"BlackJack (Motone´s Demise)" by Camilla ´Motone´ Whitney

Black Jack (Motone’s Demise)

            A heavy hand lowered to the table, dropping three large gold coins.  The hand was covered by a thick leather gauntlet and as it withdrew, the person spoke.

            “We’re getting rid of her,” said the voice, husky and burly.  “And we don’t want any trouble about it.”

            A smaller, slighter, older hand nimbly picked up one of the pieces.  “Very well.” said the owner as he examined the gold.  “Rid the town of her.  Use whatever means you’d like.”  The thinner, older man leaned forward in his chair next to the table, his large eyes overpowering his gaunt face as he addressed the soldier.  “You understand that this will only grant you immunity for three days.  If you continue illegal acts beyond that time, it will be my duty as a mayor to release the forces upon you.”

            “Understood.” said the soldier.  He drew his sword as he turned and stalked through the large black doors out into the twilight.

            The moon shone pallid upon those sleeping forms in fields and yards.  A wind stirred up, hastening its pace onward, ruffling the trees as it passed, seeking out a form of life in the dead night.  On the outskirts of the village, it reached a small tent and burst through the flap which constituted as the door, extinguishing the candle and upsetting a deck of cards which had lain on the table.

            The tent smelled acrid bittersweet from the many potions that had been mixed inside it.  A partition divided the tent in two sections: there stood in the outer an ancient table with candle and cards; and in the inner lived the inhabitant—Motone.  There she brewed potions and did such deeds as the day would quake to look upon.  Darkness could not breach her, for she was a part of it.

            Motone had come to this town not even a month earlier, and yet the wind harassed her onward.  She currently sold cheap love potions to the desperate teenagers and told fortunes using an ordinary deck of cards.  The card part of the fortune telling was completely bogus—she employed the use of a semi-clairvoyance potion.  She was a witch, but her powers lay entire in potionmaking.  It was an expensive hobby that didn’t pay well—far too few quid for the number of enraged villagers chasing her with torches.

            It started when she was young.  She was still young, but she felt much older.  But there’s no use in pedantry with the past.  None of it can be changed.  Only the future has that possibility, and it was the thought of what may happen that kept Motone going.

            Now the fey wind would bring upon a new course in her life.  She bent to pick up the spilled cards, and noticed that they had all landed face-down—except one.  The Jack of Clubs, brandishing his swords, gazed imperiously up at her from the dirt floor.     As she reached for him, a shadow fell over her and a foot landed and trapped her hand on top of the card.

            “We’ve come for you, witch.” said a booming voice.  Motone looked up and beheld a behemoth man, strapped in leather and iron armor, his boot weighing heavily on her hand.  He wore two swords at his sides, and behind him stood four or five others, each looking just as angry, and naturally, holding torches.

            “Aye,” Motone said placidly, “I see that you have.”  The man removed his foot and Motone calmly collected her cards, bound them together and stashed them in one of the many pockets in her black cloak.  The cloak had a large, heavy hood which she usually wore up, partially to enhance the mysterious air about her, and partially for reasons of her own.  Under the cloak, she wore an ankle-length blue tunic slit up to the waist and baggy black pants—a remnant of the fashion of her homeland—girt around the waist and calves with black material.  She wore soft black leather shoes.  Inside the many pockets lining her cloak were small vials, single doses of each of the potions she deemed most important to have on hand.  Attached to her girdle, hidden underneath her cloak, lay Blood-drinker, her ancient sword lined with red runes, craving for a taste of that bitter life-source.   

She had one passion other than potions, and this was fighting.  She knew every weapon of blade, she understood that they were all made with the express intent to kill, and she knew how to use them thus.  It served her well on her lone travels.  However, she was slight of frame and could not fight well unless with the help of enhancement potions.  That wasn’t too much of a problem, she was her own apothecary.

            “So,” Motone continued, “do you plan on destroying all my properties and driving me out?  Would you prefer to imprison me?  Or perhaps,” she leaned in closer to the man, though he stood at least a foot and a half over her head, “do plan on trying to kill me?”

            Realizing he was being mocked, the man growled and grabbed the hilts of his swords.  This signaled to his comrades behind him, who began smashing and burning everything in sight.

