"A Hero Reborn" by Gerard Pomero-Balrès

Bonjour my fair reader and connoisseur of fine tales of adventure. I have always believed myself to be a good judge of character, but I do apologise if I'm wrong. However, if I were to be wrong I doubt you would be reading this story, so I shall continue.

I was born at my parents' farm in Gascony and was raised there until it was time for me to set off on my adventure and enrol at The Academy. But I am afraid that I am skipping too far ahead, and I must not skip over such an important turning point in my life as the day I found my sword.

Belle had been my friend for as long as I can remember, mainly out of necessity, as her family owned the neighbouring farm and so they were our only human contact. Of course, Belle was just a nickname I had for her, her real name being Eloise Belmont, and I am sure I need not explain the origins of said nickname.

It was a glorious Saturday afternoon and Belle and I were laid on top of a stack of hay-bales, relaxing and enjoying the sunshine. I sat up, giving the excuse that I wanted to look at the view, but I merely wanted to admire the beautiful maiden that lay beside me. Occasionally I would point out a combine harvester in a distant field (and as a simple farm-hand I would be admiring this almost as much as her) or a plane overhead, just to maintain this illusion. Her fiery ginger hair was splayed out over the hay, with little bits sticking out, giving her the look of a farm-girl, which she was. I longed for her to open her eyelids so I could see her gorgeous green eyes glisten in the sunlight like the purest of emeralds, but at the same time I feared that I couldn't explain the loving gaze I was giving her.

I must confess my friend, if you permit me to call you that, that I believe I was falling for Belle. Despite growing up with her and being her closest friend I couldn't stop myself. I have come into contact with ladies of all nationalities at The Academy but I must confess that none are as alluring as those from France. It explains my father's choice to leave Italy for my mother and the glorious French countryside in which I was raised.

Nevertheless, as we lay there, I admiring the scenery (and also thinking a little bit about how I should probably do something with these hay bales so my father wouldn't punish me on his return) and Belle simply relaxing, I began to feel rather hungry, as it was approaching two o'clock and it seemed as though we had been up on that pile of hay bales for hours.

"It's getting late Belle, what do you say we go back to mine for something to eat," I said, as my house was the closest.

"Can't we just stay here a little longer," she replied drearily. "I'm just so comfortable lying here with you."

Now who was I to resist the charms of not only a close friend, but also a very beautiful girl? I simply had to lay there with her, feeling elated that Belle wanted nothing more at this present moment than to lay here with me on a wonderful day, but also in pain, as it felt like my stomach was attempting to digest itself, after only consuming a rather measly bowl of porridge several hours earlier.

Another hour passed, and then another, all the time I was getting hungrier and hungrier, but also falling for Belle more and more. Eventually, and much to my relief, she suggested that we go and get something to eat.

By the time we got back to my home and had had a hearty meal (Belle is a magnificent cook) it was rather late, so Belle enquired as to whether she may stay the night. Now my friend, although my parents were visiting friends in Libourne, do not make assumptions too soon that I was intending on making a move on my dear Belle. So, instead of sleeping together, I did the only thing one should do in this situation if he considers himself a gentleman and let her have my bed whilst I would sleep in the living room.

I know it is very rare that a great adventure starts with a search for bedding in an attic, but believe it or not mon ami, this one does. I do not go into the attic very often, but I am ever so glad that I did on this occasion, as I stumbled upon something that would change my life forever. But do not be fooled, it was not some glorious moment when a golden beam of light shone onto the hilt of the blade, casting sparkling light all around, it was merely chance.

I saw several piles of bedding, my parents not being the most organised of people, and just chose a pile at random. As I grasped the duvet I felt it had snagged on something. I pulled the pillows and bed-covers aside to find what the duvet was caught on, or rather under. One corner was trapped beneath an aged, wooden crate, with straw poking out from between the gaps in the wood.

