Just a note: For the two Kingdoms featured in this story I use the names Scandinavia and Britannia, which are both real-world terms but in the context of this story have absolutely zero historical significance. I just wanted to make it clear that this is complete fantasy.
Anyways, enjoy :)
"I yield."
The man on his knees breathed out the words, his head bowed towards the soot covered ground, a last and only attempt for his life. In the remains of what was once a small farming village nestled in the mountain range of the Kingdom of Scandinavia, the war that had raged for many years had finally taken its toll. It had arriving in the form of fire. It was a war fueled by greed and pride, as senseless as it had been bloody. For eight years the Kingdoms of Scandinavia and Britannia had battled for land and power. Now, beneath a sky shrouded with smoke, fields of crops withered in the flames, and the smell of death mingled with desperation.
'I yield," the man had managed, a Britanni soldier hovering above him with his sword in hand. The sentiment was much too insufficient for the soldier. The cruel eyes weighed down on the kneeling man. Lars van der Berg was his name. He was nothing more than a farmer, but he was proud. He had worked tirelessly in his fields, had cared endlessly for a sister and a brother. All of these were now lost in the fire that the Britanni soldiers has set.
"You can do better than that," The soldier said in reply to the attempted surrender, mouth twisted into something like a grin. The gesture was corrupted by the malice in his words. Lars gritted his teeth. Was the soldier suggesting he begged? He was not wealthy in any regard. Nothing more than a peasant in the eyes of some, but he was proud. Lars van der Berg would take death over begging for his life in a heartbeat.
Perhaps he could have fought back, if he had a sword. Memories of a childhood honing his skills in the woods near his family's farmhouse slipped in and out of his mind. Could it have been only last week that he had dueled with his brother? How did it all fall apart so fast, when for years they had been so untouched by the war, hidden behind the mountain range of the Eastern kingdom? They had been shielded from the fighting for a long eight years. Now, this sudden disaster had struck the small village down in one blow. 'It's karma,' Lars decided, 'for eight peaceful years while the rest of the kingdom suffered. For twenty-six long years of life and family and comfort.' The small battalion had swept in, barely more than a raiding party. They had set fire to the fields, to the barns and houses. There had been nothing Lars could do, no weapon in hand that would count against the armoured soldiers. So he watched as the village he had grown up in withered in the heat. Now he was covered in soot and dirt, with not a hope to defend himself from the foreign invaders. He resigned himself to his fate.
At Lars' silence the Easter soldier sneered, "Your loss, pig… literally." He heard the man's weight shift above him. Not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes, he kept his head down, waiting for the sword to finish him. It didn't get the chance.
"You there, stop!" a voice called out in the near distance. Lars heard the soldier shift his weight again, lowering his sword. There was the sound of hooves. Lars raised his head enough to see a figure approach on horseback. "What are you doing?" the man on the horse asked. It was a question, but the words spit out angry like an accusation.
"Only putting down this pig, Your Grace. That is, if it pleases you?"
This was, evidently, not what the man had wanted to hear. "It absolutely does not please me," he answered sharply. Lars lifted his gaze further to see a young man suited in fine armour sliding off of the horse. His wavy blond hair slicked back with sweat. He couldn't have been more than nineteen, but he stood with an air of authority. "We are not mindless beasts, and this is an unarmed man! Is this what we've sunk to, killing innocents? Is this how you would represent my father, the king?" The man was Britannia royalty then?
"N-no, Your Grace, I didn't-"
"That's enough. We have cleaning up to do," The young man's tone was sharp. Lars watched from the ground as the stranger surveyed the remains of the village, embers still floating softly away in the wind. "Go make yourself useful. Look for other survivors, see to it that they are treated compassionately," He finally ordered. The soldier who had only moments ago been Lars' demise hurried off like a scolded dog.