            “Of course we can’t fight in here.” Motone said, retaining her quintessentially calm tone.  “There’s not nearly enough room.  Why don’t we take it outside.”  Her hand slowly, invisibly, reached into one of her pockets, drawing forth a potion that danced of orange and yellow inside the glass.  “Besides, it looks as though your mum took ever so long to make that armor, ‘twould be a shame if it caught on fire!”  On the last word, she hurled the phial at him, causing the leather to combust on contact as the glass smashed open and the potion spread like flame.  She ran past him to the street outside, searching her pockets for the right enhancement.  Not speed, he was far too bulky to be much of a threat in that area.  What she needed was strength. 

The liquid cascaded down her throat as she sucked it in, and she could feel it hardening her muscles.  She drew her sword and splashed another potion over it, a deadly one.  As she flung her cloak aside to make for easier movement, the man hurtled out of her burning tent, having finally extinguished his armor.  His face was red with fury and he waved his swords about angrily, yelling something incoherent.  She planted her feet firmly, held her sword one handed, level with her eyes and parallel to the ground in a fighting stance familiar to her ancient kin, and charged.  The man slashed savagely downward and Motone blocked it.  The swords rung as the man pushed his iron against her curved blade; the metal sliding against the thick potion coating her sword, and with a simple flick, his weapon was cast aside.

Good, this evened the odds, Motone noted.  She still wasn’t as strong as he was, but she was faster, and she could kill him with one wound.  She reversed her hold on the hilt so the sharp edge faced outward, rather than attacking with the dull, inward-curving edge.  This man could hardly be called a soldier, she thought, what with the way he slashed his sword carelessly about.  Honestly, this is what anger does to your game. 

Drops of the potion splashed off here and there, as she matched his every rash blow, splattering until droplets flecked each of their bodies.  Motone’s face remained emotionless but her eyes seared.  This wind brought trouble; it would change her life.  Why else would it put out such a challenge?  She knew that remaining on the defensive would do her no good; she needed to defeat him and get out of there, fast.  She blocked an overhead swing and grabbed hold of his blade, using it to swing her body, feet first, into his belly.  The blade sliced mercilessly into her fingers, but she felt not the pain.  Her feet sunk into his soft stomach, knocking out his wind but not doing much more damage.  She pushed off and swung again, this time kicking out as she came, and aiming higher.  She hit his throat with the balls of her feet, forcing his head backwards with a sick popping noise.  She pushed off him again, released his sword and dropped swiftly to the ground.  Before he could recover or make any kind of action, she stuck him through.  Blood-drinker had finally quenched his thirst. 

Then she stumbled to where her cloak lay, dark and formless on the ground.  Feverishly, she worked through the pockets, searching out the vial of dark purple.  Some of her poison had been on his blade when she had sliced her hands.  There was only one potion to cure it, and she had to find it fast.  It was one she invented herself, designed to cure instantly any physical ailments or harm.  But the cost of such a priceless potion was harsh—it was gravely addictive, and the more it was used to heal the body, the more it damaged the mind and soul.  Motone found it and carelessly splashed it over the wounds where the sticky poison permeated.  The poison drew back and withheld; with a searing pain the cuts sealed. 

Behind her, there were several explosions as the potions in her tent met with fire.  She drew on her cloak, and the fey wind tugged her ever onward.

To Motone, life was all about cost, so it was only natural for her to end up dealing with large amounts of money.  Everything in life had a cost.  The price of her potions was her beauty, and the last symbol of humanity.  So many potions had parched her heart that it became hardened and glassy.  No delicate blush of crimson was allowed to venture upon her cheeks—color had been sucked from her being like the souls from the dead, so her skin became an ashen gray and her eyes a vile black.  The only color that remained was a bluish tint to her ebony hair, residue of the magic within her.

Fighting took from her love.      There was neither pity nor compassion to stream through her veins, only rebellion and defiance.  People spent her life fighting her; she learned to fight back.

Persecution, too, was the cost of her powers.  She wandered from village to village, weary and beaten and tired.  She could wipe them all out, she knew.  All it would take was a strategic drop spilled into the town well, or poison sown across their crops at night.  But she did not bother.  She knew that a new generation would rise forth and take their place, more bloodthirsty than the ones before them, and the cycle would redeem itself.

            She had nothing now, only what she carried with her—her clothing, her deck of cards, her sword, and the few drops of potions that she had left.  Everything else had been destroyed in the fire.  She just wandered and waited for the wind to make its next move.