"Belle!" I yelled, as I rushed out of the attic in search of something to pry open this crate and find out what sort of object was inside this crate. All manner of things were running through my mind, from Egyptian sarcophaguses and religious artefacts to things as gruesome as disembodied corpses, although, for the record, I had hoped that my parents were not murderers.

"What is it Gerard?!" she shouted back. "Is something the matter?"

"I don't know, give me a moment!" I was rushing out of the door at this point, heading for the barn and my father's tools.

Several minutes later I burst through the front door brandishing a crowbar with a, upon reflection, somewhat psychopathic-looking grin on my face. Considering poor Belle screamed when she saw me, I am almost certain that this is the case.

"No, don't worry, everything's okay," I blurted, lowering the crowbar. "There's a crate up in the attic and I need this to pry it open."

"Are you sure you should?" said Belle, recovering her breath. "Isn't that invading your parents' privacy?"

"There's some nails and a hammer in the barn, I'll fix it before they get home." I assured her, heading back upstairs and gesturing for her to follow me.

So there we were, on our knees in front of the crate like we were praying at some sort of altar. I thrust the crowbar through the space between the side panels and the ones on top and levered it open. The contents of that chest would alter my life forever.

Straw. At first all we could see was a thick layer of straw and I could tell from the look on Belle's face that it was a little anticlimactic. But this only spurred me on to search the chest to get the satisfaction I sought.

The first thing I came to was a solid box, fairly thin but also fairly long. I pulled it out and opened it, and I was astounded by what I saw. Safely surrounded by red velvet was a pair of impeccably preserved flintlock pistols, made of the finest, sturdiest looking wood (judging from the colour I would say red oak) and trimmed in shimmering silver. All of the moving parts and the barrel were of magnificently forged steel, as strong as one could hope for and glistening almost as much as the silver. On both sides of each butt was a finely engraved fleur de lis, and I could tell that either these belonged to a musketeer serving under the king of France or a man who wanted to feel like one.

I was in awe, completely speechless. I turned to see Belle and she was wide-eyed and slack-jaws, exactly how I imagine I was at that moment.

"Well, if you're just going to sit there admiring those guns I'm going to keep looking," whispered Belle, cheekily, as she plunged her hand into the box.

"Is there anything else in there?" I asked, but my question was answered immediately as Belle handed me an enormous musket with the exact same silver trim and fleur de lis engraving. From the wood grain it looked like they were all hewn from the same tree. With all of the similarities, the weapons must have all been especially commissioned for the same person, but whoever that was was still a mystery to me.

Next out of the crate was a gorgeous dagger, to be held in the off-hand during a sword fight, just in case it was needed for even closer than close-quarters combat. Just like the guns it bore a fleur de lis emblem on the hilt, this time slightly raised from the rest of the metal. As I ran my thumb over it I felt it give a little, so I pushed it and the blade split into three. I had heard of blades like this, specifically designed to aid in disarming an opponent, and it was a magnificent technological feat.

I pressed the emblem again, hoping that the blades would return to their original formation, but instead the central blade was launched out, skimming past Belle and shortening a section of her hair, before embedding itself in a wardrobe door. It was fairly easy to fit back into the main dagger, and after some fumbling I discovered that the blades returned to normal with a simple twist of the pommel.

"I think there's something else in... Aargh!" she screamed, pulling her hand out of the crate at lightning pace. "There's something in there, it burned me!"

I looked at her hand. Right in the centre of her palm was the exact same fleur de lis mark I had seen on the butts of the pistols and musket, and the button on the dagger only it seemed to be branded into her skin, still steaming. That mark remains there to this day.

I decided that I had to get to the bottom of this mysterious crate, so I swept as much of the straw to the sides of the crate as I could, and laying before me in this crate was the most beautiful object I had ever seen.

