"You-" A voice stammered, "You kept Fusala in a waterskin!?"
"My lady, please…" Another relented, "There was no other way…"
"Personally, I don't think it's the worst decision they could have made." Manyu intervened, "How exactly does one go about resuscitating a puddle?"
"Manyu is correct." Fusala admitted, "I may have fallen ill if I was allowed to remain on the ground. I suffer no discomfort from being in claustrophobic spaces, and my recovery was only a matter of time."
"Honestly…" Dorma muttered, exasperated, "...And what of Witilla?"
"O-Once it was ascertained that the young Miss wasn't in need of any treatment, we nonetheless encouraged her to rest in one of the tents… I imagine she's still doing so, if you have an interest in speaking to her."
The priests and healers contracted to triage the aftermath of the tournament's bouts had been granted a stockade of tents close to the rotunda's perimeter and enough reagents to ensure every combatant's survival--including the materials and foci needed to cast resurrection spells, if necessary. Fusala, who had been knocked unconscious by Witilla's frigid assault, spent the entirety of her recovery within the leathery confines of a priest's waterskin, with not one of the healers certain of how to begin treating her.
"Lady Fusala's innate abilities of regeneration and shapechanging make her a surprisingly durable creature." The priest reported, "Despite being pierced by icicles that would have maimed any other contender, she was able to relocate her internal organs to undamaged areas while her injuries healed. Amazingly, this all seemed to occur when she was unconscious, indicating that it may have been an instinctive reaction to grave physical trauma."
"That's only natural, I suppose." Dorma replied, "One of the more common reasons as to why Homunculi were rendered forbidden by the alchemists of yore was that their apparent invincibility placed them too close to the divine."
"-I imagine it was more to do with alchemists robbing the dead of their organs to serve as specimens for their creation, but why stop there?" Manyu commented, "Shall we get moving? We are here to see Witilla, aren't we?"
"I suppose so." She relented, "Are you fit to accompany us, Fusala?"
"Yes." The Homunculus blinked, "I would also like to conduct an analysis into Miss Witilla's innate powers. I believe it may present solutions to many unanswered questions."
"Uh- please, I insist that only two of you see her at a time." The priest interjected, "Many patients here are still awaiting treatment for their wounds, so please allow them the peace they deserve."
"Very well. Barion, Fusala." Dorma addressed, "I believe you two are our best choices. The rest of us will await you beneath the arena."
"Understood." Fusala replied tersely, "Let us proceed to Miss Witilla's tent, Barion."
"Alright then." The man in question responded, "Let's have a look at her."
Rows of medical centres filled to bursting with ailing combatants highlighted the less glamorous side of Gria's esteemed tournaments. Choruses of groans and the cerulean hue of magic escaped from the awnings of marquees and the billowing flaps of sand-coloured tents as Barion and Fusala bid farewell to the group.
Questions were posed to the overworked healers, and soon enough, the two of them had pinned down Witilla's location. As a contender taking part in the secondary bracket, she had been afforded an exquisite amount of privacy, with a tent of her very own waning on the camp's outskirts. Nobles and common folk alike gave the area a wide berth, as if afraid they would catch some deadly disease if they lingered for too long. A cool wind blew through the tent's flap as Barion stuck his head into the modest abode.
Witilla was awake, the leathers of her battle dress replaced with a loose tunic of cotton. The meek expression upon her face told him that she hadn't been expecting any visitors.
"O-Oh…" She stammered out, "Hello…"
"I take it you're Witilla?" He asked, "My name is Barion. Fusala is here, too."
The girl's frown upturned as Fusala slinked through the gap in the tent.
"Ah, Fusala…" Her smile was restrained, "I'm so glad you're alright."
"Thank you. I am also pleased to see you well." She replied matter-of-factly, "Our duel was very enjoyable. I was able to collect an abundance of useful data regarding the viability of the new magical items. However, there are some questions I would like to ask, if you would allow it."
"Of course." Witilla nodded, "Ask whatever you like…"
"Barion, are you able to detect anything strange about Witilla?"