            She had spent her life like this, alone and wandering, waiting for her next turn.  But then she found Elro.  Drifting across barren terrain, she stumbled across a monastery of the Order of the Creator.  Religion had always been beyond her grasp, and she couldn’t help but admire the discipline in the boys as she watched them.  All this for the belief in something that they couldn’t even see. 

She watched the young boys train in their art of balance.  One drew her attention—young and quick, strong.  And blind.  He moved with a preternatural sense of his surroundings, balancing peacefully and perfectly, like the smoke that wafts slowly towards the heavens, knowing and not knowing, moving with the wind.  He could not see, and therefore he could not see her for what she really was.

            She took Elro and trained him to fight, dubbed him Billy the Blind, and began her business.  She forged a link between their minds—just strong enough to help him in the fights, to let him see what he could not.  She found a new village, with an old, abandoned warehouse.  A platform covered in animal skins served as the arena, and she began hanging bills around the village and neighboring ones; challenges to all the fighters.  The fighters came, and soon the spectators.  It was not long after that the gambling began.  By the time the local authorities discovered where she was, she had made enough money to not only buy the warehouse, but to pay for the expenses of furnishing it.

            Every night Elro would fight a local champion, of the people’s choosing, under this feigned name.  Every night Motone would watch.  She watched the other fighters carefully; and she watched the gamblers meticulously. 

            The fighters would pay to enter, but she made her money mostly from the gamblers in the audience.  At first the odds were tremendous—who would ever bet on a young, blind monk, thin and peace-loving, aided by a woman shrouded in black so that none could see her face?  He won every match, Motone made sure of that.  This caused their fame to grow, and with it, their purses.  Advertisements spread across the entire countryside, announcing The Show.  Everyone had heard of Motone’s Arena, even if they had not been there.  Of course the lure of the fight was bound to dwindle someday, but Motone had devised a counter-plan to that: the Prize Pot, a theoretical prize of gold, silver and copper, as well as the honor of becoming House Champion.  It was totally spurious, of course.  Motone could afford it, but she knew she would never have to.

Half of the money went to Elro; it was he, after all, that had saved her from her wind-driven sojourn.  He did with it as he pleased, usually helping the poor and estranged, as was in his nature. 

Every night after the main fight featuring Billy the Blind, Motone would manically create more potions.  She was searching for something, she didn’t know quite what.  Until one day it came to her, and she discovered the power to change it.  With her money, she eternally sought out more weapons and ingredients, and made sure Elro wanted for nothing. 

But Elro did want, she could sense it.  He grew ever tired of the danger and cheers of the crowd.  He longed for the peace of his fellow brethren in the monastery.  One day he informed Motone that the next fight would be his last, and he would leave her.  The cost of glory is the sense of oneself.  He was losing it to the money and the crowd, and he didn’t want to slip away, as he could feel it doing.

            Motone went to work.  The day of what was to be Elro’s final fight, Motone didn’t speak to him.  She locked herself into her room of the warehouse, and began to formulate what would forever change her life.  Carefully she dug through her belongings, shelves packed with boxes and bottles.  Carefully she brought out a small box of golden-red wood; carefully she drew forth the blade inside.  The tooth of a red dragon, fitted to a hilt of stone and braided leather.  The most menacing weapon she had ever obtained, braving fire and death to get it, passing through Hell itself to obtain such a treasure.  She had found the dealer, Skrin, on the shores of the third layer within the Seventh circle of Hell, fire raining down upon the miscreants who had sinned against Nature.  The tooth gleamed of fire and poison, beauty within its curves and folds, deadly to its very end.  But it was not enough.

The cost of debt was love.  Elro knew not that he had saved her from a vile extinction, beaten by the winds as she sought a safe haven, destination unknown through the wuthering night.  But the fire of love licked around a glass heart, and she loved not Elro himself, but what she knew she could make him into.

            She took the dagger into her laboratory and gazed at it.  Even the bone itself twisted like a flame, so flame it would become.  And as her mind kept returning to that blazing image, so too would the dagger return to its master. 