It was a sword, a finely crafted rapier, the long, slender, needle-like blade glinting in the faint light of the attic lamp, like the moon surrounded by the black satin of the night sky. The hilt was gorgeous, with complex, ornate rings sweeping around where blade and hilt melt like the rings of Saturn, all designed to protect the knuckles of the wielder whilst looking much more decorative than a simple cup hilt. These continued down the front of the hilt to add further protection and decoration. The pommel was an oval shape with a beautiful ruby set in it, on the opposite side to the rings, so that the wielder could see it if he held the sword in front of him as he would before a fencing match.

My father was a fencer, for his country, no less. He had represented Italy at the Olympics several times and taught me to fence from a young age. I believed that he had either commissioned the creation of such a beautiful sword or had purchased it at an auction or by other means. I felt it a duty to it's current owner, my father, and possible past owner to make sure such delicate craftsmanship did not go to waste.

"No!" I heard Belle exclaim, but I didn't care. I saw nothing that would explain the burn on her hand, so I grasped the hilt. I felt a surprising warmth, in contrast to the cold steel I expected to touch. I felt ridges on the palm of my hand so I leant the blade on the palm of my left hand so I could rotate the hilt and see the cause. Again, the metal felt surprisingly warm, hotter than the hilt but not uncomfortably so.

Upon inspection of the hilt I saw what could have been the only cause of the burn. A fleur de lis. Just like the guns, just like the dagger, just like Belle's hand. Maybe I was more resilient to heat and the sword gave off a great deal somehow. It never occurred to me that swords could choose their wielders. To a naive youngster, only the opposite was true.

I rooted around in the crate some more whilst I was alone, as Belle has run frantically downstairs to run her hand under some cold water after she had caught a glimpse of the magnificent sabre. All that I found was a leather belt with a sheath for the dagger and a metal loop from which the sword could be hung so the owner need not carry it in his hand but could draw it as quick as a flash if a fight broke out, and a note. It spoke of a Spanish swordsman who defected to France in order to serve the musketeers by the name of Antón Pacháez. This was his sword, and it was given to him, along with the guns, after beating every man in his regiment in a tournament, and all of the weapons had been commissioned by no less than King Louis XIII. However, than was no mention of the heat given off by the sword, and after a quick Google search I found no evidence of Pacháez, so I decided to ask my father.

I called him, and after all the trivial introductory questions about mother and the journey and all manner of other things I finally mustered up the courage to confront him on the subject of the contents of the crate. At first he was angry that I had opened it and explained that it was to be a present for my upcoming seventeenth birthday, but once his rage had subsided he decided to explain. He told me all about Pacháez, and how he was said to be one of the finest swordsmen in all of Europe. He would travel from country to country, learning new styles of swordplay, new techniques, and also being somewhat of a hero, helping the needy wherever he could. Eventually he settled in France, joining the musketeers, where he won the weapons, the best in all of Europe and therefore quite befitting of him.

But there was one foe that Pacháez could never vanquish: time. He dies of old age with no known heir, but he wanted his sword to go to someone truly worthy of it. It was said that upon his death, his soul entered the sword, allowing him to judge who could wield it, and those unworthy individuals would be burnt, preventing them from possessing it. According to my father no-one has been able to hold it since without being branded with the insignia of the French monarchy, and this is why it was locked up in the crate along with the other weapons.

"That can't be right," I said, denying my father's words.

"Gerard, I've done enough research, trust what I say," he replied, his tone stern and demanding. "Why are you doubting me?"

"Because I'm holding the sword."

He was silent for around thirty seconds before finally saying "Pacháez obviously sees potential in you. You've been fencing as long as you've been able to walk. Anyway, I have to go now, so we can talk more about this when I return."

I could sense the anger in his voice, and I knew it was because I could hold the sword and he couldn't. The nails in the chest looked relatively knew and I remember seeing him come down from the attic recently and rush to run his hand under a tap. Although he must have touched it gingerly with a single finger, as I do not recall seeing the emblem on his hand at any time.

Regardless, it was getting late so Belle and I decided to turn in for the night, thinking nothing more of the musketeer's treasure-trove in the attic.

