she’d ever seen in her life.

“Do you think Anya is writing books?” Hildebrand asked.“Wouldn’t you know?” Hugo replied.

“No,” Hildebrand answered. “We weren’t that close.”

“Didn’t you make this world?” he said. “You should know.”

“I just answered people’s prayers,” Hildebrand said. For better or worse.

“Maybe she is,” Hugo said. “She probably is.”

“I bet you’d like them, if you could read,” Hildebrand giggled, still looking at the covers. “I’m sure she’s writing dreary books, perfect for a dreary guy like you.”

“Who are you calling dreary? I’m—"

“A pessimist, I know, I know,” Hildebrand said.

“I’m a realist,” Hugo said. “A pessimist? Haha. You’re so negative.”

Hildebrand rolled her eyes before picking out a book titled "The Foolish Starry-Eyed Hero." It was thin and light, the cover worn, and the illustration faded.

“It has an illustration,” Hildebrand observed. Most books didn’t in the other world. It was an illustration of a golden-haired boy, with golden eyes, who held a golden sword. The illustration and title were in gold leaf. The young hero could only be golden. “It’s gold,” she said.

“Yeah,” Hugo said.

“His hair I mean. And his eyes…” Hildebrand said.

“Sure looks that way,” Hugo replied. He asked, “What’s it about?” staring at the cover.

Hildebrand quietly stared at the cover for a brief moment before answering. “Oh, the usual. A brave hero prevails over the forces of evil,” Hildebrand said.

It was far from the usual, at least in the other world. People had already given up hope, and writers being the weird people they were, churned out cynicism by the volumes. The newspaper called it a new Gilded Age of the Arts, one brought on by urbanization, as writers toyed with the idea that mankind deserved its eminent demise.

"The Foolish Starry-Eyed Hero" unfortunately found itself published in an era that didn't match its tone. Some called it childish; some criticized its simple and contrived story; some clever critics praised it, calling it genius, saying it parodied the hero’s story and exposed the archetype as foolish and unrealistic. It was the praise that cut Hildebrand the deepest. It was ok for the story to be childish, to be poorly written. It was ok that it was flawed. But the thought that her feelings were just a joke was unbearable.

That was why even though they weren’t friends, even though they couldn’t see eye to eye, Hildebrand liked Anya. Maybe it was just a one-sided appreciation, but Hildebrand felt thankful to the witch.

***

Hildebrand recalled a long trip by carriage to the next battlefield. Simply by chance, Anya ended up in the carriage with Hildebrand.

“’The Foolish Starry-Eyed Hero’?” asked Anya.

The book had spilled out of Hildebrand’s pack. It was just by chance. It was embarrassing.

“The title is mistaken,” Anya said. “It’s actually ‘The Brave Bright-Eyed Hero’. That’s how it was originally titled when it was first published.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Hildebrand could muster in return. Not even a word of thanks.

***

“I’ll take this,” Hildebrand said, pulling out coins.

The peddler waved his hand, “You can just have it. It’s so old it’s just taking up space.” The peddler probably just meant well, but it seemed childish optimism had no value in this world.

Of course. People didn’t know the value of childish hopes and wishes until they faced hopelessness, much like faith. Even the wicked intellectuals of the old world who waxed philosophical about the deserving fate of man changed their tones once death marched out of the pits of hell. The people who called Hugo the “Hero” with venomous mockery began to call him the Hero with reverent praise when they needed a hero. But only when they needed a hero.

Hildebrand shrugged. “Privileges of being a beautiful angel,” she told Hugo.

“It’s worth at least this much,” Hugo said, flipping a copper coin to the peddler.