Chapter One: Musings of a Tactician
Samuel stared out at the reddish hellscape that laid out in front of him, where all manner of broken swords, lances, axes, and bones scattered about the charred earth. Smoke filtered out towards the sky like a subtle cry for help, a visible, unmistakable indicator that death lingered like a moth to candle's light. The gray residue punished the inside of the tactician's throat, then lungs, only to produce a weak cough. The sound resembled a gasp hardly audible in this discord of despair.
The tactician had no recourse, and it was all his fault.
"You have one job." Those were the words of the Lycian lord who entrusted in him the lives of three-hundred sworn knights and two-hundred mercenaries. He was instructed to meet the enemy's forces head-on in the field of battle, where he would use the area's beneficial terrain to create a natural advantage for their defending force. The job was supposed to be easy—too easy. All he had to do was hold his position and protect his supply lines that snaked through the Lycian mountains. Yet, he couldn't even do that. No blessings from an Elminite priest nor the earth could have prepared him for this slaughter.
He'd lost.
The Lycian lord was an older fellow well respected among the noble gentry. He cared not for military expansion nor the prestige that came with it and only relegated himself to the commerce of his lands. The people in his canton loved and hardly spoke ill of him, with many happily working their lands since they knew the man would manage their labor well. The lord created a nation resilient against famine and recession, but his land's prosperity brought greed with it. The canton's neighbor looked upon him enviously, and it took only a lackluster casus belil to instigate conflict. Thus, the lord looked to him to protect the livelihoods of his people. He had no reason to doubt Samuel's ability. He was innovative, quirky, and seasoned in his craft. He graduated top of his class in the Academy and hadn't suffered a single defeat in his short career.
Up until today.
He'd only been on this earth for about twenty years. In that time, he went from being a ragamuffin living in the urban squalor of Kafti's only city to becoming one of the most sought-after talents in every Elibean court. He worked hard in every portion of his life, whether it be laboring in the construction to support himself as a child or putting in long hours to compete with the tutor-taught nobles in the Academy. There was hardly a day not well spent in his life—not an ounce of effort wasted—nor adversity that couldn't be overcome. Yet, all of that came crashing down now.
His entire life—ultimately wasted.
The tactician sat immobilized, partly out of shock and partly due to the protruding bone in his knee. He felt utterly helpless as he watched the enemy fell the remainder of his troops. Their screams echoed across the walls of his consciousness, formerly filled by complex analytics meant to avoid this very scenario. He watched a river of blood flow around him, heaps of flesh pile like discarded refuse, and dislocated heads roll as their shaking eyes partook in their final visions of the world. For his part, Samuel could only hold the severed hand of his commandant tighter. The sound of the dying shook the very core of his soul.
The commandant used to be an old friend of his. They first met when Samuel was enrolled in the Academy, back in his first year when he still thought a career path in engineering suited him. She was a knight from Ilia who agreed with Samuel's disagreeable temperament and, more importantly—his ideas. The commandant was the first to recognize that his mind was better spent on the battlefield. After that, the two were inseparable, and she even betrayed her obligation to Ilia to stay by his side. An only child, she believed the tactician could offer her a better life than her frozen homeland.
It was funny, really. Samuel hoped to make it all right one day. To pay the ransom demanded by her homeland so she wouldn't be a fugitive anymore and return to the land of his youth. Perhaps he would've done something his old man never did and put a ring on her finger—a ring with a green gem that matched the color of her eyes and hair.
All for naught.
Samuel thought about the Lycian noble again. His kindness was—damning. He treated him with so much respect that he reminded him of his grandfather, the only family he ever loved (or had). A week before the battle, they spent a long night discussing the affairs of his domain. He wished to better the lives of his people; further, he had plans to build a granary to strengthen the land against famine, a hospital to treat the poor, and a school to educate the young. Though he was old, both he and Samuel possessed a vision that could have invigorated even the most lackluster peasant into action. Samuel liked the man—and even put in extra hours for the battle that lied ahead.
He damned that man to death just like everyone else. His people could only expect a future of fire, fury, and a pandemic of smallpox to end their suffering if they were lucky.
The tactician paused his thoughts as he felt the clanking of iron boots approach him. He forced his head up, his yellow eyes gleaming over the form of his supreme villain surrounded by a pair of heavily armored knights. A slim man, he wore a thick black robe that covered most of his freckled face. The red hair that swirled out from the cloth resembled a series of typhoons, while his brown eyes shot through like a monk's lightning. Samuel knew this man. He came from the same graduating class as him but knew none of the struggles. His name was Alexander, the infamous tactician of House Laus.
