Written for fic_promptly again. I'm not one for challenges, but I just wanted to try once. But I'm not prolific enough, lol.
Despite their big, all-important mission tomorrow – their chance to get up in the world – Dagran was unable to sleep. He had already checked up on everybody – no one was hurt, the mages were tired as usual and Syrenne was not getting wasted tonight. He should be able to sleep. He needed to. They had to impress the Count with their strength, intelligence and loyalty. He needed to see more in them than just "mercenaries".
With an annoyed sigh, Dagran swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked around in the dark room. Zael and Yurick were sleeping soundly, Lowell was missing. Dagran frowned; maybe that was what kept him awake. Lowell was gone, probably sleeping in some woman's bed, and would probably not rested tomorrow.
No, that was not it, Dagran knew deep down. He ran his hands over his face, massaging his eyes, before he stood up and grabbed his and Zael's sword. His actual sword was already in a perfect shape, as it should be. Too much polishing and sharpening would destroy the blade – he had learnt that the hard way.
After grabbing the cloth and polishing paste, Dagran tiptoed out of the room. There was still music and heavy drinking going on in the bar despite it being near sunrise. Dagran sat down at the table near the door again, trying to ignore the noise, and unsheathed the sword.
He hesitated for a second, as he always did when he looked at the sword, and smiled at the memory of buying it with Zael. Shaking his head, he grabbed the cloth, dipped it into the polishing paste and ran the cloth in long, slow strokes over the steel.
It wasn't nervousness or worry about his friends that kept him awake. Dagran was almost sure of that. He had the feeling it had to do with the knights who had arrived a few hours ago. Dagran hadn't recognised him at first, but after other passer-bys said his name, he remembered. He remembered the murderer of his family. General Asthar.
Dagran gritted his teeth and forced his hand to remain steady. The man was here, letting the idiots who had no idea who he was – what he had done – celebrate him. Dagran shook his head in disbelief and turned the blade around to polishing the other side.
Dagran didn't believe they would sympathise with him. Everyone he had told about this – and the number was not high because of their reactions – told him the general was not at fault. He didn't know what these soldiers were capable of – that they would commit such an atrocity. Dagran had told them that it was his duty as their commander to keep them in check. The general was just as much at fault as the soldiers.
His "friends" had just shaken their heads at him and said that he didn't understand. And they were right; he couldn't understand how they could excuse the murderer. Dagran was a commander and if any of his men would commit crimes, it would be his fault as well. It was part of leading a group of people.
And Dagran could never forgive General Asthar for failing and causing the death of so many people. He had long ago decided to call the general to account for his crimes. It seemed the time had finally come.
Grimly, Dagran ran the polishing cloth one last time over the sword and after checking his work, he sheathed the blade and walked back up into their room. The others were still sleeping and after Dagran had pulled the blanket close around him, he felt that he could sleep again. Only when he had a plan, Dagran could relax completely.
