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The cock crowed twice at the crack of dawn. The sunlight touched the little village near the River Yaruga, revealing it to be empty, for the villagers had taken heed of the blacksmith's suggestion and fled northwest to the mountains. Maleon thought it best to follow the caravan to the common road until they reached the path taking them to Cintra, one of the ruling city states of the province. There, they would be safe, and the craft of a blacksmith would secure them a spot in the city quite well.

The shadow of the Nilfgaardian Empire was upon them, and the idea met little contest when the armies of the Black started closing down upon them in the distance. Anaia kept close watch over her charge, her savior, as he rocked painfully on the unsteady wagon. Poor Frank had to steel himself for the long ride, as the wheels would suddenly jerk up from every stone that came their way. Every now and then, a muttered curse would erupt from the wounded ex-marine's tightly pressed lips as the sudden shaking would jar his painful body from side to side.

At the very least, Anaia kept him entertained with her singing and engaged in the occasional small talk as the days went by. Frank Castle wasn't one for the latter, but he appreciated the woman's attempts to make him comfortable. Anaia would change his bandages, clean his wounds, and cook him some of that delicious broth on the stew. Also, in spite of his many protests, she fed him herself. There was something about her cooking that sparked a memory from a past long buried, and Frank didn't care if the memory hurt. She was good at her job, being his nurse in all but name, he had to give her credit where it was due.

"Where are you from, Franque?" Anaia asked.

Frank ignored the mispronunciation of his name and turned his head away, refusing to give too many details. "Not from here." He wasn't on Earth anymore, that much was certain. Frank didn't really care for the details, he just simply accepted the fact that he landed on a foreign world as it was. At least people still speak English over here.

Anaia took a hint and changed the subject, "It won't be long before you can get back on your feet. I've seen your wounds, they no longer look as glossy as before. That's a good sign, you're well on the way to recovery."

"Good, means I can finally get off the wagon." Frank grunted.

Maleon echoed the sentiment, pointing out that with all their cargo taking up space in the wagon, there was only room for two. "Agreed, it's about time I rode and you walked!"

Frank let a wry smile form on his lips at the jest. He then got up to limp back to the wagon, "Where'd you pack my things?"

"I folded them inside the box, the red one." Anaia replied.

Frank donned his shirt and the vest with his signature skull symbol as gently as possible, for every brush against his chest sent wave after wave of agony coursing through his body. The Punisher put on his coat and holstered his guns. Frank took note that in this world's medieval period, the guns were way too advanced for the era and were the most powerful tools of destruction at his disposal. That would mean too that they were not as expendable as they had been back home. He had four magazines of .45, counting the ones inside the guns themselves. There was no way he'd be able to replace the precious ammo supply once spent. And if he was trapped in here, he would have to spend them only when he absolutely needed them.

So, the Punisher set his mind on arming himself with something less wasteful and as practical as possible. He would need to do so, seeing as there was no way he would be getting back to Earth any time soon.

Frank looked down and noticed Maleon staring at his guns strapped to his thighs, their eyes met and the old man remarked thoughtfully. "Curious looking weapons, those."

"Yeah." Frank shrugged, pausing to rest on the wagon. "Hey, listen. You've done enough for me these passed few days, so we're square. Once I've felt I'm ready for it, I'm going to make my own way."

"Wait until you've healed enough for the journey." Anaia said, genuinely concerned for her charge's welfare. "Once you're out there, there won't be anyone for miles around to help you if your wounds open up again."

"I know that." Frank replied, "I think I'll stick around for a day or two, but I can't be around long."

"Why so eager to leave?" Maleon asked curiously.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, and stared at the horizon thoughtfully. "People tend to get hurt when I'm around for too long. Being on the move is like second nature to me, works better that way for everyone, especially for nice folks like you." The man shook his head, "I learned all that the hard way, you see."

Anaia and her father exchanged looks, and the woman spoke kindly to her savior. "Master Castle, we're not pressing you for anything. We're just concerned, that's all. If you feel that you need to leave, you're absolutely free to do so. But let me repeat myself, please don't push yourself too hard. Your death is on us, please understand that."

"Mmh." Frank grunted, "One day or two. No more."