"What a downfall," the man spoke in a posh, Etrurian accent. "To think I've bested the very tactician storied among the ranks of the nobility. Is this not Samuel, the rabble of Caracas? The very man holding the hand of his traitor, whore lover?"
"Hold your tongue," spat Samuel.
The tactician raised himself from his prone position and grabbed a rapier from his commandant's body. In response, the knights raised their lances to be within an inch of Samuel's neck. He felt the steel tickle the edge of his skin, but he didn't falter. At this point, Samuel didn't fear death. His defiance came despite his atheism, and he knew nothing laid for him beyond a dark void.
"Stay your advances. I've come to parley."
"Bullshit. I know I've been beaten."
Alexander snickered. The nod of his head notified Samuel of his satisfaction; he knew this was a ruse all along. To parley suggested an equal footing between armies for negotiation, and Samuel hadn't equal footing nor an army to speak of.
"So why have you come?" asked Samuel. "Did you come to celebrate my loss? Did you come to kill me? Or do you perhaps—have some type of devilish perversion of watching your enemy slowly die?"
Alexander laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he couldn't anymore. At his end, the opposing tactician drew a knife and began to inch his way towards Samuel. The two hated each other from the very beginning. Though Samuel prided himself as an honorable man, he doubted he would've avoided doing the same thing too.
"This is the end, my friend."
This was it. The end of the line. Samuel mustered the last of his strength to raise the rapier in front of him. The weapon felt heavy—almost excruciating to hold. Samuel was never a good fighter. All tacticians were expected to have a marginal fighting ability, but he possessed none. He left such affairs to his commandant, but she died protecting him from an enemy's blade. Now, the only person left to defend him was he. In the end, all he had was himself. It was no different than when he left lost his grandfather.
Left with no other recourse, Samuel swallowed the pain-wrought tears in his eyes and drove back the memories of his beloved and family. He pushed himself forward and delivered his last act of defiance possible against an unjust world. A world that rewarded the efforts of the wicked and punished the kindness of the righteous. A world that would continue to live on despite his meaningless end.
In the end, he screamed not for his life but for nothing.
Screaming. Once at every fifth day of the month, Samuel would awaken in the morning, screaming. He screamed partly out of illogical fear in memory of that day, but partly did so in memory of the lives he was responsible for. At least, that's what he thought. Regardless of its purpose, the tactician had no control of this part of himself. His lack of awareness became painfully clear when he found himself in the house of someone he'd never met. Or rather—ger.
Samuel blinked once, almost doubting whether or not what he saw was a dream. Looking around, the tactician realized he was in a building of the semi-circular variety, one primarily used by those of a nomadic lifestyle. Sacaens. The building was composed of cloth, with red inscriptions embedded in a vivid pattern all around. A rectangular hole cut at the side served as the structure's door, where an ample breeze tickled the outer layers of his skin. The cool temperature reminded the tactician that it was autumn, the season of colored leaves and peasants headed for harvest.
Autumn. The tactician had forgotten about the progression of seasons, and he'd lost track of time long ago.
Samuel stood up and vacated himself from the (admittingly comfortable) bed he laid on. He stretched briefly before feeling a stinging pain in his knee. The tactician already understood its cause but hadn't the will or the means to address it. Instead, he opted to reach for his belongings on a nearby end table. He cared not for the impressive kitchen to his left, the bundles of medical equipment (bandages, vulneraries, and the like) to his right, nor the rug at his feet that tugged at his artistic tastes. No—the only thing Samuel cared for was to leave immediately. He didn't want to be roped into anyone's business, nor for anyone to be roped into his.
"Oh, you're awake!"
That—was the last thing he wanted to hear. Out of courtesy, Samuel turned around and found a young girl standing on a cot beside his bed (how had he not seen her?). Well, the term girl would be an understatement. No, she was a woman with olive skin, a Lycian face, a tall physique, and a traditional dress most likely sourced from one of the nearby tribes. Most painfully, she possessed a set of green eyes awfully similar to his late commandant, though her hair was thankfully straight (hers was curly).
"M'am?"
The woman spoke at him with a flurry of words. She approached him and placed a hand on his chest, which only needed to inflict subtle pressure to put him back in bed. Regretfully, Samuel hadn't much of a foundation to speak of. The earlier pain in his knee screamed more profoundly now that the morning muses subsided.
"You must lay back down! You're still injured, and I feared I couldn't save you when I found you in the plains! You're lucky to be alive, good sir!"
