The Fourth Regiment

by Zeronova

[FE7] The Justified: I ran my life on doing what I deemed right, even though I mostly did wrong. And yet, here I stand, not able to decide. Part two of four in The Fourth Regiment series.

1. The Moment

Welcome to the Fourth Regiment series! This is a series that examines some of the less-used elements of the F.E. series, and sometimes doesn't use much of anything, but only tries to tell a good story! They're assembled in four parts, all of them are self-serving entire entities, but all of them are linked in a rough fashion. They are gritty, harsh, and unforgiving, as well as willing to make you THINK.

WARNING: For those who might be queasy about intense violence, harsh language, or sexual content, please do not read. It is not for the faint of heart, in any form.

Chapter 1: The Moment
Chapter 2: The Justified
Chapter 3: The Loyal (due soon!)
Chapter 4: The Destiny (due soon after The Loyal!)

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The Moment by Zeronova
22,000 words / One-shot
Posted on Friday, December 9th, 2005

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem 7: Rekka No Ken, nor will I ever. Nintendo owns it, and they do so with the sole goal of wasting my money, time, and life. They're good at it, too. Please do not use any of my ideas or story, unless you contact me and ask about it, and discuss it with me, and in that case, I'll be happy. I love to proliferate a sort of fan-continuity, so just contact me and it'll be fine.

This story is rated T. It contains mild language, and intense violence. Don't read it if you might be offended.

This story has been written with the express idea of trying something different. I am an irregular fan of Fire Emblem, but my long-time friend, Samuraiter, suggested I write something for FE. I did so with this one-shot. While it may be far from anything normal in the section, I heartily encourage you to give it a shot. I sincerely hope you enjoy the story, and if you do read it, please leave a review. Thank you, and happy reading! - Zeronova

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They say that in your last moments, your life flashes before your eyes. Every single moment, emotion, smile, and tear shed, is relived once again before you die. I say it's a lie. In your greatest moment, the moment you were born for and the very few seconds why you live, your mind retraces itself. How did you get to that battlefield, squaring off with a bitter enemy, and that haggard smile curling your lips? What events brought you here to your destiny--your greatest moment? I know mine.

They replay in my head. The day my father grabbed my forehead and kissed me, smiling his bushy, dirty face before I went to sign up for knighthood...the day I married my wife, with my brothers in arms there to be my courts...when my daughter was born, her beautiful blue eyes staring at me, and, my love. My love for my daughter, my wife, my Marquess, my kinsmen, and my country. I give my greatest moment their love as sacrifice for bringing me here, and for lending me the hand of Saint Elimine. My moment has arrived, the greatest of my life. The blood flowing is never so pure, my life never so vivid, and my sword never so swift as the moment I was destined to live.

But, I don't know who you are. I don't know why, here, my mind wanders to infinite fields, past Pherae, past the court of the Laus, where my mind has detached from my body. I see myself, the blood-stained field and the glint off of the armor of my fallen comrades. My sword swings with a hum in the breezing wind, singing with the bleached fields of wheat weaving in the wind. Her own body moves gracefully, each thrust of the mighty spear contacting flesh, tearing through life and soul. Who are you...the one that pulls me from my existence to examine me, question me, let me conquer my fate as to make my greatest moment one of judgment?

My moment, though, came from more than one day's trials. I've not the knack of a lyre and not the harp of a muse, only my humble words to show you the road to this moment, the one we both deem worthy. No, it was more than that. I think there's some things I need to explain before that.

I lived in Laus, a proud father of a beautiful daughter, product of my equally dazzling wife. I live modestly, and am not any general. I'm merely a soldier, a Knight of the canton of Laus, but nothing more. My life is as expendable as the next, and I freely give it to protect my family and country. My sword is sharpened for the murderous throats of my enemies and sheathed for those whom I love. If my life gives them breath to their last, I give it freely. And, I just might in my greatest moment. The one I was ripped from, like the bonds of friendship that Pherae once held with us, before they destroyed our open arms with treacherous lies and invading troops.

