Bouquet
(C) Intelligent Systems and Nintendo
Warning: This story is PG-13/T rated for violence and some language, but very mildly so.
-0-
The Uprooted Forest: Black Poplar, Plane Tree, Enchanter's Nightshade, Fig, Grandiflora Magnolia
(have courage, genius of magic, and you will live long and proud)
"Hey, Captain! Where should I put this?"
"Captain, we're done over here!"
"Oi, you lucky bastard! Where'd you get that?"
In response to the last question, Pent touched the soft scarf now adorning his neck. A dark, rich blue with small silver embroidery for the initials of his name, the scarf had surprised him when it first arrived in late November, but he had not found an opportunity to wear it until now, as the first flakes of snow dotted the coast of Fibernia in early January. It was intended as a birthday gift, though his was not until February, and with Louise's birthday already past all he could do was wait for her next reply to wish her well. He tried not to think about the significance of the year; now that she was sixteen, she had entered the first bloom of legal womanhood.
In other words, once he returned home, no matter the situation, they could marry.
The thought warmed him almost as well as the scarf, good cheer running through him as he smiled at the man who had addressed him. "It's a present from my fiancée," he answered. It would have been enough, but he just had to add, "She made it for me. It was the first time she ever knitted for anyone." To this, the other man scowled and stormed away--ah, Pent knew he wasn't supposed to gloat, but he felt Louise deserved all the praise she could get, never mind that she wasn't here to hear it from him personally. For now, letters would have to do and they did well enough at that.
"Oh, hey Captain," Thomas called as he walked past with a few others, all of them looking cheerfully unoccupied with the construction efforts going on within the camp. Pent hadn't been very pleased when his commander had given him a week to organize and fully rearrange the tents in the midst of winter while his commander decided to go with the vice-commander to the nearby manor of an Etrurian lord, but that was par for course when it came to this place. With less than six months to go in his one year sentence, Pent figured he could survive that long.
Though he wondered if he should say anything about the group's lack of work, Pent only arched an eyebrow when Thomas bid his friends goodbye and headed in his direction. "Is there something I can do for you?" Pent asked.
"Has the mail come in yet?" Thomas asked eagerly. "Did you hear back about, y'know, that?"
Ever since Thomas had discovered Pent was a noble of some stature, though he made sure that his exact title was kept only to himself, he had been deluged with questions about what it was like to be a noble. Perhaps Pent had said more than was advisable, because the next thing he knew, he was writing to Raike to inquire as to which noble lineage held the hibiscus as part of their family insignia. His steward would certainly have more than his fair share of work considering the upcoming trial in the King's Courts, but Pent reasoned that the heraldry of Etrurian noble families was easily accessible, especially considering the amount of published works increasing with every year.
"Unfortunately, the mail seems to be delayed," Pent responded. "We were warned last week by our mainland liaison that the winter storms from Ilia have come down all the way into central Etruria."
Shoulders slumping, Thomas looked so dejected that Pent nearly regretted even telling the truth. "Damn. I was hoping that I could find out soon..."
"What will you do once you discover his identity?"
"I..." Thomas hesitated. "I don't know."
Pent wondered if Thomas really didn't know, but he decided not to voice his concerns; the young man was easily excitable but far too kind to conceive of revenge, especially one that could harm a noble in the military. For his own peace of mind he was seeking this information, and that certainly could be forgiven. Deciding to leave well enough alone, Pent changed the subject. "Did you already finish what was assigned to you?"
Thomas took a step back, his smile too wide to be honest. "Yeah, sorta...I mean, Nestor said he'd finish it up..."
"Please don't leave all the work to one person," Pent reprimanded with a slight smile. To this, Thomas laughed uneasily.
"Y'know, it's terrible being scolded by someone younger than me..."
Pent's smile grew wider. "Perhaps you should consider acting like your age, then. Though, seven months is a negligible difference once one has reached adulthood. At that time, one's efforts take precedence over arbitrary factors such as age or gender."
"And rank?"
Frowning, Pent said, "...I would like to think so, despite the reality of the situation."
"Hey, don't say that. You're a noble, after all. You should know that whatever I do can't compare to you." Although Thomas was saying such straightforward words, Pent sensed that Thomas did not seem at all resentful of the great chasm that was the differences between their social ranks. The smile on the other man's face implied that much. "But that's okay, isn't it? Some people should be born to lead. If everyone was the same, then wouldn't it mean that there'd be no way to improve unless everyone was aiming their efforts in one direction? It's because we have kings and nobles that Etruria is the best country on Elibe."
To hear someone of the commoner class share such a view was both enlightening and somewhat bewildering. "Even if that means your suffering is greatly disproportional compared to those who, by birth, are 'better' than you?"
Thomas grinned. "I'm going to survive this and come home and tell everyone about this strange noble I met. It's like this, Captain. I've worked really hard for eighteen years, and I did pretty all right for myself and for the people depending on me. Yeah, I screwed up, but that's life. I have my pride as a commoner. We do suffer, but we're working hard to live. I can't not have pride in that, y'know? You should be the same way as a noble. Be as prideful as you can, because people are depending on you to have that. If you feel you're right and believe in it, the people will follow you because that's how the world's supposed to be."
"...I see," Pent could only respond. Though he felt Thomas' point was somewhat confused, the words were honest and insightful. More than that, they had him reconsidering who he was as a noble--who he was as a noble called Count Reglay.
Where was his pride as Count Reglay? Why did he never consider before that he should hold pride in the position? Why had he only considered himself cursed, bound to the title, when in truth it meant so much more?
Why had he never truly realized before that being Count Reglay meant something more to all the people depending on him?
"Then," he started, "would you follow me, even if I were to lead you into danger?"
"Sure," Thomas said without even a hint of hesitation. "You're the captain, right? And, I know you don't see anyone as your pawn the way that the Commander or Vice-Commander do. If you mean to do something, that'd be because it's the right thing to do. A lot of us feel the same way."
"Hm," Pent murmured. "I see."
-0-
The mail still hadn't arrived a few days later when Commander Michael and his second-in-command returned, but Pent refused to worry overmuch about it--the storms on the island coast were growing worse, forcing him to think more about more basic necessities than news from the mainland. Adding to the overall misery at camp was the apparent insistence the island had for more fog than what could ever be deemed normal, a white mist that almost seemed dangerous if one inhaled too much of it. The commander had snapped when he had overheard Thomas telling a ghost story about a lethal fog that clogged the lungs and aspirated its victims, and when Pent found himself commanded to order his friend and the story's audience to chop wood while all was cloaked within the impenetrable fog he had very nearly resisted. Perhaps he should have. There was something unnerving about listening to the monotonous sound of axes splintering wood all around him, unable to see even one of those who had been forced to attend to this chore of a punishment.