"Not lucky enough."
Samuel did as he was told and allowed the woman to make for them a hastily prepared breakfast. She spoke as she cooked, where she introduced herself as Lyn, a Lorcan woman living alone north of the Bernese Mountains. She prodded Samuel with feeler questions, asking first about his name (which he provided), then about his profession (mercenary). Several awkward moments of silence followed, after which Lyn began talking aloud about the quality of that morning's hunt and how "fortunate" Elibeans must be for enjoying a period of relative peace over the years. The "period" of "peace" Lyn referred to was called the Pax Elibiana by professors wearing spotless monocles back in the Academy, a fact that infuriated Samuel the more he thought about it.
Eventually, the tactician's non-verbal communication hit its mark, and the pair returned to silence. Lyn finished cooking and nearly yelped out in exuberance, afterward distributing portions of deer broth onto wooden bowls for them to share. She whispered a silent prayer before eating. In the meantime, Samuel could only stare at a bottle of hard liquor sitting idly at a nearby table, and he knew exactly what type of beverage it was—Cognac. They only made Cognac in Etruria.
Samuel waited for Lyn to finish her prayer. Then, he asked: "May I have a drink?"
Elated to finally hear her guest's voice, Lyn obliged and retrieved a glass from her cupboard. She began pouring the beverage into it and looked at Samuel as if silently asking him to tell her when to stop. Samuel held his tongue. He watched the reddish liquid fill to the brim before Lyn stopped at her own accord. She raised a finger to protest but could only stare as Samuel downed the whole quarter-pint volume of liquid in one go. A certain redness flushed the surface of Samuel's face, but the deadness to his eyes remained.
"Thank you."
They ate breakfast in mostly silence. Samuel muttered several compliments to Lyn's cooking, commenting on the tenderness of the meat and the strategic quantity of spice used in its making. Lyn accepted such pleasantries whole-heartedly but avoided her gaze when Samuel tried to initiate. At this moment, the tactician realized he'd made a mistake in his interaction with this young lady. She had, after all, saved his life. He hadn't even the idea how he got here to begin with.
"My apologies," he said after finishing the last of the broth. It took all of his remaining discipline to avoid burping rudely the indecent houseguest he was. Even so, his words held a profound effect on the beholden—more than he expected. Lyn's eyes lit up at his slightest sliver of remorse like he had just gone through some character-defining redemption. He wouldn't experience such a thing for a very long time, if at all.
The eyes dimmed to match Samuel's frequency. As if overcome by will, she asked: "Why do you look so tired?"
Samuel let those words swim about his brain for a moment before averting his eyes to a mirror Lyn had hanging on her wall. This was the first real time he'd looked at himself since that day—and he looked terrible. His wavy brown hair looked unclean and unkempt, with the ends of his follicles damaged like they'd been recently lit by flame. The green robe that clung to his body resembled a discarded handkerchief wrought by a lifetime of abuse. His skin splashed by a shade of darkness possessed patches of white that remained from many missed showers. Samuel hadn't been taking care of himself, and if the previously stated features didn't make that clear, the bags under his eyes certainly did.
He stared back at Lyn and felt his stomach lurch. She represented everything Samuel used to be. A boisterous youth who could see no wrong in the world. Someone who didn't hesitate to help, house, and feed a stranger. Someone who didn't damn five-hundred souls and probably many more to their demise. Someone who didn't—
"Samuel?"
His name caused Samuel to flinch. The concern on Lyn's face in conjunction with the buzz accumulating around his lips nearly forced a tear to escape him. Yet, Samuel hadn't the will to despair in front of a woman. He was a man. Men didn't cry—that was the only lesson Samuel ever learned from his good-for-nothing father.
"It's nothing," he said. "Just a bad dream, that's all."
That was a lie. Lyn had to know that was a lie. Samuel lied a lot. One could say a tactician made their whole career off of deception. Pretending to have strength in areas where one hadn't could convince an enemy to charge towards one's strong suit, while the opposite had an equally intriguing effect. Tacticians weren't the sort people liked to be around. They were demanding, boring, and often hurt the people around them. Samuel knew that plenty clear, and he knew he had to leave.
He offered the clean the dishes and did so despite Lyn's protests. Afterward, he asked: "Do you need anything done around here?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"Because I can't leave here without paying you back for your kindness."