            The golden feather of a maternal eagle who braves all to return to her nest; a shred of the tunic of the great man who had long ventured from his home during war, and warred to return again to his home; the scales of a snake shed as he returned once more to the state of rebirth—these and others were the ingredients she mixed and muttered over, and soaked the hilt of the dagger in.  For the blade she took undiluted dragon’s breath, the name of the substance which caused fire to erupt from a dragon’s belly and issue forth in the form of flame.  It sunk deeply and saturated into the burnished bone.  An experimental flick revealed that the flame rose when affronted with air, and died again when sheathed.  Just as she had planned.

            After the fight that night, Motone raced through the secret corridor connecting their upper chambers to the lower arena.  Only she knew of this passage.  Its entryway was hidden in her laboratory by a large tapestry. 

When she arrived she readied for the return of Elro.  He entered minutes later, slowly and calmly, sure in every footstep, even through his darkened eyes and the cloth that shrouded them.  He paused just after entering.  The pale candlelight gleamed gently off his thin muscles.  His fighting costume was similar to Motone’s original one, if not more masculine, retaining the elements of blue and black.

“I’m done, Motone.  That was my last fight.”  Elro said.

She knew that had been coming.  And she knew that she could stop it.  She had to stop it.  Contemptuously, she replied, “Fah! I grow weary of your moralizing. Come, taste the fruits of your victory.”

Elro sat at the table, where his other senses confirmed what he had smelled, king’s fare of candied ham and the deepest draught of wine affordable.  “I asked for bread,” he said simply, refusing the feast.

Life was about cost.  You take what you can and let the wind sort it out.  “But what did you get? Life never gives you what you ask for, so you must stand ready to seize the best it presents. Like you, Elro. A little monk boy out in the world for his first time, your talent would have been wasted if not for me.”  If not for him, where would she be now?  Still beaten and estranged, still without hope.

“My ‘talent’ is only for defense. These matches are twisting my skills to harm for profit. I’m not going to do it any longer. This isn‘t me... I‘m not even using my own name.” 

Motone shook her head, glad that he could not see her reactions and would have to judge just by her tone of voice.  Sweetly, she said, “I know what’s bothering you, my lad. You’re afraid you’ll lose if better fighters keep coming. Don’t worry, if you like I can even the odds a bit, hmmm. How about you use blood-drinker in the next match?”  Of course it was absolutely ridiculous, she knew that he would refuse to use her sword.  She was, in fact, planning on it.  She looked fondly on the blade, and the red runes that only she could comprehend, as she drew it for him.

Just as she expected, Elro replied, “I don’t use killing weapons.” He seemed more put out about it than usual, but that mattered not.  He was a nice boy, that was all there was to it.  Nice people are so easily manipulated.  “I do appreciate your efforts,” he added in order to redeem himself.  “You have always been fair with my portion of the gold. I have never felt the orphans so strong and healthy. The gold is more than enough to feed them all.”

            Excellent, now he could only feel guilty if he refused her next offer.  “Another reason to keep at it, my boy.” she said, retaining the same sweet tone. “Come, if blood-drinker is not to your liking, perhaps something smaller.”

            Motone tried to ignore the burning she felt as she took Elro by the hand to lead him to her storage chamber, where she had placed the bone dagger ever-so-casually.  She forced her heart to slow its pounding as she pretended to search for the golden-red box, not even noticing her own clumsiness as a claymore fell to the ground behind her.  She loved claymores, although she couldn’t actually fight with them in an unaltered state.  Finally, she took the box and smoothed off the dust, turning to Elro, standing innocently in the middle of the room.  She offered the open box before him and he traced his seeing fingers over the folds.

 “I acquired it in the underworld from a one-eyed merchant named Skrin.”  He did not need to know how far she went.

Elro felt along the length of the dagger, only as long as her forearm, almost twice as long as his hand.

“It is the tooth of a red dragon,” Motone said after he guessed.  He picked it up, and Motone noticed that he handled it well for refusing to use weapons.  She instructed him on its use and properties, and he could not see her smile as he slashed it through the air, feeling it ignite.  “The flame will go out before harming its master,” said Motone. “Sheath it in your belt, it is yours.”

“Oh no, I could never fight with a-”

            Motone knew this was coming.  “Keep it as a gift, from your friend,” she said slyly, knowing he could not refuse.

“Very well, I accept it with thanks.” He sheathed it, the note of acceptance, then turned toward her, though he couldn’t see her.  “Why do you do what you do, Motone? What is the ultimate purpose?”