With such atrocious weather, it was a more than suitable time for an attack by the Western Isles' resistance. Were Pent on their side, he would have approved this first use of strategy he had seen from them in over half a year. As it was, he felt only a grim anxiety bearing down upon him as he followed behind the soldiers. The wind whipped his longish hair around, exposing his ears to the lancing cold. The spirits of the Western Isles, weak as they were in a land that did not recognize the magnificence of magic, groaned like an old man in his deathbed--Pent could not help but remember his father with that thought.
He was here because of his father. He came here because his sense of integrity allowed no less.
Was that as far as he would allow himself to go?
It was hard to breathe, and not because of the fog. No--with his thoughts and feelings pounding impatiently to do something, it was all he could do to keep the pace. What he wanted to do, what was the right thing to do...
He did not hear the steady beat of pegasus wings just yet, but he could remember the sound of them in the back of his mind. He could hear the cries of these brave women in the midst of battle, all while his own feet were firmly planted on the ground.
The right thing to do...
"Halt!"
Automatically Pent stopped, his body used to obeying the will of others. It was ingrained from the time of his childhood, from being a fosterling child with no status in a faraway county to a student to now, but never had the act of following others so disgusted him until now. There was a world of difference in being a child who needed to be commanded by others and being an adult who knew that the orders he was following were wrong.
Through the dense fog, he could just about make out the shadows of the soldiers in their formations, and wondered if they ever had thoughts similar to his. If so...no. He would not ask them, no matter that he remembered well Thomas' words. Before he had the right to command others, he had to command himself.
The heavy beat of a unit's worth of pegasus knights surprised him, but after the initial shock a sense of calm infused his being. It was time.
He started to walk forward.
There was the hissing sound common to an oil-soaked torch being lit, the scent of something burning irritating his nose, and then, "What do you think you're doing, Martel?"
Ah, Pent thought, it would be too much to hope for that I would be able to depart without a confrontation. Turning on his heel, he looked directly into the eyes of his commander, who was illuminated with the light of the torch the sub-commander held. The two men were high-class knights, sitting tall in the saddles of Etrurian-slender steeds, and with only his natural height to depend on Pent thought he should feel small, outclassed. Yet, he did not. He could not. Not with this feeling suffusing his entire being, from his heartbeat to his thoughts, that said only this: Do what you know is right.
Do it, not merely think it. Thinking about it, dwelling upon it, is not enough.
One needs more than thoughts to change the world.
"I'm going to help them," Pent said. Commander Michael's face darkened, as if all the shadows banished by the torchlight had congregated there.
"Have you forgotten my orders?"
"No," Pent said. "I'm disregarding them."
Urging his horse forward, Commander Michael did not stop until he was right before Pent, who knew that the other man was attempting to use his superior height advantage as a form of intimidation. However, what Pent liked less was seeing his commander's hand linger at the hilt of his sword; he was nearly convinced to return the threat by reaching for his own magic tome, strapped to his side, but realized just in time that the action wouldn't be conducive to his goal. He would not give the commander any more of an excuse to act against him.
"Captain," Commander Michael said in a deceptively calm tone, "get back in position and I'll think about forgetting what you just said."
He would never forget, Pent already knew that. That had no effect on his decision, but it was good to remember that. "I must decline. Our allies need assistance as soon as possible."
"You will fight when I tell you to fight. I don't care if they're all slaughtered first..." The commander smirked. "That will save us from having to fight them once they're hired by Bern, anyway. Their only loyalty is to gold, they would fight even their own country for the right sum. They're no better than--"
"Don't finish that sentence," Pent replied in a low tone. "Do with me whatever you like once I'm done. I will accept my punishment. However, in regards to your commands, I will disregard them with a clear conscience. We are Etrurians, from a kingdom built upon the words of Saint Elimine. We have a duty to treat our allies with respect, because our country was founded by a woman who did the same to save the entire world."
A flare of utter disdain colored the commander's face red for a moment. "The saint is dead. She isn't the one commanding you. I am."
It was because of his metaphysical connection to the spirits of nature that Pent could feel an uncommon shift in the atmosphere, causing him to glance behind him in self-conscious concern. It appeared a number of soldiers had been listening to his conversation with the commander and were...displeased, to say the least. The cadre of priests who were the designated healers of the force looked especially appalled; it had been the sudden expansion of light magic residue that had disturbed the relatively few spirits that governed nature on this part of Fibernia. Of course blasphemy, even a relatively light smattering of it as they had all just witnessed, would shock any Etrurian, though if Pent were to be completely honest, he would have to wonder why spoken blasphemous thoughts were worse than actions that defied the good saint's laws. After all, everyone knew of the commander's predilections.
But religion had never been his forte, and so he only lowered his head. "I will return after the battle for my punishment," he stated, before turning around and heading toward the sounds of battle. It felt as though he had been swallowed up by the soldiers once he entered their ranks, blocking him from his commander's ire at that moment, and if he wasn't so sure that it was merely a coincidence he would have verbally expressed his gratitude. As it were, he was preparing himself for the battle; he did not ask for help from the soldiers because that would only put them in the way of the commander's rage--because he was going to fight and would not dare to ask any of them to put themselves in harm's way for his beliefs.
There was no pride at the actions he had just undertaken; this was what he should have done in the first place.
Because of the fog, he was unable to participate in the battle as much as he had intended, especially with the far more mobile and speedy pegasus knights having already won the battle for the most part. He only needed to cast a few spells to fell already-wounded enemies, once surprising Commander Leto while she was returning to finish off a foe she had disabled with her lance. The brief glance she had given him in that moment was unguarded, and inwardly he had been pleased to show her this--he meant every word he had told her. In the next instant she had already flown away, but the widening of those black eyes would be imprinted on his memory as proof that he had done this, that he was a man who would prove his words with his actions.
What would Louise say? Would she be proud of him? Would she even understand why this was necessary? After all, Louise always meant what she said. That was one of the many reasons why he so admired her...
He could hear the pegasus knights above him calling out affirmations that there were no more enemies hidden within the fog and knew that it was time for him to return and receive whatever punishment his commander would be happy to mete out. Having seen the cold, cruel pleasure Commander Michael displayed on his face at those times, Pent was determined to endure with the stoicism of his noble forebears. If they could bear incidents such as attacks from foreign armies and the backlash of poor silk or wine results, he certainly could do no less while taking responsibility for his own actions.
Walking back to the Etrurian soldiers with his head held high, Pent felt as through he was in a dream, even though his right hand stung with the residual power of magical fire. The fog was clearing, and he could just about see the silhouette of his commander as the other man dismounted from his horse. It would be all right, Pent thought, each step bringing him irrevocably closer to his fate. He had done this, knowing he would accept any consequence. After placing himself at the mercy of King Mordred himself, nothing could affect him as much.
This was what he thought, right up until his commander slammed a fist into his face.