Lyn shook her head and began making proclamations of how she didn't expect anything in return, but Samuel wouldn't have it. He saw an ax leaning against a dresser and took it. His knee continued to express its reservations, but Samuel made his way to the entrance. He intended to chop wood from a nearby forest, fish, anything to rid this burdensome debt he owed. Thus, the tactician opted to return to the roots that predated his name. The humble profession of a laborer, an existence dependent on a man's willingness to walk out the front door.
If Samuel had hesitated for even a second on his way out, perhaps he would've noticed the look of longing on his host's face.
Lyn didn't know what to think of her new guest. He was perceptive, thoughtful, and a bit rude. She wondered if all men west of Sacae acted this way—no she knew this not to be true. Rudeness was a quality prevalent in individuals, not vast swathes of people.
Even so, she couldn't help but query about the man's past. The robes he wore suggested an opulent station alongside the pair of glasses fastened to his face. The darkness of his skin looked unfamiliar to her as he no doubt owed his origins to one of the exotic lands to the far southwest. His accent resembled a crude mishmash between the elegance of her friend's Florina's tongue and something else entirely. Yes, Lyn had many questions for her guest. Questions he appeared unwilling to answer.
At first, Lyn took to his belongings for clues. The military man only had three items to his person. The first was a silver pocket, which was primed and shined as a mark of prestige, unlike the rest of him. The case possessed inscriptions of two dragons swirled across a circular canvas, their tails intertwined. The second was his gold bag, which held about five hundred gold pieces, an ample sum considering the average man earned about one piece a day. Lastly, his final object came in a long, cylindrical object that resembled a pointless-lance. It had a weird machination between a marriage of metal and wood—alongside several bundles of paper that felt grainy on the inside nestled inside a satchel.
So very interesting. The nomad thought to herself. She'd never seen such a thing before. Lyn had lived a lifetime living a simple lifestyle off the land, but the Lorca had a shaman knowledgeable in the ways of magic. Perhaps she would know what this thing was—if it was magical to begin with.
When Samuel returned, his robe was covered by countless wood shavings. Lyn reasoned that his clothes needed a good cleaning, but she was more interested in the man's demeanor. Hard work appeared to have an enduring effect on the man as his lips now parted a sly smile not observed since.
"I'm done," he said while calmly placing her ax back in its original location. He looked towards his belongings still at the end table. "I'll be leaving now, then."
Leaving? Lyn hadn't expected that. She raised her finger to protest and unlike last time, wouldn't allow herself to be silenced.
"Leaving? Why, heavens no! Father Sky would never allow me to let you depart in such drabble! Please, stay for a bit longer. Your wounds haven't healed yet."
"I really ought to be going."
"Just for this one night, please."
The man spent a moment looking down on himself, then sighed. He had surely felt the wounds while working outside, so it wasn't something he could ignore. He obliged by providing a silent nod. Lyn would continue to have her guest.
Lyn would spend the rest of the day tending to the tactician and learning more about him. She learned that the gruesome (and partly healed) injury sustained in his knee came from a battle gone wrong about a year ago, back when the man's name still held prestige among Elibean courts. The injuries from his head and shoulder came from a place he could not say, but Lyn surmised they came from one of the nearby bandits in the area. It probably came from the Taliver—Lyn hated the Taliver.
"Tell me more about the bandits in this area," asked Samuel. Lyn had partly wished he didn't ask that, but the emotion in her heart proved impossible to ignore. Thus, she settled herself in her seat and opted to provide what she could.
"Well, there's the Banshee, but their numbers haven't been relevant since before my father's time. There's also the Ganelon that operates further west. The last group that comes to mind is the Taliver—and they—"
Lyn could speak no more. All she could do was look down on her hands. There, she observed a protruding vein that still lingered just in between her left thumb and index finger. The scar served as a constant reminder of venenum, a poison infamous for rotting the blood of the afflicted. Lyn didn't know what she expected by going down this path. She didn't expect kindness from anyone, much less the stranger who expressed coldness more often than warmth.
Then, unexpected compassion.
"It's okay," said Samuel. He reached over and placed a hand around Lyn's own, his eyes scanning over the skin like a surgeon. The nomad swore to see a slight grimace over the man's face, only for the expression to vanish in an instant.
"Forgive my advances," he said while letting go. "I'm familiar with the effects of venenum on the human body. I was poisoned with it myself, you see."
Samuel lifted his left hand and produced the same protruding vein, except his was visible just underneath his wrist. The skin appeared blue and very pronounced, so much so that Lyn wondered how she hadn't noticed it earlier.
"Venenum is a cruel weapon," he said. "It works by attacking the nervous system and constricting our motor controls. If consumed in enough quantities, it can paralyze even the strongest of men. I'm—sure you already knew that."