He was so sweet and innocent; she was going to miss that.  Occasionally. “For now, money and good food.”  After all, what else in life could fill this hollow?  Tonight, she thought.  Tonight.

“Are you that much a cynic?”

She closed her eyes as she formulated her answer.  She didn’t want to hurt him.  “Am I a cynic because I don’t pray to the creator and muck about do-gooding like you?”

Defeated, he turned to leave. “Goodnight, Motone. Say your prayers before you sleep.”

“What?” she asked.

“Even a cynic can pray for redemption, even to a God she doesn’t believe in.”  He left.

            Motone stormed out after him, turning into her laboratory.  Feverishly she took the drawing.  She had sketched it carefully, paying attention to every slightest detail.  It was a portrait of Elro.  She had stroked in every angle and line of his face with devotion, to the very last eyelash.  Her template was parchment, her media were varied—into this facsimile of Elro she rendered the changes that seemed fit to her.  Strength, sight, and darkness, among others.  A silver bowl on the table contained the other, less important ingredients.  Into this she scraped the picture from the parchment, joining with it her own blood.

            As she stared down into the dark liquid, she realized what she needed for the final touch of her plan.  Something that would allow her, still, to have the upper hand. A loophole, an ace up her sleeve.  She turned, looking frantically about the room, and began tearing through her supplies.  “Two faces,” she said, “I need something with two faces!”  She smashed through various useless objects, until finally her eyes rested on something in the abandoned corner—the deck of cards.  She grabbed it, disregarding the blood that still ran from the cut in her hand as she searched desperately for a face card.

            There, finally.  The Jack of Clubs.  She paused as the same face stared imperiously up at her from her blood-smeared hand, but then wasted no more time and dropped it into the bowl.

            The final ingredient was fire.  She struck sparks over the potion and the card began flaming, until the liquid engulfed it, and turned a churning black.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the smoking vapor that rose from the bowl.  “Taught by suffering,” she said, “Drop by drop, wisdom is distilled from pain.”

            Calm settled in her mind after the storm.  Serenely, she poured what would fit into a flask.  The rest she would deal with later.

            Did it ever occur to her that what she was about to do was wrong?  Or was she so caught up in her conflicting emotions, that she couldn’t see the truth but through a smoky prism?  She had consigned herself to this act, gone was the time to reconsider.  Too intent was she on how the future could be changed, she did not stop to consider the present.

            Calmly she wiped the blood from her hand; passively she tread through the corridor; invisibly she slipped into Elro’s room.  He slept on his side, back to the door.  Sleeping, perchance dreaming.

            Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, she uncorked the flask as she stood over Elro’s unwitting body, and splashed the caustic substance into his ear.  He jolted, and began clawing at his ear, rising and tottering.  If not for the blindfold, he may have been looking straight at Motone.  Perhaps he was, regardless.  He attempted to walk, but then fell, void of consciousness. 

            Motone watched, in awe of her own creation, as he transformed.  His face lost its youthful luster and smoothness, as he seemed to grow older—older, rugged, and more dangerous.  An outward change of hair color from brown to black signified the blackening of his heart, and his power grew with his muscles.  He would be a fantastic gladiator.

            With what seemed a twisted tenderness, Motone knelt over his crumpled body and meticulously lifted the black cloth from his eyes.  She could feel a slight sweat on his eyelids as she lifted them back, and for the first time she gazed blackly into his bloodied eyes, a red tint even corrupting the irises of brown.

            Like an iron vice, his hand suddenly erupted upwards and clawed into her thin throat.  “What have you done to me, witch?” he growled.

            Motone forced herself to be as non-chalant as possible in this dangerous position.  “I have merely improved a little on your personality,” she explained innocently.  “How do you feel, Elro?”

            “Elro!”  Motone was smashed into the wall from the force of his throw.  “I’m not Elro.  I’m something better.  I am another face.”  The card then appeared in his hand.  It too, had undergone a metamorphosis, bearing opposites one each pole of its face.  One carried the flaming dagger and a spiked crown, the other bore the semblance of the first Elro, now lost.  “You will call me Black Jack.  I hold the card, I control.”

            Excellent.

            Black Jack’s first fight was not a long one, and every fight after that grew more successful.  Introducing a new champion meant starting off, once more, with unbalanced odds, which meant more money for the house.  Black Jack became even more loved by the crowd than Elro was; he was willing to deal out the blood they all longed to see.