My father called a couple of days later, mainly to apologise for how distant he was (during this apology he confirmed my suspicions that it was mainly due to jealousy, although to this day I do not understand why he would purchase the sword for me if he thought I wouldn't be able to use it), but also to tell me that he and my mother had decided to stay another week or so. I was not particularly saddened by this, despite how much I would miss my parents, especially my dear mother, as I had Belle for company. I suppose in a way Belle reminded me of my mother, both of them being dark-haired French farm-girls, and also that one of them was always there to take care of me whenever the other want. Anyway, we regularly had sleepovers as her parents were seemingly always holidaying. I cannot fault them, her father had made a great deal of money on the stock market, making some very wise investments, and his marriage to Belle's mother was not a happy one so they needed to rekindle the fire of their love. Despite these reasons I couldn't help but think of how distant they would seem to poor Belle.

It was a couple of days after my father told me he was to prolong the visit that a package arrived at the door. It was a rather large box, longer than I was tall, and about as wide as me. There was no return address, only a letter about some academy for young people "with gifts" like mind on an island where my "powers could be honed and improved" and how I should make my way to Arcachon if I wished to attend. It also said I should bring the equipment from the attic and that I would need what was in the box.

So I took the box inside and opened it in the living room. At first I was alarmed, as it seemed that there was a human body inside, but upon closet inspection I realised it was just a mannequin, but it was wearing the most magnificent clothes I had ever seen.

On it's feet were wonderful leather boots that reached halfway up its calves, with clinking spurs on the backs. The trousers were fairly tight and tucked into the boots and were a glorious deep blue like a calm spot out in the ocean, far from any land. There was no belt for support, although I imagined that the one from the crate would go quite nicely. A crisp, white shirt was tucked into the trousers and was almost hidden by the long red coat that was fasted around it. It was tight around the torso but then flowed more easily around the legs until it stopped at the ankles and it was such a glorious shade of red, crimson, so distinctive that one would notice it a mile off. There was a leather guard with the fleur de lis emblazoned on the left shoulder. Oh, how they knew I was left-handed I may never know. At the end of its arms were brown leather gloves to match the boots with the sleeves of the coat tucked in just as the trousers were. Resting on the mannequin's chest was a hat, the most magnificent and pompous hat ever created. It was enormous, like one a musketeer would wear, red to match the coat and with the most extravagant feather taken from the plumage of what must have been an ostrich or an emu protruding from the right side.

As anyone would in such a situation, I put on the outfit as fast as possible and then ran up to the attic to gather my gear, grinning all the while, with my spurs clinking as though someone was jangling their keys during a boring conversation. My belt was on, sword hanging from the loop with the dagger in a sheath on the other side, and the pistols were attached to my chest through loops on a leather, bandolier-like sash that was hidden by the hat whilst it was still on the mannequin. There was no room for the musket, however, but I was certain I could attach it to the saddle of my horse. I felt amazing, like an actual musketeer. My chest was pushed and my chin was raised with pride.

I felt the need to show off to Belle so I ran out to our stables to get my horse. Belle was the one who had taught me to ride, and in turn I taught her to fence as my father had done with me. We lived near each other for years, her parents buying the farm for a nice relaxing life in the country when I was five years of age, but my father moved into my mother's farm when they found out she was pregnant with me. We grew up together, so we fought with sticks and rode horses together whenever we could, although I must confess that I believe myself to be better at riding than she is at swordplay.

So I mounted up, my musket now lashed to the saddle underneath my left leg with some left-over leather strips I found lying around in the barn. I loved my horse, the sleek mare was a former show-jumper and the fastest I've ever ridden, even with all of the training Belle's chestnut stallion received, but he still put up a fight and gave us a run for our money. My horse was a grey French Anglo-Arab, tall and gorgeous, and named Ardent. I know that name in English means 'eager', which she most certainly is, but in my tongue it more closely translates to 'burning one'. Belle rode a stallion, Aramis (after the musketeer and not the perfume), an American Paint, who was slightly shorter but in no way any less handsome than my filly, with a white patch over his right eye and two more on the bottom parts of his forelegs. Ardent was loyal and normally very docile, but when she was in season she would rage like an ocean storm and thrash out like the waves that would be created if anyone approached her. Aramis, on the other hand, was really quite moody, but at least he was consistent, and he would warm to you if he knew you could be trusted.