"I do," she replied glumly. "It was used against my village last year. The Taliver—such beasts. They put the poison in our water supply and watched in glee as it reduced our people to—quivering husks. They charged through our gates and put my people to the sword. They—killed so many. They took my parents."
Silence. Lyn looked down towards the ground to avoid the gaze of her guest, whose eyes bulged from surprise. She could tell that was the last thing he expected to hear from her. Lyn loved to wield a smile in everything that she did, but truth was, she wore her emotions on her sleeve.
"I see," said Samuel almost analytically. "I heard about the demise of the Lorca some time ago. You're—mighty strong to continue on after what you went through."
Strength. The Lorca considered strength to be a warrior's most vital attribute. Not just in the literal sense, either. Strength of the heart held equal importance to the muscle in one's arm, if not more. Lyn knew that from the beginning—but was unsure if she could consider herself with a strong heart.
Lyn felt a tear slide down the side of her right cheek. She swiped it away as soon as she could, but Samuel had already seen it. He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief as an offering.
"Handkerchief?"
"—No. There will be no tears."
Lyn mustered her will and allowed her soul to soothe itself. She'd practiced this procedure many times before, usually once per week as her memories flared up. Within seconds, her heart calmed to return to its original beat.
Samuel observed her with slight intrigue, then something else entirely. What was that emotion? Perhaps, envy?
"You must show me how."
"What?" she replied, flummoxed.
"How do you continue living on?"
To that, Lyn was flabbergasted. She looked back at Samuel half-expecting him to be joking, only to be rewarded by serious dead-pan. Samuel meant what he said. Given his current state of things, there was no reason to doubt him.
"Long ago, I made a mistake," he said. "I used to be a prestigious tactician desired by every army in the land. I led soldiers in the frosts of Ilia, the beaches of the Western Isles, and against the fortified castles of Lycia. I had it all: money, fame, and a woman who loved me. Then, I lost it all alongside the trust of a kind old man and the lives of his five-hundred soldiers. I have nothing now. I am nothing but the alcohol I drink to rid myself of my shame."
Silence again. This time, Lyn reached over to caress the shaking hands of her guest. Just like her, Samuel had experienced trauma gnawed at his soul like a rat to rotting flesh, and Lyn pitied him. Just like Samuel pitied her.
"It's okay," she said. The two then exchanged the first hug either had felt in ages. The feeling of touch felt warm to Lyn, like a warm blanket in blistering winter. She wondered if all foreign men possessed this heat or if it was a quality expressed by him alone.
When Lyn awoke the next day, she expected the tactician to have vanished. Instead, he found him outside observing the rising morning sun. The orange orb resembled a glowing egg resting on a nest of mountainous rock, perhaps a signifier of a new beginning. Lyn wondered if this was a sign from the gods for him or them both.
"I'd like to stay for a bit longer," he said.
Lyn smiled. She knew deep down inside this broken mess of man lived something greater. She was all but happy to oblige his request.
Days turned to weeks. Then weeks became a month. Lyn's guest kept himself around for longer than expected, but she didn't wish to complain. She happily allowed herself to become acquainted with her new reality. She no longer had to live every day alone, for she had a companion she could call her own.
Samuel wasn't a parasite by any means, and he made himself worthwhile by cleaning the ger, laundry, salting meat for the upcoming winter, and chopping wood for the fire. Lyn, for her part, was eternally grateful for his contributions since she only had to occupy herself with the vital tasks of hunting and cooking.
Samuel further acclimated himself to his surroundings by replacing his tactician's robes for their Sacaen equivalent. Lyn had a set of buffalo-skin clothing in a storage chest, complete with boots and a bandana to restrict his wavy hair. The bags underneath his eyes vanished and his posture became more pronounced to match that of a proper Sacaen man. His accent maintained its foreign twang, but gradually, Lyn noticed certain adjustments meant to transform it into more of her own. Lyn, too, found herself speaking more like the tactician. She openly joked that perhaps one day she'd be mistaken for an upper class noble from a kingdom further west—like such a thing could ever happen.
Other than the previously mentioned things, Lyn observed other changes to his guest's personality. He smiled more now, often chuckled with Lyn's (poorly constructed) jokes, and spoke to Lyn at length about his passions. The nomad didn't understand half the things he was talking about, but she didn't care. Seeing him enjoy himself was more than enough.