Pent staggered back to the discordant sound of the shouts of the many soldiers watching this scene, not moving fast enough to dodge the blow that cracked against his shin. He fell backwards, and the way he landed on his back left him stunned for a moment. When he was becoming aware of himself as more than a being with pain echoing in three different locations, he shivered as he felt cold steel pressed against the side of his neck. "What are you...do you intend to kill me...?" he asked, he had to ask.
"My orders are absolute. Why shouldn't I get rid of any traitors?"
Pent opened his eyes, wincing at the throbbing pain down his back, radiating from his shin, pulsing from his cheek. Commander Michael stood above him, his face clear in the dying fog. "If you kill me, it will be a transgression you will never escape from."
The other man crouched down, the slight upward curve of his lips sickening Pent. "Ah, yes, I'm aware of who you are," the commander said in a quiet voice. "But don't worry about me, my lord, I hear they're working on that back home."
What does he mean...the legal efforts to have my title stripped from me? Why would he know about that? Staring hard at the other man's face, Pent couldn't see any answer to his questions that made sense. Why would the commander be involved? After all, he wasn't from Reglay; he was a minor noble from the eastern part of Etruria. "That won't happen," he said. "There are people I trust who will--"
"I've heard. Your steward and a...rather pretty little girl." The tone of the commander's voice, coupled with the reference to Louise, caused something to shift inside Pent's mind. Heedless of the danger, he tried to rise, flinching only when the blade nicked his neck. "But the moment you stepped on this island, you lost everything. He made sure of that."
"Who?" Pent breathed, feeling a thin trickle of blood run down his neck. The commander smiled--
"What's this? This is the way a commander of the supposedly best military in all of Elibe acts towards his subordinates? Well well, it seems your ability to command is as limp as your fighting prowess."
--and at the sound of Commander Leto's voice Pent saw a change in the other man's demeanor, as fury swiftly twisted his expression. In the beat of a single moment, the commander stood up, removing the sword from Pent's neck, and turned to the woman, who was sitting tall in the saddle of her pegasus. "Leto, you're interrupting private Etrurian affairs. Don't you understand that whores shouldn't meddle in their masters' business?"
Pent flinched. He believed he was not the only one with such an adverse reaction.
"How original," Commander Leto said, her tone droll. "But I suppose I have to bow to your experience in such matters. We all have to be good at something, and you've already proven your lack of expertise in actual leadership. As the flightleader of Ilia's Pegasus Knight Brigade, I hold General Cassandra's ear when it comes down to the choice of deciding who Ilia supports. I see no reason why we should continue to bless the Kingdom of Etruria with our skill...and our blood."
Silence reigned for a time. Pent, who had struggled up into a sitting position, narrowed his eyes at his commander's back. From his position he could also see Commander Leto, and though he did not know all the expressions her face could hold, he knew enough to realize the seriousness of her proposal; withdrawing from a contract would do serious damage to Ilia's reputation as the land where the most loyal mercenaries dwelt. Though he figured she hated Etrurians in general, he could not fathom why she would risk everything now. It was painfully obvious to him, after all, that she cared not for him in the least.
Perhaps enough was enough. Perhaps seeing that Etruria's leadership would turn on its own for aiding Ilian allies was just too much for her...perhaps she knew that, for all the hate she could hold towards Etrurians, the hatred some Etrurians held for her and her own simply engulfed what she felt. He didn't know what spurred her on, what thoughts she held as she stared silently at his commander, but he found he wanted to know--he wanted to empathize with her. Even though she would undoubtedly hate that as much as she had hated his cowardice and unfulfilled words, he still felt this way.
"If you do that, then Ilia will have to be considered an enemy of Etruria," his commander finally said. "If that is the case, then my subordinate has aided an antagonistic element and will have to be executed for treason. If you thought you could protect him, you thought wrong."
Commander Leto smirked. "I don't give a damn about protecting Etrurian soldiers. I only care about my own. Etrurian incompetence kills my girls far more quickly than that paltry resistance ever could. You want to kill off the only halfway-useful officer on your side in the last two years, go ahead. That only confirms just how pathetic and ignorant you are, and I want no part in it." Her eyes fell upon Pent's, and he could not describe just how that single look made him feel. He could only stare back until she looked away.
"Then we have an understanding. For your farewell, I will have that boy hanging from the tallest scaffold I can have built. Are we clear, Leto?"
"Crystal," and with those words she left, her troop following behind her. Pent saw Gracia's face turned towards his direction, but their eyes did not meet and then she was gone. His commander turned to him, expression oddly neutral.
"I want two of you to escort the captain to one of the empty tents. A few others are going to get enough firewood for his former quarters, and the rest of you are going to start on that scaffold." He paused, waiting for everyone to jump on their new duties, and Pent felt an odd thrill when no one reacted. They seemed, if not frozen, then obviously discontent with their new orders. In turn, their inaction infuriated the commander, who snapped at the vice-commander, "Rossel, take him away. As for the rest of you, if you don't want to find yourselves strung up beside him, get moving now."
-0-
Pent sat in the dark, his arms bound behind his back, and listened to the spirits.
He had been doing this long before he ever learned about anima magic, even before he had been sent to live with his maternal relatives in their cold, desolate keep. Before he became a reserved young man he had been a reserved young boy, and once he had supposed he would remain this way for the rest of his life.
Well. That had been little more accurate than he preferred.
The reason why he had been drawn to anima was because it made sense, from its elegant theory to the calm emotions it inspired within him. It had nothing to do with blind faith or a deep abyss of power, neither of which he cared to bear; he believed in God and the holy saint and he did have quite the repertoire of emotional range when he required it, but light and elder magic were just beyond his abilities to fully comprehend in a more than academic necessity. Anima magic required nothing more than what he was willing to give--for that, he would give it everything. It had been so different than his duties as first the House Reglay heir, then its head; it had been childish of him, but its constant demands only made him resentful and contrary.
He knew that now. He accepted that now. He had realized his true responsibility to his county, his people. When he returned he had planned to establish reform for the sake of the people. And now...
And Louise...
Earlier, he had heard the crackling of fire and knew that the tent he had once occupied as the captain of the Etrurian expeditionary force in the Western Isles had been burnt to the ground. Everything in there was gone--his plans detailing what he wanted to do in Reglay once he returned, his reports from Raike, his magic assessment notes regarding his growth as a mage, the few tomes he had brought with him for his studies, his letters from Louise...
The feeling in his chest was like a weight that he could not remove. He would have gladly let everything burn if it meant that her letters to him could remain untouched. Were it not for the scarf still wound around his neck, it would have been a complete severing from her--it would have been as if they had no tangible connection at all. Feelings did not count; he barely could understand the depth of his feelings towards her, and of her own feelings he knew very little other than what he could tease out from between the lines of letters that were now nothing more than ash. Had he known this would be the result, he would have tried to be more clear...he would have been more honest to her, and to himself.