"Can you stand?" The man asked, speaking to Lars for the first time. He offered a gloved hand. A very expensive looking hand, Lars noted. He took it gingerly, unsure of the noble's intentions, pulling himself to his feet. He stood a foot taller than the nobleman, but he felt dwarfed by the man's presence, or perhaps belittled by his own loss. There was something in the man's face, a gentleness. Or rather, Lars observed, a guiltiness. The man had started talking again, Lar's hadn't realized, "… I had sent them ahead to scout the area, I didn't realize- If I had gotten here sooner I would have stopped this. If I had known…" Then his face seemed to harden, stopping himself just short of an apology, "But it's done now, isn't it? What is your name?"
"Lars," He managed to say, taken aback. "Lars van der Berg."
"I am Matthew, Prince of the Kingdom of Britannia. Pleased to make your acquaintance, though maybe not under these circumstances?" the pause that ensued was awkward. Lars could feel the anger and pain beginning to fizzle inside him now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed. The prince continued, "I'll see to it that you're given food, and compensated for your loss."
'What's that even supposed to mean? Compensated for my loss,' Lars thought, 'you can't give me back my family or my farm. There's nothing some stuffy noble can give me that will fix this.' Instead he said, "Thank you." And he meant it.
The prince had been true to his word. He and a handful of other survivors were given food, tents to sleep in for the night, and a small amount of gold each. This was no doubt more than most victims of Britanni raiding parties received. The soldiers who had just hours before destroyed their homes and killed their loved ones now cared for them, following the orders of their prince. They looked at Lars and his fellow townspeople with mixed looks of disgust and pity. And underneath it all there was shame, probably instilled in them by the prince himself. Lars noted the respect the small company of soldiers had for him. It was a shame that they hated their Scandinavian neighbors more than they respected their seemingly compassionate leader.
He lay awake that night in his borrowed tent. As an uncertain feeling of safety settled in, the anger and pain he had begun to feel before once again bubble up in his chest. It was a flood of emotions that he recognized as uncharacteristic in himself. All at once everything had changed, everything he had known was stolen from him. But his life had been returned, given back to him from the leather gloved hands of a Britanni prince. Even through the pain of the loss he felt the sting of wounded pride. To have his life graciously spared by those who had taken away everything else; he was ashamed by his own weakness. He was dishonoured, as much as a simple farmer could have honour to begin with. Regardless, he was now in debt to a foreigner, to a man many of his countrymen would call the enemy. Whoever he was, Lars owed his life to this young man.
This young prince, Matthew had been his name, what was Lars supposed to think of him? He felt gratitude, how could he not? Lars would have been dead if the young prince had not arrived in time. He had shown regret, even remorse for the burning of Lars' village, or at least Lars suspected as much. In the limited number of Britanni which he had met, most had either wanted to, or were actively trying to kill him. The war had created an open hostility between the two kingdoms, an effect of the bloodshed that Lars had observed even in the isolated farming village. Matthew had been an exception, the first Britanni he had met since the war started who didn't seem to harbour a hatred for his enemy.
It wasn't long before his thoughts were once again clouded by grief, drawing his attention away from the young prince and back towards the family and home that he had lost. It was many long hours before a restless sleep finally overcame him, and he gave in to his exhaustion.
The following morning those left from his village gathered to discuss what would happened to them next. There was an elderly man, a couple of children, three woman and a man. And Lars. They were all that was left of their village. They stood at a safe distance from the Britanni battalion, who were packing their tents and supplies. Lars watched from a distance as what looked like a young recruit rolled up a sleeping mat. He felt numb as he listened to the others talk.
The general consensus seemed to be that the group would head towards the capital. They were calling it the last safe place in the kingdom. From what Lars had heard the city was bursting at the seams with refugees, people who had lost their homes in a similar fashion. The so-called safest place in the kingdom was nothing more than a melting pot of the poor, the sick and the injured. Whatever safety it offered was nothing more than a self-serving sense of security created by the Scandinavian king, who hid behind his walls as his kingdom died around him.