As for Lyn, she could say she was affected, too. She found herself smiling more, talking to herself less, and enjoying her free time more. The nomad discovered she had a passion for folk dancing and gleefully attempted to string Samuel along as she hummed a tune loudly. Both left that experience laughing, but Lyn committed herself to dance more. If for no reason else than to honor the lives of her fallen tribe.
Yet, along with these changes came things—less expected. With each passing day came—innate urges Lyn could not explain. It began when she started stealing looks towards Samuel's direction, the image of him wearing her tribe's familiar clothing digging channels through her mind. Next, she stole touch of him whenever she could, whether it be in passing, work that required them to be in close-proximity, or the occasional hug whenever the situation allowed it. Lyn could dismiss such activities away as friendliness or the dawn of an innocent crush, but the emotions continued to intensify. Ultimately, she couldn't stop herself from staring at her guest as he slept in bed. His rising chest, his calm breathing, his muscles toned from labor. Lyn imagined herself slipping next to him and laying her arm around his neck. These were sinful thoughts to be had—no doubt the result of about a year without company coupled with her more subtle, biological wants. Her mental discipline lacked that of a proper soldier and it only took three weeks for her to succumb.
Initially, Samuel reacted by doing nothing. Perhaps he thought his host had a closeted case of sleepwalking, and she merely eased herself to bed out of instinct. Realizing this, Lyn silently cursed herself for her lapse in judgment and returned to her cot the next morning. Even so, the subsequent night Lyn's discipline failed her again. Once again the tactician reacted by doing nothing, and once again Lyn returned to her cot. Neither mentioned their nightly proceedings throughout the day.
On the third day, Lyn decided to try one final time. She slipped in between the hazards of the sheets, feeling the warmth of her skin touch that of the former tactician's. She mustered the strength to wrap her arm around his neck and pressed her face close to his shoulder. This time, the act produced a response. Samuel wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close like a knight would a delicate damsel. They stayed close for the duration of the night, the comfort of the bed shared by all.
On the fourth day, the pair acknowledged their misdeeds at last.
"You're quite comfortable to sleep with," said Samuel.
Lyn could only chuckle as she attempted to hide the blush on her face. As a chieftain's daughter, she was prideful in herself but knew she had her guest firmly on her side. She walked up and placed a friendly kiss on the top of Samuel's forehead. The former tactician's red blush was the most vivid Lyn had ever seen from him. Love in the Lorcan tribe was considered free and celebrated—so Lyn was firmly in her comfort zone.
That night, the two celebrated further by making love.
When they finished, Lyn and Samuel laid in silence as they stared at the ceiling of their dwelling. The fabric of the ger was tough but thin enough to allow for a rudimentary glimpse at the stars that resided above. They pondered on the events that transpired thus far, uttering subtle giggles whenever they mentioned embarrassing tidbits in their life. Samuel had his arm firmly around Lyn's naked body, treating her no worse than his most treasured possession.
"I think I've finally figured it out," he said.
"—What would that be?"
Lyn observed her lover locate the brightest star on the night sky before returning his gaze to her. His eyes expressed none of the burdens they did prior, instead only reflecting sincerity and ease.
"I think I figured out how to continue living on. The trick isn't to punish yourself continuously for a previous misdeed. I have to forgive myself—but never forget. I need to live my life for myself so I can be happy. Fall back on my passions, live the simple life, and spend my days with someone I love."
Lyn's emerald eyes twinkled as she heard Samuel utter those words. He had figured it out. She could only wonder if fate had destined for them to encounter one another. Not only had she helped Samuel turn a new page in his life, but he had done the same for her. Her life had undoubtedly gotten better.
"I take I'll have you for good?" she asked.
Samuel smiled and placed a kiss on Lyn's cheek. "Consider my life yours."
Lyn would have been happy right then and there. Unfortunately, fate wasn't one to only deliver the good. At times, it had to deliver the bad as well.
Samuel awoke to a familiar stench the following morning, one he hadn't smelt since that fateful day. Smoke.
"Bandits!" cried out Lyn as she shook Samuel. "They must've come from the mountains!"
Samuel instantly felt the urge to panic, but past discipline reminded him to stay his nerves. Instead, he calmly walked up to the ger's entrance and peered out into the plain. He saw two men standing idle, their bulging arms wielding axes effortlessly like they were toothpicks. Samuel had seen this exact archetype before. The strong—yet cognitively limited example of a man. A standard bandit whose weakness lay not in what presented itself head-on but in the finesse of his technique.
"Bummer," he muttered.
The two bandits were defending what appeared to be a grain depot at the mouth of a mountain. The leader of the two guarded the door with impunity, his eyes glancing over the environment for threats. Samuel wondered what was so important about the grain for the bandits to be there—until he remembered what day it was.