Though, perhaps that would have been cruel. Were the outcome still the same in a hundred different renderings, he would have walked away from his commander's orders every time.
Louise, he thought, your father was right. I am the type of man who would bring sadness to you no matter how hard you tried for my sake.
The few spirits swirling around him seemed to react to his unsaid feelings, and on a whim he whispered, "Bring these feelings to her if you can. She isn't a mage, so it might be hard for her to understand, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her--"
Sudden sounds outside of his guarded confinement caught his attention, immediately quieting him as he strained to listen. He didn't have long to wait before the flap of the opening was pushed aside, and in the light of the lamp the newcomer held Pent saw... "...Thomas?"
"Captain," Thomas whispered back, the single word heavy with feeling. "Hey."
"...Hello."
"Uh, that's not what I really meant to say...I need to tell you something." Thomas scooted closer to Pent; in the small tent that served as his gaol, Pent began to feel somewhat claustrophobic. "The commander plans to execute you tomorrow evening, but you don't have to worry. Nestor and me, we're not going to let it happen."
To know the time he was going to die disquieted him, but at the mention of resistance against it Pent narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
The light of the lamp caught Thomas' smile. "The commander's gone crazy. Everyone agrees. So we're going to start a mutiny."
"...What?"
"It's okay! I know the commander's really strong and he'll have backup, but we're not too bad when we see combat. Nestor used to be a mercenary back home, anyway, so he's a great ally. And, he thinks we can get the pegasus knights to help us. One of them actually agreed to talk to their scary commander about it."
Pent could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Gracia did?" Thomas paused.
"Is she the one with long, dark purple hair? The pretty one?"
"No, that would be Dame Yulie."
"Wow, Captain, you're really lucky. She said it's not fair that the other vice-commander got all your attention. It's every man's dream to have a cute pegasus knight."
"I'm engaged," Pent couldn't help but point out. "Also, I highly doubt Nestor would say such a thing."
"You're right, he didn't. But that doesn't mean he never thought about it. But, uh, speaking of your girlfriend..." From under his tunic, Thomas pulled out a bundle of very familiar envelopes, a sight Pent couldn't help but stare at in wide-eyed surprise. "I got on the fire-starting group and found these. I, uh, looked through a couple to make sure they were what I thought they were, but I think I got all of them."
There were no words Pent could say, save for, "Thank you."
"I-it's no problem. You'd probably do the same thing...no, I'm sure of it! Because you're the kind of person who helps anyone, even Ilians. That's why I'm going to do this, even if it costs me my life!" Looking over his shoulder, Thomas muttered a curse under his breath. "I gotta go. Here's your letters. I can't untie you just yet, since the commander might come in, but I'll just put them right here." Placing them just behind Pent, who was sitting against an empty box, Thomas stood to leave. "Don't worry, okay? No one's going to die."
"Thomas," Pent said, "take care."
He saw Thomas smile widely, and then the other man was gone. Enveloped in darkness once again, Pent lowered his head and closed his eyes. Though he had no idea what the future had in store for him, he felt the cresting of hope as it arose within him and he thought--believed--that everything just might be all right.
-0-
It was a scream that woke up him much later, when the darkness of the night was as limitless as the source of elder magic was said to be.
With his heart pounding in his chest, he waited, and found he did not have long to hang suspended in his anxiety before another scream followed, then a multitude of shouts, cries--it sounded like a war was going on outside. But that made no sense to Pent, as Thomas had promised that no one was going to die. No matter what was happening within the Etrurian forces, it shouldn't sound so...unrestrained.
A man screamed just on the other side of the tent wall, his last words heavy with an unfamiliar accent.
Pent began struggling with his bonds, though the rope was too tightly wound for him to gain much leverage. Someone was inevitably going to enter and find him here, and he had no intention of being at the mercy of an unknown enemy.
"Captain!"
The flap of the tent entrance was pushed aside, and all he could see was the outline of a man before the flap was replaced, leaving them both in the darkness. "Who are you?" Pent demanded.
"Nestor, Captain. I will free you. We must be quick." He felt strong hands on his shoulders and complied the best he could, moving so that his bound arms could be more easily reached from behind him. The rope slackened as a blade began slicing through it, and when his arms were released Pent only realized then how deadened they felt without proper blood circulation. He groaned with the effort of moving them forward and Nestor must have overheard, for the next thing he had to do was bite the inside of his mouth when the other man grasped his upper arm and disturbed the sensation of the limb.
"Captain?"
"My apologies. My arms are..."
"I understand, but we have to leave now."
"Wait--" The effort almost undid him, but Pent reached for the letters behind him and stuffed them inside his coat, making sure they stayed without needing further attention before he rose to his feet. "I am ready. What's going on?"
"I need to take you to Thomas. That was his wish."
An instant of utter dread made Pent go still. "What do you mean, his wish?"
"Silence, Captain. We've too many enemies for talk."
Perturbed at Nestor's reticence, Pent followed the older man's lead out of the tent, trying not to wince with every errant movement of his stiff arms. Any attention his arms held sway over in his mind was immediately lost, however, once he glimpsed the chaos that surrounded the area--the sounds of battle were easily identifiable after months abroad, and he was far too used to hearing them at a distance. When he made to head in the direction of the greatest concentration of noise, Nestor pulled him back like he imagined any mother creature would to an errant child.
"Captain, Thomas comes first."
Pent acquiesced, if only because the grip on his shoulder was a testament to the strength the normally laconic mercenary kept hidden and he had a feeling that, should he resist in any way, Nestor would bodily handle him to Thomas. It did not help that he was growing suspicious--was Thomas holding down a safe area within the camp? That was what he would like to believe, but his doubts reigned over his optimism. Without another word, Pent followed Nestor from shadow to shadow until they reached an area of the camp where even the din of the battle seemed like a faraway dream. There was only some clutter here, firewood and a cabin not even halfway complete, and the longer Pent looked at it the more weight his doubts gained.
"Thomas is here?"
Nestor seemed to ignore him, moving aside some of the logs to get better access inside the cabin. "Captain, come here."
Though he came willingly enough, Pent flinched when the stench of blood, metallic and heavy, seemed to fill every physical sense he possessed, overwhelming as it was. "Thomas?" he called, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
"Hey...Captain."
Pent looked down and could barely make out an outline of a body through the enclosed site. "Thomas, what happened?" he said, crouching down. He reached for what he assumed was Thomas' shoulder; his hand met something warm and wet. "Thomas!"
"Yeah...I bet it doesn't look too good." Thomas' chuckle sounded dry and empty in such a cramped, lonely place. "The Islanders...we got ambushed by them. I got hit...Nestor says I won't survive tonight. He says I'm lucky, 'cause I can't really feel...it's cold..."
"Thomas, please--" But Pent didn't know what he was pleading for, when no matter where he touched on Thomas' body there was only the slick sensation of blood.