The little caravan reached the crossroads, and many separated to go their own way, leaving only a small band of travelers to accompany Maleon and his daughter to the path up to Cintra. True to his word, Frank bade the two goodbye and left as soon as his wounds had healed enough for him to go it alone. Unlike most people, Frank's purpose in life wasn't too hard to understand or pursue.

He needed to be around people, not to interact- socially speaking- but to uproot any scum that preyed on the weak and innocent. There wasn't much to do with his life, now that his first purpose had been snuffed out of him the day they killed his family. There was just his hands, the blood, and the cold corpses of the people he killed.

It was grim, dark and ugly. But even in that he found solace, some semblance of purpose. He had it back on Earth, it wouldn't be difficult for him to have it here.

As Frank walked the muddy, stone flecked path, he took a moment to take a piss in the woods nearby before setting back on the path opposite of Cintra. As he finished, however, the Punisher heard above the still rustle of the leaves blown by the passing wind, the clamor of battle and the screams of dying men. A single cry, of a very familiar voice, echoed through the hills and disappeared into the valley beyond. Frank's eyes widened, and his heart hammered against his chest.

That voice was Anaia's!

Frank was off like a rocket back the way he came. The Punisher ignored the thistles in his path as he thundered down the dirt road with the speed of a maddened horse. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his legs burned as he pushed hard to cover the distance. He came at last to the horrific scene of a skirmish between the armies of Nilfgaard and the sorely lacking armies of the North.

Cintra was unprepared, to say the least, against the better equipped, better trained veterans of the Black. It was a slaughter, with little casualties on Nilfgaard's part. The main body had moved on to secure a strategic location, leaving stragglers to loot the dead and slay the survivors. And there, caught in the crossfire, was the little caravan Frank had just left.

Or rather, what was left of it.

Frank approached the slaughter grounds, feeling a bit lightheaded as he took in the sprawled bodies of the villagers, and of the old man Maleon. Beside him, with three arrows through her back, was Anaia.

The poor thing struggled to get to her feet, but collapsed painfully back on the ground after every try. Her silent tears trickled down her cheeks as her eyes clenched tight from all the pain shooting up and down her spine. Finally, she let out a whimper as Frank tenderly picked her up and held her in his arms. Anaia uttered a gasp, then two, as her eyes opened to search desperately for any hope in her savior's face.

She found none, save for a burning hatred in his gaze. Flashes of a dead woman and her dying children raced through his mind, held in his arms as they clung to the fraying strands of life. Flashes of his family, torn to shreds by a mob hitman's gun.

"F-Franque?" Anaia breathed.

Then, she was still.

And Frank moved. He laid the woman gently back on the ground, drew one of his guns on instinct and rose up to kill every Nilfgaardian soldier left in the aftermath of the battle. His bullets found their marks, and Frank did not lower the gun until the full load had been used. He then holstered the gun and yanked free a fallen shortsword from its resting place on a horse's belly, then he started hacking at the stragglers too stupid to run.

The Nilfgaardian looters were too surprised to act at first, and by the time they did, Frank had already killed six of their comrades in a single streak across the battlefield. The marksmen drew their crossbows, took aim, and fired at the larger man. Crossbow bolts and arrows worked differently than bullets, kevlar was flexible enough to strain against slugs but were flimsy in the face of sharp points. It wouldn't stop a knife, it certainly wouldn't stop a steel-tipped bolt, and so Frank ducked in between the trampled wagons of the destroyed caravan.

He was fast, but the pain of his sore spots impaired his speed, just enough that he couldn't avoid every shot the Nilfgaardians made. A bolt struck Frank in the shoulder, and though the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him from losing momentum, that didn't stop him from feeling the biting agony of a steel bolt digging deep into flesh and bone. "Fuck!" The Punisher roared like an enraged bear, and out of anger drew his gun, shooting down the marksmen from behind cover.

Another magazine emptied, he was losing precious ammunition fast.

Frank took a second to clear his head, and he put his gun back where it belonged. He cursed himself for acting out of impulse, the bullets were meant for emergencies only. This instance didn't count as one. Frank looked down and saw a dead man's hand gripping on to a bow, and on his back was a quiver full of arrows. A grim smile formed on the Punisher's face as he got the idea. He picked up the weapon, stuck the sword onto the dirt, and nocked an arrow.