Winter is coming soon. They intend to hold onto this vital food source, but why?
"They must be meaning to raid the local village," said Lyn. "Those folks are defenseless. We must act on their behalf!"
"—I think not."
Lyn looked at Samuel with befuddlement, but the tactician calmly walked over to grab his weapon from the wall. He extracted a long stick from its barrel and planted it into the ground outside, afterward taking another stick and ramming it into the weapon's barrel. Then, he slipped a bundle of paper down into the muzzle before lifting a cocking mechanism at the handle's side.
"We stay here and don't engage unless they approach," he said. "I'm not willing to risk anything if we don't have to. If they want to mess with us, they'll have to challenge the firepower of this musket."
The word musket only produced more questions in Lyn's mind, and Samuel knew it. She asked: "A—musket?"
"Call it a boom stick. I bought some powder from an old witch and made this project when I was still in school. It doesn't have much practicality unless you haven't any skill in magic or the blade—of which I have none."
The former tactician sighed. "I have every intention to protect you. Please, listen to me."
Samuel expected Lyn to listen. The vast majority of other women in her position would have. However, as Samuel would soon find out, Lyn was anything but an ordinary woman. Rather than sit still, Lyn produced a sword from a sheathe hidden in her storage chest. Samuel stared at the weapon blankly, as if unsure what Lyn expected to do with it.
"We cannot afford to let these bandits go uncontested," she said. "There is a village nearby, of whom the people have been kind to me. I cannot do nothing while these men threaten their winter stores."
A village. Grain depot. Samuel began to piece together what was going on. The bandits intended to rob the villagers of their grain and leave them to starve. Even so, Samuel wasn't moved to action, not yet. He reasoned the villagers wouldn't just sit by.
"The villagers will send their own warriors. We put ourselves at unnecessary risk by not acting before they arrive."
"The bandits will leave before then. I know the bandits around here are a cowardly bunch. If we don't act now, they'll get away."
"But—"
"Samuel."
The tactician frowned. He popped another look down the crude scope of his weapon and saw the bandits stuffing bundles of wheat into a bag. He almost considered taking a shot right then and there but knew his weapon lacked the accuracy to hit home.
"You may think I'm delicate and weak, but I'm not," said Lyn. "I'm a warrior taught in the arts of the blade. My father taught me everything he knew."
A warrior. Samuel remembered all sorts of men who called themselves that. These were the same sort of men his school had instructed him to treat as expendable. A resource—no different than any other aspect in his supply train. Yet, he couldn't dehumanize Lyn to that level. Not when he considered her so valuable.
"We shouldn't."
"We should, and I shall. I'm going with or without you."
The ultimatum. He was offered one of two undesirable options. Either do nothing and allow his loved to die at the hands of these brutes, or act and allow the same thing to happen anyway. Samuel hadn't any confidence in his ability since his defeat at the hands of Alexander. He still heard the man's maniacal laughter, even now.
Samuel sighed. In the end, he didn't have a choice. Having a strong woman meant she acted on her own accord, for better and worse.
"Very well," he said. "But listen to everything I say."
Samuel's musket shrieked as it delivered a payload firmly in the direction of their enemy. As expected, the projectile went wide right, no doubt owing to the weapon's lack of calibration. Samuel cursed himself for not taking care of the musket's optimization prior, but he didn't think he'd ever have to use it again. He thought the life of war was far behind him.
"Bwuahaha!" shouted the head bandit. "Do you think your trinket stands a chance against Batta the Beast?"
"It surely bested your friend!" he shouted back. "I ripped his head clean off!"
Samuel and Lyn faced off against their foe just outside of the depot's entrance. The depot was a primitive structure of similar make to Lyn's ger, the only notable difference being that the depot resembled a scaled-up version of the former. Its stoic nature juxtaposed the mild devastation before it. The grass resembled dirt from the abuse of movement on its surface, though part of it served as an ample sponge to absorb the bandit's crimson. As stated before, Samuel had managed to nail a headshot on Batta's accomplice while he was in the midst of the battle with Lyn. Though inaccurate, the musket's firepower proved ample enough to handle any beast. Human or less so, and especially those without armor.
If he'd worn a helmet, he likely would have survived. Samuel thought. It's fortunate I'm fighting the rabble of the land instead of the landed gentry.
