Please be aware this chapter contains: blood, moderate violence, burgeoning arseholery and attempted sass. Please be aware this author contains: a mild shellfish allergy, questionable fashion choices, a lot of tea and a mounting crisis of confidence (dear God someone please help me). Jokey content warnings aside, I sincerely hope my content doesn't cause anyone any distress and that people continue to find reading this worthwhile and interesting.
Cheers, Freckles
Thynn is dead. Hervey's sat with his head in his lap, petting his hair as if it might still do some good. Everyone's pretending they can't see Hervey cry. The knights that survived through their first combat are either standing, wide-eyed, pale and unable to move or trying to be as busy as humanly possible. Ross hasn't stopped looking at his hands for the past five minutes while van Lawick keeps insisting he's fine helping collect the dead despite vomiting after he moves every single one.
Innes-Ker stands over Link while a medical officer stitches the wound on his arm. The Lord hasn't said a word yet, just hovered like a tight-lipped sentinel. They're waiting for van der Renne to come back. He and his scouts have gone to survey the damage and see what can be done about the rock slides that have cut the army into pieces. It looks worse in some places than others. Many seem to have made imperfect dams, allowing the Hylian troops to dribble through and puddle together here.
Link feels grey. The dust from the explosion has painted him a dull sepia to match. He can feel the suturing of his arm but that's about it. He keeps staring back down the road where he'd still be curled up on the ground if it wasn't for Anders. Instead the Colour Sergeant hauled him up and dragged him away like a ragdoll. He knows exactly what he's hoping to see. Red eyes, pale blonde hair, broad shoulders and a thin waist, a dancer's body coated in mud and leaves and dust just like him. He's waiting for it, but it just isn't showing up. The semblances of feelings he can muster up echo around in his head, he's utterly hollow.
The sound of two pairs of feet in lockstep with one another drills into his ears, van der Renne is back. He swallows before speaking, like he'd rather keep the words inside.
`The damage is more wide spread than we'd like. There were at least three explosions, possibly four.'
`Casualties?' Innes-Ker's expression is pinched, whatever van der Renne says isn't going to be good news
`Not as extensive as it could have been but the number of fatalities is. . . greater than we hoped.'
Link clenches his fist. His fingernails bite into his palm, but it feels like it's happening to someone else. Greater? Greater doesn't matter. One, just one very particular one is all it takes and the world ends.
`Mostly, the debris can be cleared but there are a few places we don't have the time for.'
Everyone grimaces, they're needed at the front, especially if the Empire is advancing quicker than they expected. Whatever, and whoever, is behind the earthen barricades they can't shift is going to be left behind. The Lord rubs a dirty hand across his eyes,
`Who is unaccounted for?'
`So far, we're missing Auvergne company and half of Oxholm company but not Sir Oxholm himself. Although, conversely, we've got Roucy company but not Roucy. Stanhope, Erskine and Thynn are deceased. Almost all of the companies are missing some men but not nearly as badly as Oxholm. And. . . also, some of the Gerudo women are unaccounted for, along with. . .' it's not usual for van der Renne to struggle getting his words out, everyone stares blankly at the silence, `along with Sir Sheik, who was riding with them. . . we found his mount but not. . . not him.'
What do people do when they're sad? He's not sure he knows anymore. Cry? Shout? Collapse to the floor and sob until they've just up every ounce of self they've got left? He's done that. There isn't anything left. He stares at all the faces looking at him. Stares at each in turn as if they'll tell him what he needs to do now. They don't, they just return his vacant, opened-mouthed look with crinkled, sad little eyes.
`Oh,' he says, to fill the silence more than anything.
Someone crouches down and lays a hand on his shoulder, `He'll be alive, seven years of Ganondorf couldn't kill him so. . . so he'll be alive.' It's not the most well-crafted comfort but it's got the weight of belief behind it.