"Captain, I'm sorry...I looked through your letters a little. I know who you are, but I don't get why you're here..." Thomas coughed; it sounded wet. "It's like I'm drowning..."
"Captain, sit him up," Nestor's voice broke through the quiet desperation coursing through Pent's mind. He did as he was told, but all Thomas seemed able to do was cough and cough.
For all his vaunted intelligence, Pent was helpless in this moment. All he could do was grit his teeth as he tried to reach for something to say, anything-- "I'm here to accept a punishment that should have belonged to my father and his steward, but it was my fault as well. The nobility has a responsibility to the people, after all. I could never run away from that."
"Haha...that's like you." The voice Pent had grown accustomed to hearing was much louder, filled with far more vitality than it was now. "I've got a request. When you get out of here, go find my family. You remember my home, right? I'm not asking for you to take care of them...I just want them to see...this is what a good noble looks like. This is--" A cough ripped through Thomas' throat, over and over again, until all he was doing was hacking out what sounded like his life, his body shaking and shuddering in Pent's arms.
And then it was over. Thomas was dead.
Pent knelt there for what felt like a long time afterward; long enough, it felt, to become as scattered and immaterial as the few anima spirits lingering on the island. Other than the strange swirling ache inside his chest, there was no other sensation to remind him as to his own mortality; even his mind was dull, unable to do little more than process the weight of the dead man in his arms.
Why wouldn't his mind work as it should? It was all he had.
His face grew warmer and warmer as he attempted to force his mind into the effort of processing and rationalizing what had just occurred. Yes, someone he would have called a friend was dead, but this was not the first time he had witnessed death. Had he not been present at his father's deathbed? He had not the threat of hot tears gathering at his eyes then, so why...why was this...?
"Captain," he heard Nestor say from behind him, the older man's voice heavy with unspoken feeling. Pent tried to swallow; it hurt to do so. "We must leave."
"Ah," Pent breathed.
"The others are going to need our help."
"Ah."
"We will bury him afterward."
Despite Pent's best intentions, no matter how tightly he clenched his jaw, he could not hold back a few hot tears from escaping. Sucking in a deep breath through his teeth did not make him feel any more human than before, but it would have to do. He moved back enough that there was enough room to properly lay out Thomas' body. The removal of that weight made Pent feel almost insubstantial, but he knew enough from his prior experience with death to realize that he needed to complete his duties first. Later, perhaps, there would be time enough to mourn.
"Yes," Pent said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. "Later."
-0-
When he and Nestor showed up at the Etrurian defense line within the camp, they were nearly speared for their trouble, with good reason. The bodies of dead Etrurians and Western Islanders littered the area, and behind the able soldiers there were many injured ones. "Captain!" one of the defenders exclaimed, and this sent a ripple of...well, Pent would hesitate to call it 'excitement', but there seemed to be a liveliness there that was non-existent before.
"Nestor, you coward!" rang out another voice, a rather furious one by the sound of it. "How dare you come back after you ran away!"
Pent glanced at Nestor, whose face, by the light of the torches set up around the defense line, looked stiff and emotionless. He didn't dare ask if this was true, not now--and perhaps not later. "Enough," Pent said, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "What is the current situation?"
Adel, a young man who Pent was acquainted with through Thomas, pushed his way to the front, holding bloodied strips of cloth to his left shoulder. He had once been a knight for a viscount, which gave his reports authority. "The resistance force ambushed us while we were engaged in the tasks the commander had set out for us. As we had no guards or anyone on watch, we were quickly routed. The commander and vice-commander fought valiantly, but were overwhelmed. While at first we considered fighting back, it seemed more prudent to set up a defense line." The young knight paused, then looked around. "We are in desperate need of leadership. Captain, it's good to see you."
"Ah...well." The longer Pent looked at the remnants of the Etrurian army, the more quickly his mind seemed to wake up, creating and discarding plans based on the few facts he had. "How many are here?"
When he tilted his head, Adel's red-gold hair caught the light of the torches, making it appear as if he himself was aflame. "Roughly two-thirds. Of that, a fourth are too injured to fight."
"What about the priests?"
"Two are dead, and one is currently unconscious."
No healing. Pent nodded. "Have you heard anything from the pegasus knights?"
"One came by. They successfully cleared out their area with minimal injuries and are getting ready to attack the resistance who have taken over the western part of our camp."
Looking out in the distance, Pent could see the ominous lightness of the fog as the sea breezes began to blow more heavily. Soon they would be surrounded by it, with only the torches to mark their position to the resistance--the true hell of a fog of war campaign. "We'll have to use it to our advantage," he murmured before catching the confusion on the faces of the soldiers...his soldiers. "This fog," he clarified, "we can use it to covertly extend our defense line under its cover. It will be slow, but with proper ongoing communication it is feasible to push them out of our original camp boundaries. The fog here settles for a long time, so we have no choice but to understand that the duration of this battle will be fought with it."
"Proper communication?" Adel asked.
Gesturing to the western side of the camp, Pent said, "It would be too visible if we used torches once the fog hits. If they have long-range attackers, they will use it to their advantage. Therefore, we'll have to use chants of some sort to let everyone else know where each person is."
Quickly, a plan was devised using his initial thoughts on the situation. Once the fog covered the area, the able-bodied soldiers would march in two lines. Every ten steps would be combined with one of the marching chants that had been drilled into them by the commander. A battle would have to be fought by whoever encountered the enemy--they did not have enough men to fully utilize this plan as well as assist others under attack, as the commander had planned for a much larger camp than was necessary, and thus there was too much empty space that would need to be recovered in order to claim the camp again. Forty men in rows of two were quickly formed, with ten men left with the wounded where the original defense line had been struck. After heated discussion it was decided to leave the torches alight at that area for the sake of the would-be medics, as well as to make it easier to escape should that become necessary.
Pent hoped not. He wanted a sign that told him that he wasn't as useless as he begun to fear he was.
There was nobody available to alert the pegasus knights, especially as the hostility Commander Leto held for the Etrurian army possibly marking any messenger for death should Pent send someone. He could only hope there was time later to clear the air between the two so-called allies. As it was, standing behind Nestor in the center of the line with a dead enemy mage's barely used fire tome in his hands, Pent could only hope for a lot of things. As the fog rolled over their position, he touched the letters tucked into his coat, remembering Louise's fierce gaze so long ago as she stared down the targets at Alloway's weapon festival. If he wanted to survive tonight, better to remind himself how she looked in the throes of determination rather than her smile.
The conviction necessary to succeed, despite all odds...yes, that lay within him too.
Parting his lips, he yelled, "Begin!"