Matthew had given them their freedom. Wherever they chose to go next, they had the freedom to do so without obstacle from the prince and his army. "We will be no hindrance to you, at least not at this time," he had said earlier that morning, "My people and I will be heading back across the border."
"More likely off to kill more of us," One of the woman said, trying to sound more angry than sad.
"The one in the shiny armour seemed nice," A child whispered. He was hushed.
"Just puttin' on airs, that's what those noble types do. Trying t' keep his hands clean, that's all." The others nodded in agreement, but Lars was not so sure.
Lars spotted the shiny armour of the prince stalking the outskirts of the camp. Checking in, helping his men pack their things. He had saved the lives of his enemies. Was this putting on airs? Lars considered a life in the capital. The busy streets, the rampant poverty. 'So different from farming,' he thought. His eyes followed Matthew as he moved in the distance, hurrying around camp.
Near his feet a child sat, playing with a small flower that had survived the fire. A tulip, one of the many that used to grow in the meadows around his village. Lars found himself wondering if they could ever grow back. The small child clutched the flower to their chest, and Lars was overwhelmed once again with emotion. An appreciation this time, for the life that had survived. He found himself wondering what his own life was worth, what could he make of himself now? He was in debt to this kindly prince, not only for his own life, but for the others who had remained, and for one small flower that remained untouched by the flames of the night before.
"It's a long journey," somebody said, "We best move out before these dogs change their mind and take us all prisoner." There were solemn mumbles of agreement. People began to gather their few belongings.
"I… I'm not going with you." Lars stated.
"What are you talking about, Lars?" The elderly man asked. Lars recognized him now as the old shopkeeper who lived by himself. He had given a much younger Lars, and his siblings, sweets whenever they had visited the shop. Lars had always passed his portion along to the younger ones.
"The capital isn't for me," he replied, voice flat, 'I'll figure something out."
He bid them farewell, thought they seemed rather reluctant, and watched as they made their way southward towards the capital, hauling with them the remnants of ruined lives. He remained there for some time, alone, watching as Matthew and his men loaded horses and carts with supplies, fitted themselves with armour, doused campfires. Then, he walked towards them, closing the distance
He approached the prince cautiously. Matthew was saddling his own horse for the ride. As Lars drew closer the Matthew's gaze found him before quickly dancing away again, avoiding eye contact. 'He really does feel guilty,' Lars realized, sighing softly. He became only surer of himself as he moved nearer.
"I owe you my life." Lars stated plainly, now standing opposite to Matthew as he prepped his horse.
Matthew looked up from his task, feigning surprise as if he had not just seen Lars walking towards him, "Oh, it's you. Well… don't mention it. I'm sure I owe you much more than you owe me." He coughed.
"You didn't personally start that fire, yeah? However, you did stop that man from killing me," Lars didn't have the patience nor the energy to further explain his reasons for feeling beholden. Rather, he pressed on to his point, "I'm good with a sword, with my skill I could repay you."
Matthew opened his mouth, and closed it again. Twice. He was not the same well-spoken leader Lars had observed the night before. 'I've caught him off guard.'
"So you're suggesting," He finally said, "That I give you a weapon and trust that you'll use it to serve me rather than to cut my head off? The day after my men burned down your village?" The prince winced at his own words.
"Yes." Lars stated, "A debt is a debt."
"You don't- Ugh," Matthew shook his head. He gave Lars a look which was equal parts bemused and impressed. Clearing his throat, he said, "I am pleased by your display of honour. I will consider your offer. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to prepare yourself for travel. We depart in twenty minutes."
Lars bowed his head. As he backed away he took one last glance at the prince he had just offered his service to. The man looked even younger in the morning light. No different than the young men who had died the night before, who had once had their whole life ahead of them. He couldn't have been much older than his own brother, who had only been seventeen. Lars remembered the fear his brother had felt at the thought of this war, and couldn't help but to wonder if Matthew felt it too.