            After one show Black Jack affronted Motone as she congratulated the dark warrior.  This time he was intent on getting his way—leaving the Show and going out to wreak destruction on whatever he pleased.  Motone realized, as she was being lifted by the throat, that now was the opportune time to start her next trick.  Painfully, she spoke.  “If *cugh* you kill me... *ung* you won’t live a fortnight.”

            Black Jack released her and stood imperiously over her crumpled body.  She breathed deeply, feeling the circulation through her bruised throat.  Coughing slightly, she explained that once a month had passed and the moon was once more full, he would return to his lesser self.  It was bait, not truth, that she set before him.  Still her mind clicked in clockwork, formulating.  She would make the potion tonight, for tomorrow, tomorrow would be the fight, conclusive.

She promised to make the potion to stop this course, if he would retrieve the ingredients.  He was only too glad to oblige.

“Play your games, witch,” he growled, his red eyes glowing into her black. “Remember that even with your sword and your potions you are no match for me.”

“I would hardly forget,” she said, “I made you.”

Once more, Motone locked herself into her laboratory.  She had looked around and realized that in her anger she had destroyed everything she had ever loved… so in her wrath and despair, she created a new love.  She had consigned herself to the deed.  Tenderness, softness, charity.  Lamb’s blood for innocence, unicorn horn for purity.  Darkness of soul she exchanged for darkness of sight.  A plum for compassion.

She had realized, too late, what she had held, and what she had destroyed.  In Elro had bloomed the perfect flower of love and virtue.  And she had corrupted him.  She had changed him forever.  To rectify this she would have to give her life, so as she contrived the potion she weaved upon herself a curse.  To eternal banishment.

It was ready at nightfall when Black Jack forced his way in.  She was nearly ready as well, applying the final touch of her plan.  The deepest blue, for darkest sorrow, she now applied to her lips.

“Where is it?” Black Jack asked, and Motone directed him to a flask of blackish liquid sitting calmly on the shelf next to him.

Already the game was in play.  She laid down a card, and he topped it.  “Do you know something about that blind boy I was? His blindness let his mental senses improve. One of best skills was knowing when people were lying.”

Motone bluffed, moving ever-so-casually towards Black Jack and the potion, feigning fear.  “What do you mean?”

 “You weren’t lying when you said the full moon would change me back. You were lying when you said this potion would keep me Black Jack.”  Black Jack matched her card and played again, drawing out his favorite weapon, the flaming dagger that Motone had given him.

Unconcernedly, she took up the bottle in her hand and stated, as she moved casually across the room, “It will bring Elro back. If you’d been fool enough to drink it, you would be unworthy for my very special Show tonight. But I see you’ve got brains as well as brawn. So I’ll say this to you: Elro is a better man than you‘ll ever be.”  She played her cards strategically, and Black Jack matched with fury, never thinking of the outcome of the game.  Now was the time to trump.  “You’re uglier too. Elro was a handsome young man. You’re a freak. A pathetic shadow of the real Elro.”

End of trick; Motone: 1, Black Jack: 0; new hand dealt.  She flung the tapestry aside and raced through the secret passageway, Black Jack following furiously close behind.  The end of the chase led them to the arena.  Motone stood in the blue corner, reserved for the house champion, her cloak cast aside, revealing her new fighting garb underneath.  Her outfit was something she previously never would have considered wearing, but she had been planning this fight for a long while, and had every move deliberate.  She was showing Black Jack something he would never get to have—her.  Now, as Black Jack climbed onto the arena, she was consuming the contents of a red flask—her ultimate fighting potion.  With it she gained speed, strength, balance and forethought.  It changed her entire physical appearance; grey skin to white, and blue-black hair to golden red.  Then she took out her other deuces wild—the black potion.  She spilled it over Blood-drinker, who was thirsting once more for a sweet drop.  She then pointed her sword in challenge.  “Let the Show begin!”

A crowd in the warehouse cheered ecstatically.  This was the event of the year, or possibly beyond that.  This is what they had been waiting for:  Everyone’s favorite, Black Jack, against Motone herself.  Not one in the crowd had seen her before, and curiosity had doubled the usual amount of spectators.  But Motone, for once, wasn’t thinking of the money.