With the fog and the darkness, Pent could barely even see Nestor in front of him, but when someone began counting for the march, he felt assured by the sounds of forty pairs of footsteps marching in time. At the tenth step he called out, "Clear!" and the resounding cheer made him do something unusual for this night: he smiled. Then someone else began the count...which was immediately stopped with a yell and the sound of metal clashing with metal. The lines stopped as planned while the battle continued; though Pent wished more people could assist their comrades, preventing any breaks in the defenses line was paramount, especially with the fog making it unlikely that anyone could simply return to their place in the lines at the conclusion of the fight. He could only listen to the sound of metal cutting through flesh, and then a strange, gurgled cry, hoping against hope that he hadn't just condemned one of his soldiers to death.
There was a moment of silence, and then an Etrurian-accented voice called out, "We're okay!" The feeling of relief had never felt so welcome inside Pent until now, and after the cheers from the rest of the soldiers dissipated, Pent resumed the count, which everyone else took to with an almost tangible sense of pride.
Then there was the sound of wings beating through the air--a flock, a squad of pegasus knights.
Nobody knew if they should cheer or not; Pent merely kept up the count until he reached ten, then called out. By the time someone else began the new count, the sound of wings already sounded far ahead. Commander Leto was much respected by her soldiers for her tactical ability, according to Gracia, so he felt that his nervousness was unjustified, but he had long since discovered that the flow of a battle was a delicate thing. And who knew what lurked within the fog...
He had scarcely enough time to think that before he heard the telltale thwip of many archers' bows, and then, the screams...
"Halt!" he shouted. "Hold the line!"
In the distance, he could hear Commander Leto calling for a retreat. There were other cries, but they were too far away to be intelligible. Stuck within the impenetrable darkness, there were only murmurs of surprise from some of the other soldiers, the odd jangling of a sword in its scabbard or the pole-end of a spear digging into the dirt, and the impossibly loud beat of his heart as it seemed to echo in his head.
We cannot ensure any meaningful victory tonight without their help.
That was a fact. Pent simply could not see any way of fully regaining the entire Etrurian camp as well as securing its borders without assistance from the pegasus knights, who were all to the last trained for warfare. With his numbers, as well as the relative lack of training for soldiers who were first and foremost prisoners, as well as the weather conditions...if the lines met against a substantial force, they were the ones who were unlikely to win.
With that in mind, he raised his voice as he repeated, "Hold the line!" Turning to his right, where he knew Adel was standing in the front line, he said, "I'm going to request assistance from Commander Leto. I want you to maintain this position until I return."
The answer he received was hesitant. "Captain, the pegasus knights were just--"
"There are still some left, and that includes their commander." He tried to smile, though he knew no one could see it. "I want everyone to survive tonight. This is our best chance of doing so."
"How will we know it's you?"
Pent smiled with more honesty this time. "What else? More marching songs, I suppose."
Adel laughed. "You'll make a lonely figure with that. May the saint watch over you."
"The same to you." With that, he left the line, fighting to orient himself in the limitless fog. It did not help that, despite the thirty or so steps the line had been able to take, the torches from the original defense line were already cloaked. The pegasus knight camp was south of the Etrurian camp, but it seemed as though they had doused their torches before they had left; no matter how many steps he took, he was unable to procure even a hint of visibility.
Didn't Commander Leto once say she could See me?
Magical sight was only common among those with magic, but pegasus knights were physical warriors. However, if Commander Leto was telling the truth--and she had no reason to lie, as she was vicious with the truth as it was--then, perhaps, it was true that pegasi were magical creatures, sharing some similarity with dragons in that aspect. If that was so, he could hypothetically find the camp by tracking down the magical signatures of the pegasi. Letting himself shift his perception as if he were looking for spirits to commune with, he found dim silver lights to the southeast of where he stood, the color of the auras unfortunately blending into the thick night fog. With some effort he managed to orient himself towards the pale auras, his brisk pace becoming even more hurried when he heard the clash of metal from the lines of soldiers. He could only hope this trip would allow him to bring back good news...
The closer he got to those silver auras, the more his regular eyesight could see a dim golden glow--the pegasus knights had definitely returned, their camp alight. However, once he arrived at the camp he could all but feel the panic arising from the camp, from the frenzied footfalls to the screams and shouts within. All the activity was centered around the largest tent in the site, and he nearly stepped in the way of a small girl as she darted inside the tent, water sloshing in a bucket of water. Reaching up to place a hand just over his hidden letters, he took a deep breath to center himself before he stepped inside.
The first thing he saw--the very first thing--was a young girl, perhaps even younger than Louise, covering her mouth with both hands as another pegasus knight cut out an arrowhead from her shoulder with the use of a small dagger. Tears streamed down her reddened eyes, but if she was screaming she was doing it so quietly that not even a whisper escaped her hands. Pent couldn't bear the sight for more than a few seconds, his gaze sweeping the interior of the tent as he looked for Commander Leto. When he finally found her, she was sitting in the back corner with Vice-Commander Yulie standing by her side. It was only when he closed the distance between them that he saw what the commander's gaze was focused on, and it took everything he had not to turn around and leave. It was a body, covered with a sheet.
He glanced around, the oppressive dread within him growing heavier when he realized he could not account for Gracia anywhere.
"Commander Leto," he said as he drew near. She looked up at him. With her hair unbound and her pale face streaked with blood flowing from a gash at her temple, she looked far, far too young to be the second-in-command of the Pegasus Knights Brigade, the powerful flightleader and commander of the second wing. All of the pegasus knights looked too young to be risking themselves constantly in wars started by other people, foreign interests. He and the rest of the Etrurians on Fibernia were too young--everybody was too young to be killing each other like this!
So, why were they?
"What?" she asked, her tone flat.
He could not believe he was here, asking this. "We...have need of your assistance."
There was a flicker of disgust on her face, and then she shook her head before glancing at her vice-commander. "Yulie, did you hear that? We haven't shed enough blood yet for our Etrurian masters."
"Commander..." he murmured, entirely unwilling to say anything further but knowing he had to say something. At the sound of his voice, Commander Leto rose from her seat, her face a testament to all the pain and fury her sarcastic words and bitter smirks may have always been hiding
"Do you know what you're fighting for?" she demanded. Before he could even think of opening his mouth, she jabbed a finger at him. "Your country is a damn leech! 'Blessed by god'? How much does your god have to hate other countries that the oh-so-holy Kingdom of Etruria has to take, and take, and take all the best parts of its neighbors so it can look good? And then we pegasus knights have to be grateful to have the chance to kill others so your country can go plunder them. We have to live and die gracefully by some archaic knights' code so Etruria doesn't have to feel bad that they are paying us to die. Grace? What the hell is 'grace', anyway?" In one fluid movement, before Pent had the chance to turn away, Commander Leto flung the bloodied cloth from the body that was laid before them. "Do you think she died gracefully?!"
Pent stared, horrified.
Gracia laid before him, completely and utterly broken. Her so-called lavender hair, once so light and gray that he could only smile in bemusement every time she claimed it to be the same vivid color as Louise's eyes, was now soaked so thoroughly with blood that it appeared nearly black. One side of her face was crushed, though thankfully her eyes were closed. Her once white uniform was blotched red, the center of each stain being a puncture wound. It was obvious, even to him, the sequence of events that had taken her life.