Regardless of his calculations, Samuel's wagging tongue had its intended effect. He disengaged from his bout with Lyn and charged at him just he'd removed the ramming rod from the musket's barrel. Then, he simply pointed the weapon forward and pulled the trigger. At this distance, the odds of missing were near zero.
Checkmate.
Unfortunately, it didn't come that easy. Instead of feeling the recoil of exploding powder on his shoulder, all Samuel heard was something more dreadful. A click. Then nothing. Samuel stared down at the matchlock machinations of his weapon and realized the match failed to produce a spark. The powder relied on a spark to propel the bullet forward. No spark equaled no dead bandit.
Fortunately, Lyn acted quickly. She sprang into action and parried the man's blow at the last possible second. Her speed was equally impressive as her strength, and Samuel could watch in amazement as she made up for his shoddy craftsmanship. Lyn—as he would learn—was just as dependable as they came.
"I've got you, Samuel. Waaaaaah!"
More frustrated than ever, Batta overwhelmed Lyn was a sudden push of strength forward. Her body narrowly missed his own, and she hit the ground hard. Yet, all was not lost. Samuel had the time to cock back the match once more and pointed the sights firmly at Batta's head. He would not fail this time.
"Meet your maker, you fiend!"
Samuel's shoulder violently pushed backward to flirt with the possibility of becoming dislocated. Yet, his poise held firm, and the musket did its work. Batta's body was forced back, the weapon's inaccuracy pushing the bullet down towards his chest. However, despite missing his head, the chance of survival equated to zero. The bullet penetrated the sensitive arteries of Batta's heart, and after a slight reprieve, he was no more.
The former tactician coughed as the powder's smoke entered his lungs. He wiped the pollutants away and allowed the musket to fall harmlessly onto the ground. Though the battle only lasted a few minutes, he was tired. The musket was very heavy on its own, and the recoil didn't make things much better. Even so, he went to Lyn and helped her off the ground. Her contributions to the battle equaled that to his.
"What a rush," she said. "I can't believe we did it."
"I can," he replied. "Your talent bailed me out. You're an excellent swordswoman, Lyn."
Lyn smiled warmly, then wrapped her arm around Samuel's shoulder. She eased a bit of weight off from her left foot, and Samuel happily accepted it. If Samuel felt tired, then Lyn had to be exhausted. Thus, the two returned home a weary but happy couple. They eased their way through the entrance and patched up their wounds with bandages. Afterward, Samuel cooked up some broth while Lyn allowed herself some rest on their bed. They proceeded through the rest of their routine like they hadn't just participated in a fight to the death until Lyn broke the rhythm by posing to him a question.
"Samuel, I want to leave this place."
The former tactician paused, his hand frozen over the wood of their mid-cleaned dishes. He looked towards her like he imagined things until realizing that Lyn meant what she said. He placed the plate down and took a seat beside her. He asked: "Leave—this place?"
"Yes. I want to become a mercenary, and I want to get stronger—so I can avenge my people's deaths."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Samuel gulped. He looked deeply into his lover's eyes, hoping to find a hint of doubt within them only to find none. He acted surprised, but really he shouldn't have been. Throughout the month they'd known each other, Lyn had made it very clear that she wished to hold the Taliver bandits accountable one day. He couldn't blame her either. The effects of venenum were brutal to all afflicted by it, and he could only imagine the anger that lingered in her heart. Especially when coupled with the loss of her treasured parents.
Or—did he have to imagine at all? Deep down, Samuel knew it to be true that he expressed a similar sentiment. Every day, Samuel had to battle with thoughts about his fall from grace, the what ifs over what could have occurred had he acted differently. He wanted a second chance, a chance to erase the former part of his title from his profession. More importantly, he wanted to hold Alexander to account for the loss he suffered that day and show every Elibean court they were wrong in throwing him out like trash. Yes—Samuel wanted revenge. He and Lyn weren't very different after all.
It was settled.
"Very well," he said. Samuel stared at his beloved's eyes and leaned over for a kiss. She reciprocated, and just like that, the contract was formed. Samuel would follow Lyn for a new career as a mercenary. They would throw away their previous life of peace for the satisfaction they craved.
"You'll be my peerless tactician and I'll be your fearless warrior," she said. "May we live by that from now until the end of our days."
A/N: This is my second attempt at doing this. I currently have 12-16 chapters planned to cover the entirety of the game. If you want more, make sure to like and subscribe and to hit that bell button. I'll be putting this on the back burner unless the response I get for it is decent. I've got a pet project and school to worry about otherwise.
A little bit of AU and a little bit of OC. If you're looking for a quick story that won't take forever you've found the right place.