Black Jack discarded his cloak, revealing his entire menacing frame.  His dangerous power rippled through him with his self confidence.  “You cannot defeat me.”

One cut, and the potion would work upon him, freeing Elro from the darkness; darkness the blind boy had never known in his enlightened life.  One cut, and forevermore a similar wound would instigate the change.

She could read in Black Jack’s burning eyes the fiery desire to destroy his creator, while she knew she had to destroy her creation.  Both were set to free themselves of each other.

Quickly, before he moved, she went toward him, swinging her sword.  She didn’t want to give him the chance to merely throw the dagger at her; that was a dagger that never missed its target.  So she forced him into physical combat.  She had to be close to play her cards well. 

Why had she made him so strong?  Her attacks were nothing to him, and she would be just as easily disposed.  But this was a fight that would end with his first blood, regardless of any injury done to her.  She would not allow herself to die.  She could heal herself with her potion, and then… then fate would decide.

She rolled underneath his stabbing attack and attacked from behind.  But he knew it was coming, could read her every move curse that sensitive mind.  Not bothering to turn, he merely stabbed backwards with his blazing dagger.  Motone prayed silently in gratitude that her reflexes had been so enhanced, else she would have had it right there.

She had to get him distracted, stop him from focusing on her mind.  As she stepped away she began to speak. “You know when I’m telling the truth, eh? Then you’ll know this is true. You may not be expelled from Elro when the moon is full, but this potion is special. When it works once it will curse you. It will cripple Black Jack and give him a weakness.”

Black Jack hurled the dagger at her.  Again, she gave thanks as she blocked it and sent it rebounding back with Blood-drinker.  Even a cynic can pray, even to a God she doesn’t believe in.

Now the game sped up as each examined their hands and strategy began to arise.

“The weakness will be a part of you forever. If I cut the potion into your leg, forever a cut to Black Jack’s leg will bring Elro back. Or the arm, or the nose.”

Black Jack tilted back to avoid being slashed across the face, but as he did so he kicked out, hitting Motone.  Shock accompanied as pain exploded through her leg.  She dropped, forgetting momentarily the fight.  Black Jack continued, breaking her hold on Blood-drinker as he smashed his fist into her wrist.  She fell back further.  He came closer.  With one hand, he could nearly palm her head, and he reached one hand behind her head now, preparing for the final blow.

Fear nearly paralyzed Motone’s mind.  Black Jack leaned in viciously, mocking her pain as he saw his victory in her fear. 

Then she saw it—the sadness behind the anger.  Elro was fighting to get out, harder than he had ever fought before.  Now he fought for a purpose, and she could see him somewhere behind those red eyes.  She knew then that it had not been in vain, that she could still help him, free him.  Redeem herself.

Motone had one ace up her sleeve, and now she flicked it out and employed it.  For freedom, for right.  For love.

A hush fell over the crowd as they realized what she was about to do.  In shock, they watched on.

Black Jack could still smell the victory, but the tables had turned.  Suddenly Motone lifted up her deepest sorrow.  Her lips met his and lingered there before Black Jack fully realized what had happened, and shoved her away.

The potion sunk into his lips and mouth, staining them black damson.  There was nothing he could do to stop it, now.  It was beginning to take full effect on him, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Motone didn’t pay attention to the crowd’s wild cheering.  She dragged herself to her cloak and took out her purple potion, then watched carefully as Black Jack transformed back into his purer form.  The rugged lines smoothed and angles eroded back into the sweet child’s face.  Elro now lay on the platform, the innocent, loving, peaceful youth.  The card fell harmlessly to the ground.

That was the last fight ever to be performed in Motone’s arena.  Motone and Elro never saw each other after that night.  She allowed him to return to his monastery, and what happened to him, she did not know.  She had loved Elro, but she destroyed him, changing him to what she thought she could love, not realizing the love that was already there.  Now that she had done her best to redeem this act, she faded from existence in this world, and sought life in another.

The curse weaved upon her was a strange one, an eternal punishment that she contrived for herself.  If ever she loved, as soon as it was felt, she would change planes, respawning in a different era, or even realm.  She would remember nothing of any former lives, and know nothing of her past.  She would only carry with her, her colorless visage, her skills, and her sorrow.

And so she was caused, when love smote her heart, to shift; and cursed to wander, throughout worlds and times, a shadow.