We slowly cantered out of the barn and as soon as we were in the open air she was off, galloping across the fields past hay bales and tractors so fast and gracefully like the living embodiment of the wind, her hooves thudding and my spurs still clinking, although I was getting used to them now so they were a lot easier to ignore. I didn't want to hurt my dear Ardent so I tried my best to keep my spurs out of her flanks, using only the reigns to control her. However, I could only use one hand, as the other was firmly placed on top of my outlandish hat to prevent it from flying away in the wind.

It wasn't long before I was at the Belmont farm, and I knew almost immediately that something was wrong, as I could see an unfamiliar black Jeep parked up near the stables. To add to this I saw a figure being practically launched out of the stables onto his back. Someone was trying to hurt Belle and Aramis didn't like it, and neither did I.

I jumped off of Ardent, so eager was I to rush to Belle's aid. The man who flew from the stables was not moving apart from a slight rise and fall of his chest, so I ignored him as he appeared unconscious. But what I couldn't ignore were the two men pinning Belle, my sweet, innocent maiden, onto the floor and tying her up. Quick as a flash I drew a flintlock and fired a warning shot into the air, or I would have done if I had actually loaded the damn thing, but I hadn't thought I would have needed it. Instead I drew my sword and dagger and ran at the men.

One of them turned around just as I was about to slash my sabre across his back, obviously hearing my thoroughly conspicuous spurs, and he instinctively raised his left arm to block my attack whilst teaching for a machete on the floor with his right. In an instant he had brought his knife above his head and was bringing it down towards mine, the look of pain from my slash to his arm still seared on his face, but I raised my sword to block just as he had with his arm. I was expecting my blade to break or bend, as it seemed so flimsy, but somehow it held, and his blade had slid down to the rings of my knuckle guard. Now I had him. I pressed the button on my dagger and it split into three, and then I used this to trap his blade and wrench the machete out of his hand, before I thrust the pommel of my foil at his head, knocking him out.

Then I heard the thud of hooves and saw Aramis bolt out of the stable door, the last man on the stallion's back with Belle tied up and bent over the rear. I assumed the kidnapper thought he couldn't make it to the Jeep and thus Aramis seemed a more viable means of escape, so whilst I was distracted the man had used the opportunity to get away. But such trivialities were of no consequence to me at that point, so I ran out to Ardent, who was patiently waiting for me, and leapt onto her saddle, ready to give chase.

Aramis was slower than Ardent, and this difference was even more profound with the added weight. I had considered launching the middle blade of the dagger at the villain but I would risk hurting poor Aramis, which may lead to an injury to Belle. I was better off riding over the open fields until I was close enough to attack the kidnapper.

During this chase it dawned on me that this was probably a ransom thing, just to try and get money out of Belle's rich parents. But there wasn't much time for any more thinking, as I was within reach of Aramis before I knew it.

I had to think of some way to get control of Aramis and get rid of the man without hurting myself, Belle or either of the steeds. Grabbing the reigns was too risky while this thief still had hold of them, but I realised that nobody but me knew my flintlocks weren't loaded. In a moment of sheet brilliance a pulled one out and pressed the barrel against his head. He lifted his hands from the reigns and, before he realised the mistake he had made, I had let go of Ardent's reigns and pushed him from the horse. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him tumble over, get up, and run in the opposite direction.