"This," Commander Leto hissed, "is the result of your imperialistic madness."
"It isn't mine."
"What?"
"I said, it's not mine!" Pent shouted. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think that any one of us want to die in a foreign land because we think it's right? Who would even think there was anything right about this? Who would..." He forced himself to look away from Gracia's corpse and, in a softer voice, requested, "Please cover her. She deserves that much."
Commander Leto did it, though he supposed it had very little to do with his plea. "Why are you here?"
"Because I need your help."
"Where is your commander?"
"He died in the ambush."
Commander Leto smirked. He supposed he couldn't blame her, but all the same he could not find relief in that man's death. "The vice-commander too?"
Pent nodded. "I am leading this battle for what is left of the Etrurian army."
"And what do you want, specifically?"
"We cannot win without your strength. Your troops are more experienced in combat than mine are as a whole."
"And we're not going to be your shield?" she inquired. "You're not going to use us to take the brunt of the damage?"
"No," he said. "You are our allies."
Something flickered in the dark depths of her eyes before she nodded. "Then we will assist. We can also use this time to recover the rest of our dead."
"The rest?" Pent asked. He supposed there were less pegasus knights in the tent, but he would have imagined they were in other places within the campsite.
"Yes, three others, and four pegasi." Commander Leto looked at Gracia's covered body, blood obscuring her profile, and Pent realized what it took to even bring one body back. He nodded and made to leave, but was stopped by her voice. "I was bluffing that time. I have more honor than that, for the sake of my people."
It took him a moment to understand what she had meant. "That's all right," he responded, smiling a little over his shoulder at her. "He would have found other means to bring legality to my execution."
"Good thing the bastard's dead, then," she remarked casually. The urge to smile left him, and without further ado he left the main tent.
Perhaps it was a good thing that both his commander and vice-commander were dead, although he could not bring himself to believe that. Although it did mean that he no longer had the means to discover whatever plot against him that Commander Michael had alluded to, Pent knew he no longer had to bear any repercussions from this unsavory element.
That was fine. He already had enough on his mind as it was.
-0-
His soldiers were fairly surprised when he returned, flanked by the remainder of the pegasus knights, but they quickly recovered and turned to strategy. That became much more difficult, however, with the quandary they soon found themselves faced with.
"We can't fly," Commander Leto stated. "They finally have archers now."
"If you can't fly, what good are you for?" said a voice from deeper within the fog. With the light of the torch he had carried in order to find his way back to the line, Pent first glanced in the direction of the voice, then at the pegasus knights' commander, then decided it wouldn't be worth it.
"Then our main priority is to dispatch the archers," he said. To this, no one had any sort of rejoinder or comment. "Is this unreasonable?"
"It seems it would be difficult to specifically find archers in this fog. I can understand how the archers were able to shoot at the pegasus knights with such accuracy if they were aiming towards the sound of pegasi wings, but there is no similar tactic for finding the archers," Adel reasoned.
Pent frowned at this, until he heard Dame Yulie's voice. "They'll aim towards the light, won't they? Have someone carry the torch, and use their arrows to find them out."
"That's asking a lot," countered Adel. "There isn't anyone here who can carry a torch and fight at the same time. Our swords are just too heavy for that, and never mind spears."
The warmth from the torch was almost comforting as Pent shifted his hold on it. "Actually, that would not be quite correct. For a mage, it shouldn't be impossible." To his words, he heard Etrurian accents mutter in discontent.
"To have our captain risk his life in such a gamble is too much!" Adel exclaimed. "If you die, we will no longer have any leadership! We're finished if that happens!"
"...I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that everyone survives tonight. If I have to risk my life to do so, then that is the least I can do. And," Pent looked around at what few faces he could see by the torch's light, "I know enough to not insist on going alone. Who is willing to come with me?"
No one said a word for the barest of moments, a heartbeat of hesitation. Inwardly, Pent smirked at the absurdity; given a choice to survive or to risk one's own life, it was only natural for the majority to take the latter. He certainly had a vested interest in surviving, yet he had shown enough cowardice throughout his term here to never be accused of bravery in his life. It was time to change that, if not for his own sake then for the sake of his men, all of whom were depending on him to make the right choices tonight.
"I will go," said Nestor. Standing on the very outskirts of the light, his expression was difficult for Pent to see. There was only his stance to depend upon for any information as to the older man's mindset, firm and with arms crossed.
"...letting a murderer alone with the captain, though..."
It was deathly quiet after that mumble floated by, but Pent elected not to betray the fact that he had heard it as if someone had shouted it into his face. He only nodded at Nestor. "I'll be depending on you. Adel, please keep watch over this area until I return."
"If it is what you wish," Adel responded, his disapproval clear in his voice. Pent could only be thankful that it was not given words as well, accepting the formal remark with another nod of his head before stepping forward.
It was one thing to walk behind the defense line, relatively safe despite the ominous feeling the nighttime fog brought, and quite another to walk towards the enemy while bearing the means of bait for the archers--and a possible avenue for his own death. As much as he wanted to assure himself and the others that he was going to survive this ordeal, his reasoning was too advanced for optimism without evidence.
But, he did not want to die. Perhaps that would make all the difference.
Nestor walked beside him without a word, keeping to his right side, away from the torch Pent had switched to his left hand. Along with the torch he held his Fire tome, mindful of the fact that it was not quite the optimal way to hold a magic tome, but it did free his right hand for casting spells. Though, he couldn't say he wouldn't have preferred a shield, considering his primary role...
The subtle twang was all he was allowed as a warning--Pent moved, hearing a swish beside him where he had been standing just a moment earlier. Before he could catch his bearings, Nestor grabbed his free arm. "That way. Follow me," was all the former mercenary said before he took off in a light job, unsheathing his sword at the same time. Pent hurried, knowing that Nestor needed all the light he could get in the fog, but he could not say he appreciated having such a close view of what could only occur once Nestor found the archer. A single swing of the sword expelled more blood from the archer's body than what Pent thought was possible; it was about this time that he appreciated his interest in magic for more practical means, like relative lack of clean-up after a battle. The archer died without a scream, and Nestor nodded in suppressed satisfaction.
"...How long have you been a mercenary?" Pent asked, staring at the stained sword. Nestor glanced at him, then looked away.
"Since I was your age, Captain. It was the only means I could think of to reach my goal."
"Did you ever attain it?"
When Nestor turned to look at him, Pent caught the slight smile on the older man's face. Then Nestor pointed out into the murky distance. "We'll need to hurry. That torch won't last forever."