There was only one or two times in his life where he used a bow and arrow, Frank knew that wasn't enough to make him a marksman for that particular weapon, he hoped what little he knew would be enough to get him through the battle. With that in mind, the Punisher swiveled free from cover and took aim. He shot his first arrow, luckily hitting the first of the rushing swordsmen in the stomach, but not enough to pierce the thick armor covering his torso.

Frank slowed his breathing, nocked another arrow, and took aim as he drew the tight bowstring up to his cheek. He remembered not to grip the bow so tightly that his aim would be true, and then released. The next arrow hit the man's gorget dead center, and pierced through to the back of his neck! Frank rejoiced silently, nocked another arrow, then drew to hit the next target.

He never got the chance, because the Nilfgaardians had already closed the distance.

The Punisher dove back, dropping his bow and quiver to fetch the shortsword stuck to the ground. Frank yanked it out of the dirt, faced his enemies with a low crouched stance, then dove forward to get under the reach of the Nilfgaardian soldier next to him. His longsword was slow, and it passed overhead, narrowly missing Frank's face as he slid across the mud. The shortsword sliced through the thin plating beneath the heavier upper plating covering the man's chest, and drew blood. The Nilfgaardian yelped, clutched at his stomach, and staggered back.

Frank rose up, planted his feet firmly as he skidded to a stop, then buried his sword through the man's mouth and out the back of his head. He swiveled around just in time to parry the third soldier's swing. Steel met steel, and the men struggled to push each other off, waiting to see who would falter first.

Frank had control of his body, the soldier didn't. He swept his leg right under the soldier's own, throwing him off balance, and gave him the chance to finish him off. The Punisher flipped the man's weapon free from his hands, then cleaved his head in half! The blow set an ache in Frank's arms, but he ignored it in the spur of the moment. More soldiers were coming from all sides, and Frank just lost it as he fought desperately for his life.

Never corner a wounded animal. Wise words, often unheeded.

Frank gasped for air, as if he had just taken a dive, and looked around. Nobody was left alive for miles around, he had emerged victorious!

But he never felt that bit of satisfaction. The anger in him no longer burned like an inferno, it merely smoldered like dying embers. Frank turned back to find the bodies of the people who took care of him, good innocent people who wanted no part in the violence and died just the same. The Punisher found a shovel in the wreck of the wagons, and proceeded to bury Maleon and his daughter.

He carried their bodies into the woods, found a good clearing, then set to work. He dug two six feet graves to ensure that no animal or man would dig them up, never caring for the hours he toiled or the biting agony of his wound in his shoulder. They deserved better, far better than this. It was the least he could do for all they've done for him.

When he finished, Frank leaned backwards, sweat pouring in rivers around his face, neck and back. He took a knife, two stones, and proceeded to carve some words on them. He put Maleon's name on the first, and Anaia's on the other, writing loving father and loving daughter. These he set atop the freshly dug graves, then got up to say some words.

He opened his mouth, but no words would come out. No eloquent speeches, no tearful eulogies. Frank looked back at the battlefield, gazed down at the bodies of the soldiers he had killed, then decided he had done enough. No speech or eulogy could match action, and the Punisher had balanced the scales. He had punished the men responsible for the murders, and now all that was left was to hunt down the commanders who gave the order.

They too had to be punished.

And so Frank returned his sorrowful gaze back to the gravestones, and sighed. "You two rest. I've got work to do." The Punisher walked away, dressed his wound, and took a moment to gather the weapons he could use in the one-man war he was about to start against the Empire. One might call it too ambitious, the plan forming in his mind, for Frank had decided to climb that ladder, follow the chain of command that started these atrocities.

The people who died, the innocents who were slaughtered, in the campaigns waged by kings and emperors to expand their territories or to feed their ambitions, their cry for justice often went unanswered. Frank was here to change that. His heart burned with renewed vigor, and he reveled in the renewed purpose.

The chain of command, from the lowliest commander up to the nobles that signed the orders, to the very emperor who sat upon that high throne, Frank would kill them all. It might take a long while, maybe his whole life, but Frank swore that those injustices would meet their due.

And woe betide the guilty when the Punisher walks the earth.

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A/N

Hello there, dear readers! I'm glad this idea's well received by you, and I'm excited to hear what you think about it all, and also any suggestions to make it better. I'm not perfect, neither are my stories, but the effort to make it as close as possible to that is there.

Till next chapter, au revoir!