Link hadn't even realised Estienne was there. He'd heard him walk up, watched him stand there next to van der Renne, even looked him dead in the eye and just hadn't really seen him. There's a nasty looking graze on his cheek and he's dusty and muddy and bloody just like the rest of them. He's got very green eyes. Green, not red. Link looks at the hand on his shoulder, two of the fingers are splinted together.
Innes-Ker sighs, grave and tired, `Gather who we have left, see to the dead and then we keep moving.' His jaw goes tight, `I'm sorry.'
There's an awful lot of mud, churned into squelchy, ankle-snapping patches of Goddess damned hideousness. His legs feel like jelly from having to drag himself through it. The grounds too soft for the warhorses. No one wants to watch one of the poor beast wallow, pained and broken, to its death. He slides, boots slipping in the mess they've all made. Fingers close around his forearm,
`Sir,' Anders hauls him up.
The rest of Roucy company, now his to command, is spread out around him. Imperial troops hurl themselves against the temporary barrier. He holds the Master Sword a little bit tighter. Then surges up, to stand with his men, and feels the jarring clang of a parry ring through his tired arm. His riposte finds a mark, grating into chainmail and cracking the ribs buried underneath it.
Fuck the Empire, roughly, and from behind and not in a fun way. Fuck them. All of them. What good could possible come from invading a small farming nation? What good other than forcing him to be here, knee deep in blood and mud and gore. The Emperor can go and choke down shit until he asphyxiates and dies. A fitting end to someone whose wanting comes with so little regard for human life. What about what he wants? He wants to sleep. He wants to go home. He wants to not be alone anymore, or ever again. See, he can want too. Only his wanting doesn't require anyone to die.
He tugs the company Ensign, Peters, out of the way of a hand axe, pulling them both behind the sweeping safety of his shield. Peters' eyes are huge, brown pits. He slips out from the sheltering curl of his commanding officer's arms to gut the enemy with his bollock dagger. Peters is sixteen. Link knows better than most that armour isn't really made for boys. He takes a short sword from the corpse, the dead generally have little use for weapons, and presses it into Peters' hand. Armour might not have been meant for boys but there's nothing to be done about that now and he'd rather not let Peters carry on navigating this mess with just a knife. Those massive, vacant eyes look up at him again from under tufts of dirty-blonde fringe poking out from the boy's helmet. Link's far too tired for this.
He wants to yell. Just stop and scream until he's not angry anymore. Instead he rams his plate armour covered fist into some poor foot soldiers stomach. It doesn't seem like the empire standard issue leather and chainmail body armour does much to cushion the blow. It's incredibly satisfying. He does it again. Just because he can. The soldier collapses to the mire underfoot, scrabbling his hand out to grip the ankle of Link's boot. He stamps down with his free foot. Bones crack like eggshells. He walks away, unsure if leaving the man suctioned into the mud is a cruelty or a kindness.
He hears a cry go up, feral and scratchy. The men are roaring, all of Roucy company adding their voices to the hollering. The enemy are retreating. Turning back, away from the scruffy floodplain. It lies about forty miles inside the border, a wide river, held somewhat in check by levees, makes up the eastern boundary of their little patch of the front line. Every defensive position along the line is manned by at least two companies. Link and Roucy's men share their makeshift garrison with van Lawick, Pauw and Estienne.
Link looks at the churned-up farmland around him. He scans the bodies, trying to work out if he recognises any of them. As far as he can tell they've been lucky this time. They still need to clear up though. They burn the bodies, downwind of the makeshift garrison and away from their water source. It feels callous sometimes, but a damn sight better than just leaving the poor empty shells where they fell. He rubs his eyes, leaving mud and soot swiped across his face. He's so tired.
He walks into the farmhouse that's become the hub of their new home. Estienne is sat at a table, fingers blue with ink from writing the weekly report for central command. They nod at each other before Link drags himself upstairs. He's fighting all the straps and buckles that hold his armour in place when a second pair of hands appear to help.