Without any grip on the reigns, Aramis slowed to a halt and I slowed Ardent alongside him, placing a hand on Belle's back after I had holstered my pistol so she didn't fall of. Once the horses were no longer moving I clambered down from my saddle then used my dagger to cut the ropes around Belle's wrists and ankles before helping her down. Before I could remove the rag tied around her mouth she had grabbed my dagger and cut a sleeve from her shirt, using it to bandage her wrist where I must have accidentally cut her.

I untied the rag, and just as I was about to ask if she was alright she had flung her arms around my neck to hug me. I placed my hands on her waist and kissed her, just a delicate peck at first, but once our eyes met she moved back in for another and suddenly we were kissing passionately, as I had hoped we would for so long. What a sight it must have been for any passer by I cannot imagine; a musketeer in full regalia, a man out of time to anyone with no prior knowledge of the situation, in the throws of passion with a gorgeous, young French maiden in her dirt-covered plaid shirt and jeans with a bandage around one of her wrists and her gorgeous locks flowing in the breeze like a roaring flame, two magnificent horses feeding behind them.

"Thank you so much, Gerard," Belle managed to say between kisses. "I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn't have turned up."

"Don't worry my beauty, you're safe now," I replied. But upon saying that, something hit me. I had just saved a life, but there were plenty of other people that needed saving in the world and it was my duty to carry on the legacy of Antón Pacháez and save them. As much as it would pain me to leave Belle, I had to go to Arcachon and get the boat to this academy place.

"I'm sorry Belle, I have to go," I said, pulling away from her loving embrace. I then explained all about the letter and the outfit and how I had to honour the memory of Pacháez.

"But what about us?" she asked, the tears now welling up in her eyes.

I considered my options for a moment. Even if I escorted Belle back home and possibly stayed for a short while I could still ride to Arcachon in time to catch the ship, so that is what I did.

The journey back involved many a difficult conversation. I instructed Belle to tell my parents everything, sparing only the details of our romantic involvement with each other. After we had spoken of that I promised her that we would maintain in contact with her and that I would remain faithful only to her so we could pick up where we left off upon my return.

When we reached Belle's home I was invited inside. In the spirit of chivalry I shall not tell you, dear reader, exactly what happened there but I am certain that you have a general idea of the kind of activity we engaged in. I wanted to stay for much longer, but I had a boat to catch so I had to leave almost immediately afterwards.

I bid farewell to the delicate flower that had stolen my heart with a kiss, and henceforth began my journey.

Not much of interest happened over the course of the long ride to the port. Ardent and I stayed in run-down barns at night, mostly because I didn't want to pressure my darling mare too much, I valued her greatly and I couldn't bear to hurt her.

Upon reaching the port, in amongst the yachts and catamarans I saw one boat that stood out; a wonderful wooden ship like a small galleon with it's crisp, white sails down as though it was ready to set off. On the back of the ship was an emblem, one I thought I recognised, but by the time that I realised it was on the letter I received the boat was already moving.

I had saved a kidnapped girl, so I knew I wouldn't let this opportunity sail out of the port. Remaining absolutely calm and composed I put my head down and risked giving Ardent a little jab with my spurs. She was off like a rocket, racing after the boat as a cheetah would with a gazelle.

As luck would have it, a man unloading his speedboat from the back of a truck had not raised the back yet, and as soon as I saw this I knew I could use it as a ramp. My timing had to be impeccable, otherwise my faithful steed and I would end up in the rippling water, which sparkled in the sunlight. I went for it and Ardent jumped (thank goodness she was a former show-jumper!) just as the boat was in front of us.

We landed on the deck perfectly, Ember's head held high proudly as though she knew what she had done and how happy I was with her because of it.

That, reader, was the boat to The Academy, on the remote Scandinavian island of Øya Helter. That is where I met and joined the ACES. Those are the people with whom I trained with and honed my abilities in order to do justice to the former owner of my equipment, the great musketeer Antón Pacháez. That is my tale, but my tale alone. My adventures with the ACES, my friends and fellow heroes, are yet to come.