"Hm…" He folded his arms, "Yeah, it's there."
"...Excuse me?"
"A Demonic presence, I mean."
"Wh-" Witilla blinked, "What!?"
"Strange, though. It's like no Demon I've ever encountered--and I've encountered just about every single kind." Barion continued, "It's… a subdued feeling, I suppose."
"W-Wait, please…" Witilla begged, "What are you talking about?"
"Miss Witilla." Fusala began, "May I inquire as to how you attained such a masterful control of ice magic? There are few sorcerers alive who could replicate your abilities even with a powerful focus on hand."
The girl went silent. As if overcome with shame, her gaze refused to meet with either of her visitors. When finally she answered, her voice was but a whimper, "...I can't tell you that."
"I must insist that you do." Fusala encouraged, "As you may already be aware, those of us involved in the tournament's secondary bracket suspect that your true identity is that of Lilith--one of the Four Heavenly Kings."
"That's not true!" She protested, "I'm… so tired of hearing that name…"
"Is this not the first time you have been accused of hiding another identity?"
"If I told you…" Witilla struggled to finish her sentence, "-If I told you the truth, you wouldn't believe me."
"I do not think that is true." Fusala pivoted her attention, "Barion, would you care to speak to her? I fear that my line of questioning is not appropriately empathetic."
"Barion…" Witilla raised her head, "Are you… the Hero of Legend?"
"Once upon a time, perhaps." He answered, "I hear you've made quite a splash in the tournament. Defeating Fusala is no small feat, let me tell you."
"I didn't think His Majesty was telling the truth…"
"I imagine most people don't. Sometimes the fact that I'm still alive even surprises me." Barion admitted, "The last time I encountered Lilith was over 500 years ago, but rarely do you ever forget a foe like that. So, it confuses me… why I feel the same way I did back then when I look at you."
"...Are you here to kill me?" She asked.
"No?" He tilted his head, "Dorma and Shilahi were making a fuss about it, but you don't seem at all dangerous to me. Frankly, if you are Lilith, then I much prefer this revision of you compared to the last one."
"But…"
"-When I first met Fusala, that same feeling overcame me." He continued, "For a moment, I was convinced she was a Demon. Do you know why that is?"
"...No."
"Because to the world at large, Homunculi are Demons. A blind agreement to the testaments of ancient alchemists has left people with an unnatural fear of them. Somehow, that belief--it resonates with me. It's not so much that I can identify Demons at a glance, but the natural 'enemies' of mankind. And what's a Hero's job if not to deliver mankind from its enemies?"
Barion crossed his arms, "But Fusala isn't a Demon. I doubt most Homunculi are--assuming any others even exist. And it seems to me that you aren't one, either. Even so, if there's something you're trying to hide, then that makes it all the more difficult to understand who you really are."
Witilla wasn't evil--that much Barion was certain of, but the tightness in his chest nonetheless screamed at him to distrust the shrinking girl. Conflicted though her expression remained, Witilla understood well enough that neither Barion nor Fusala would be leaving without an explanation.
"...I understand." She resolved, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"That's all I wanted to hear." Barion paused, "First of all, when we mentioned Lilith's name earlier, you said you were tired of hearing it. What did you mean by that?"
"Lilith…" She repeated, "I suppose you could say it's the name I was given at birth."
"That's a poor joke on your parents' accounts."
"I… didn't have parents. Or, it would be more correct to say that the people who raised me weren't my real parents, at the very least…"
"That would make three of us." Barion exchanged glances with Fusala, "But, what is it that you're trying to say, exactly?"
"You really wouldn't believe me."
"Have some faith. I've seen some rather unbelievable things recently."
"...I'm not human." Witilla confessed, "My earliest memories are of a strange place. A place… far away from here."
…
..
.
When Lilith awoke, her body was small and fragile--a barely-developed lump of skin. Her lips parted, but she felt no need to breathe. Her miniscule digits clasped and groped at the air, catching nothing but handfuls of water. She could neither see nor talk. Her vision struggled to process the scene in front of her, overloaded with information. In and out of consciousness she waned, days passing at a time, faster than they had any right to--and as they did, her body only grew. As her hearing developed, the sounds of water roiling in her eardrums lulled her into slumber, and a sensation of weightlessness freed her from the nightmares of movement and autonomy.