`Thank you.'
Van Lawick shrugs, `these things are a bastard to do by yourself.'
Link grunts in agreement. He's always surprised that a man as tall as van Lawick has such thin hands. He looks like a career soldier in every other regard. He's got wide shoulders and could probably bench press Ensign Peters if he wanted. Still, the first-time Link saw him wearing his reading glasses and with his curly hair free from its tight ponytail he'd have believed you if you'd said van Lawick was something much softer.
When they're done unfastening everything van Lawick helps him sort it into neat piles so he can start cleaning it. Technically he shouldn't have to do it himself but he doesn't feel like it's fair to ask Anders or Peters or anyone else from Roucy's company to wait on him like he was their actual Knight Commander. This doesn't mean they haven't offered. He just turned them down and doggedly dismissed them each time they tried to help. It's not very fair of him, deliberately putting up barriers as to how far he'll let himself integrate with the company, and he knows it.
`Sir Champion, how was the fray?' Pauw stumps up the stairs.
`Muddy.' Link doesn't look up from cleaning the Master Sword.
`Cut many of the bastards down?'
More creaking accompanies Estienne's head coming into view `I think you're the only one who's a big enough twat to keep count Pauw.'
`At least I've seen a twat.'
`Ah, such rapier wit, call for a medic I'm not sure I'll make it.'
`Oh fuck you Estienne.' Pauw's square face is getting ruddy with anger.
`I'd rather not, I have got some standards. Not high ones but standards nonetheless.'
Link can see van Lawick fiddling with the wedding band on his left ring finger, it's something of a nervous habit for the other knight. It's never been a secret that Pauw and Estienne don't like each other. Their arguing often it makes the farmhouse feel far too small to fit all of them in comfortably.
`I have got some standards' Pauw parrots it back in an irritating falsetto, `Goddesses you think you're so clever.'
`Wrong again Sir Shit-for-brains, I know I'm clever, I can spell you see.'
Pauw growls, visibly squaring up for the fight. Van Lawick has his lips drawn in tight line. Every day, they do this almost every day and they've been here for six weeks already. Link sets down the Master Sword, clean and oiled and back in its sheath now. He picks up his helmet and grimaces at it, there's a nasty dent that looks like it's going to have to be beaten out.
Estienne trills out `ah yes, men of little wit will resort to their fists.' He flairs his hands like a street performer, treating Pauw to an elaborate rude gesture.
`Will you please be quiet.' Link doesn't look up from inspecting the damage done to his helmet.
Estienne draws his hands back to his sides, looking embarrassed. He glances over at van Lawick who gives a sympathetic shrug.
`Heh,' Pauw's smile is as smug as it is wide, `exactly Sir Champion, the world's better off without his idiotic griping.'
`I meant both of you.'
Pauw's expression turns sour. He stands there looking like the room suddenly started smelling terrible for a while before stumping back down stairs. The front door slams shortly afterwards.
`I need to take my breast plate to be mended I can take that as well if you'd like,' van Lawick taps Link's helmet with a thin finger.
`Thank you, that'd be very kind.' Link lets the tall man take it out of his hands. They both know he's really going to go and calm Pauw down.
Estienne and Link stand in silence as van Lawick fetches his own piece of broken armour and then descends the stairs. Link rubs his eyes. They feel gritty and heavy. He knows blue-grey bags are settling in beneath them. He hates being alone. It's not a mantle he wears well, and it weighs so heavily on him. It's a small blessing, he supposes, that it leaves him too exhausted to feel.
`I'll finish this, get some sleep. . . well, try to at least.' Estienne takes the polishing cloth out of his hands, `I'll wake you when there's something to eat.'
Link looks at him, letting his shoulders tumble inwards, `thank you.'
I genuinely think Link taking the Master Sword to war is just the dumbest decision on my part but what's done is done . . . ah well. . .
See you in a couple of weeks, Freckles