Pent could only wish that the other man hadn't said that, as it forced him to notice the dimming light. If it died out before they returned, he was certain they would not find their way back before morning--he may as well say that they would never be able to return. They began walking back to their original position before he had dodged the arrow, Nestor pointing where to go. Pent tried to keep alert, though it seemed that the darkness was encroaching at a faster rate--
Thwip.
Pent turned at the sound, but then a sudden pain erupted from his left shoulder and he hissed in equal parts shock and agony as he staggered forward. Nestor turned, the fierce expression on his face surprising Pent nearly as much as the pain of being shot. "Behind..." the mercenary murmured before stalking past Pent, who sank to his knees and reached for the arrow with his right hand. It was jutting out at an odd angle, but he was able to pull it out with minimal discomfort; in reality, his coat and other layers of clothes had been thick enough to deflect the arrow, and he had been lucky enough to have been struck on the shoulder bone before the arrowhead found flesh. The bleeding and pain bothered him, but he had no vulneraries on him--that part of the camp had been taken over. He felt a little nauseous from the pain, and he fought to control the feeling roiling from his stomach upwards.
"Captain."
"I'm fine," Pent said as if by reflex, rising to his feet as smoothly as he could. He turned around. "Did you..." he began, then looked at the fresh blood dripping off of Nestor's blade and decided it was a foolish question. "Let's continue, then."
Nestor eyed him with just a little too much knowing for Pent to feel comfortable. "There is no shame in returning if you don't feel well. Mages are well-known for being less durable."
A little piqued at the implication--no matter that it was probably true--Pent shook his head. "I'll survive," he said with a shortness that revealed his annoyance more than he would have preferred. "We need to finish this quickly."
Without saying another word, Nestor walked past him and Pent followed, more mindful of his wound, particularly the bleeding sensation, which brought a chill through him. The fog was bearing upon them, the light of the torch growing feeble, and Pent realized they would have to be very lucky if they were to finish this macabre mission on time.
Thwip thwip thwip.
With his heart racing in his chest, Pent moved; he felt an arrow glance off of the top of his boot, but thankfully that was the closest any of them came to piercing him again. Nestor was already running in the direction the arrows came from, and Pent hurried, knowing that multiple archers would be difficult for even a seasoned mercenary such as Nestor to confront. He came just in time to see Nestor bearing upon the closest archer--and just at the edge of the dimming light Pent could see another one take aim at the mercenary. With a deep breath, Pent focused on his magical reserves, already resonating with the tome he carried though he hadn't even used it yet, and wondered only briefly if even his intermittent entrances on the battlefield over the last half-year had helped him grow stronger with magic than all his years studying anima theory.
Magic's primary use in the modern era was for battle, after all. He wondered what would happen once humanity moved beyond the need for warfare...or, would that ever be possible?
It was no time for philosophy; he chanted the Fire spell, jabbing his right hand towards the archer as he cried out the trigger word to release magical fire. His aim was true, tongues of flame splattering onto the archer, searing through the weak protection of his clothes and burning through flesh with an ease that made something in Pent's chest flinch.
The archer did not die quickly, writhing for several seconds as he screamed in agony, but he did die.
He remembered the prayers of the high-ranking priest who had spoken the benedictions at his father's funeral, and under his breath he said the one that came to mind first--Oh holy saint, deliver us to the country of God--before looking up from the archer's charred body.
"Captain!"
Pent saw that there was one more archer, one he hadn't accounted for, and that archer was loosening an arrow just as his eyes found him. Without thinking, Pent dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding an arrow that could have very likely finished him, then cast another spell. The words came so easily to him that he was watching a fireball fly towards the archer just as it seemed conscious thought was reforming in Pent's mind, and although the Fire spell only struck the archer's arm, it was far more than enough as a distraction as Nestor rushed forward and killed the archer as he wailed in agony.
Swallowing, Pent looked around. Five archers. He had a feeling that the Western Isles resistance group, which used only axe-users for all the time he had been here, had lost all the men they had trained to counter the pegasus knights.
"All right," Pent said. "I think that's enough. It's time for us to take back the rest of the camp."
-0-
As the fog dissolved into late morning mist, Pent patted loose earth into place at Thomas' grave.
The Etrurian forces had taken heavy losses during the night, reduced from a hundred soldiers to sixty-three; out of the latter, a fourth were heavily injured. With only one priest having survived the night, it would be a while until everyone was healed. No one had gotten through the night without sustaining some sort of injury, though many of the men were in fairly high spirits, comparing battle wounds like they were badges of honor. Pent rose from his crouching position, briefly touching his injured shoulder, which had been expertly wrapped by Adel--the former knight had insisted upon it, chiding Pent for his 'recklessness' all the while.
He looked out to the pegasus knight encampment, where he had gone earlier to formally express his condolences. Though Commander Leto would not allow him to stay for Gracia's burial, indicating that Ilian knights were never buried if a substantial body of water was nearby, she did accept his words with a sense of resignation that was unlike the woman. It was understandable, and after he finished his main duties for the day he planned to visit her again. As the highest-ranking officer between their two forces, she was someone he knew he would have to depend on until Etruria sent a new commander.
"Captain! The ship's finally here!"
Pent hurried to the shoreline, where the supply boat from the mainland was docked. There was a lone officer there, which was not unusual, though Pent noticed for the first time that the crest the officer wore was familiar, and not because he knew what the Kingdom of Etruria's heraldry looked like. It wasn't one from Reglay's noble houses either...but he put it out of his mind when the officer began to speak. "Where is Commander Michael Tessier?"
"He was killed in the ambush last night, along with the vice-commander," Pent reported. "I have taken over command in the interim."
The officer said nothing for a long moment. "I see. That is a shame, as well as a surprise. I will inform the general as to the losses suffered. It may be some time before a new commander is sent to relieve you."
Nodding, Pent said, "I understand." He glanced at the boat. "What about the mail and supplies?"
"Unfortunately, the storms have decimated the roads. It will take a little while longer."
Pent hid his disappointment as best he could; he could have really used a letter from Louise to help remind him about the world beyond the Western Isles. Well, he wanted to hear from Louise for many reasons, but that would do. "Understood. We will maintain this position in the meantime until we receive further orders."
The officer nodded, then returned to the boat. Pent watched it as it began to skim across the strait, bound for Etruria.
It was the last time he would see that boat again.
-end-
First of all: Today is my birthday. I'm so pleased to be releasing this story today, especially considering how long it took me to write it! Anyway, if you've been reading have never reviewed, why not do so today? I'm mired in stress but determined to enjoy myself, so I'd really appreciate it if you chose today of all days to tell me how you feel about this series. Is there anything you like? Anything you don't care for? I'm always looking to improve my writing, so please feel free to advise me!
As far as Bouquet goes, we're quickly approaching the climax of the entire series...and that's all I can say! Please look forward to the next story on 5/17!
Thomas' story: The story he tells about fog that chokes its victims is inspired by the Lovecraftian text adventure game Anchorhead by Michael S. Gentry.