When the stark white of her eyes poked out from beneath tender skin, she could only understand the world in instinctual concepts--wrongness, coldness, a surge of safety within her watery prison. Silhouettes would occasionally grace her presence, filtering blue light through the waters, and a droning sound, like some great engine humming away, emerged from the background.
Time passed quickly. Lilith felt neither hunger nor boredom as she slept while suspended in the air, cradling gently the soft tendril which poked out from her belly in one hand. One day, she awoke to a scene of chaos--appendages of metal lifting her like a fish out of water. As the domed top of her chamber was unsealed, she was assaulted all at once by the myriad sufferings of human beings. Hunger, thirst, unhappiness, despair--the simple desire to breathe transformed her from a graceful bairn into a cantankerous bundle of trouble.
Her father was a machine--a great beast of unfeeling metal, and her mother a stainless bottle capped with rubber. Even as a babe who understood nothing of the world, Lilith felt as if she had been born into a nightmare. Her wickedly-crafted caretakers practised parenthood with an unfeeling efficiency, communicating through impulses of thought--concepts, teachings, emotions; all sent directly to the panicked synapses of her brain.
By the time she was old enough to walk, a portion of Lilith's fear had left her, though a definite wrongness filled the void of her quiet days spent admiring the grand abyss of deep space on the other side of the glass viewports. Through one miracle or another, her caretakers had learned to communicate with her verbally, albeit in stunted, uncanny tones, as if learning the nuances of language for the first time.
When the last of her unfamiliarity faded away, Lilith's world changed yet again. She was a contingency--an artificial creature birthed for a specific purpose, destined from the day of her conception to enforce the destiny of others. Hers was a force of ice, while her three siblings--beasts only half-glimpsed, hidden behind shadowy steel, bore the strength of fire, wind and thunder. All four of them shared that same fate. Their instructions had been grafted to the very threads of their souls, but Lilith's independence endured in spite of that. A truth she was in no rush to tell her carers.
Darkness, and then sleep. A repeat of her comforting years as a babe who didn't know any better. Only, when next she awoke, a frontier of greenery and life awaited her. No longer was she confined to her gaol of cable and metal, and the years of stubborn silence had earned the girl a luxury her siblings were not afforded--the luxury of free will. The people of that world were simple folk, understanding little of her world of steel and electricity, but who welcomed her all the same.
Those were the livestock of her purpose. Common lifeforms. Beasts to cull. Whispers of her intended purpose waked her deep into the nights, tunnelling into her mind. A tumour had taken root in her heart, spreading malefic truths from black blood. The woman she was--the one named Lilith, was a spirit inhabiting her earthly form, or perhaps a remnant of her weakness.
Witilla was the name she had given to the townsfolk. Their meagre lives were piled high in their homes, arranged into barrels and crates and whatever else could be pulled out of storehouses, but most of their belongings were discarded. Great beasts hounded them--Luna's great beasts. The locals called them Demons.
She was a strong sort. Strong enough to repel the monsters, antithetical as it was to her purpose. But the warm smiles she had been shown pulled at the strings of her heart. One villager offered her a weapon; something called a rapier. He called it an heirloom--completely worthless to him, but indispensable in her hands. When all of the packing had been arranged and the city guards arrived to ferry them away, they boasted of her strength. Called her a Hero. The guardsmen didn't entertain their prattle for a spare second, but the Demons that fell at her hand along the way to the capital convinced them otherwise.
There was a contest being held in the capital, one of them told her. A tournament, staffed to the gunnels with duellists and sellswords. She had no mind for fighting, but purposeless as she was, a city seemed just the change of scenery she needed. If only she had known who awaited there.
The story of Witilla--or, perhaps, the story of Lilith. A Lilith far more intriguing than the bringer of war Barion, Dorma and Shilahi had once known, and, as they would soon find out, the answerer of many burning questions.