They would burn our land and scorch our forests, bringing ruin to us. The kingdoms of our once-friendly neighbors turned a blood-shot eye to us, and our only reciprocation would be that of a war, a war that I give my life for. It almost seems detrimental, stupid even. To give my life, the very Lauan blood that has lived in my veins, my father's veins, seems worthless, gracing such a dog-faced country, if one dares to call such a plot of rotting land a country, with the acquisition of my mortality. I give you, what omnipotent body has snared me from my moment, a vicarious journey to how my moment has come.

Three days ago, we were sent out of Laus. I'm part of the Third Laus, regiment Four. There are ten regiments in each Laus, and there are five Laus, for each of our portions. The Canton of Laus has its armies, all united under the central governing agency of the Marquess. My regiment was sent out to patrol the outlying land around Caelin, since the Second Laus had taken it back from the filth of Pherae. There was mounting suspicion they'd be attacking soon to take back a city we had just liberated, and so we were out to protect it. The Second Laus had taken residence inside of the city, and there were other regiments of the Third Laus heading to the city or patrolling. Our patrol was on the outskirts of Caelin land, meaning we'd be attacked first, if it came from the direction of Pherae.

The patrolling, though, was just about the same routine as always. My regiment was made up of twenty-five men, which is abnormally small for a regiment. Most regiments were small armies, able and capable of nearly any task, except for siege. Mine, however, seemed more like a neutered dog, only there to stave the appetite of our enemies with our meager number and to whimper to the other regiments of an enemy attack. I think we all knew that, but it didn't mean we weren't fighters. I lived forty-one years, over twelve spent in this regiment. While our number was small, we had ourselves some of the fiercest warriors of Laus that Sir Boier could assemble.

Of our twenty-five, we had five archers, five phalanx troops, fourteen knights, and one commander. We only lacked our shielded dragoons, and those were used on large squads. They would make a shell with their shields, and we'd march like a turtle, but the Fourth Regiment of Third Laus got no such amenities. Despite our predisposed place to be killed, we had persevered. Put in the front of battle, and we'd lasted our ranks longer than regiments of hundreds. Somehow, it was as if Saint Elimine had graced us with her luck, as if no arrow would strike my flesh or sword twist into my sinew. Every so often we lost a man, but he was soon replaced with just as strong a soldier. For my twelve years as a Knight of the Canton of Laus in the Fourth Regiment of Third Laus, I had had only one commander, and his name was Thiocyan.

Commander Thiocyan never had a first name, to my knowledge. He was a stone of a man. No emotion passed his face, and it had been chiseled out of a block of granite to form his rough jaw line and straight, heavy eyebrows. There were left-over scratches of a pick from his carving though, although they'd hardly be attributed to a sculptor's chisel. His body was a mess of scars, both visible and hidden. He had suffered more than one fatal injury, but ended up laughing at the thought that it could kill him when he was back leading the Fourth Regiment within a month's time. He was a shining emblem of what fiery resistance we held firm in our small regiment.

Much like his unwilling nature to die, the rest of the soldiers also had it. He was like our morale, in seeing his torn body, we would think to ourselves "he's gone through more things than we could, and yet he persists in serving his country loyally". From the scar on his neck when a wild beast had slashed his throat with its tendril, to the time he was pierced by an arrow through the dead center of his chest, or the time his head been bashed under the stone of a rabid mercenary, he had survived. He laughed at death and stood as an edifice to what was possible, a mold that every one of his soldiers followed. We fought 'til our bitter tears filled our lungs and the blood had to be siphoned from our veins to make us stop moving, and we'd not yet been killed, not since we became a regiment two hundred years ago.

Sir Boies had thought it a waste of time to anoint us with the new dragoon troops, or to give us more than twenty-five men. We were always sent on the missions that we'd most surely die in, like patrolling the edges of Caelin where the Pheraeans would attack. And yet, we would stride back triumphant to the halls of Laus, albeit broken and bloody, but we'd be back out on that field in a month doing it again. We were the soldiers who neither side could kill, but we were respected among all soldiers. The Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus was considered an honor, to be a true beast of armed combat and the bravest of soldiers to manage in those ranks. If you weren't, you died quickly.

Everyone in the Fourth has died at one time or another. We've never had anyone resign; they've all been killed in duty serving the Canton of Laus. And, like Commander Thiocyan, we each had our mortal wounds. Once a Fourth got his fatal blow, everyone would chuckle and drink ale to his name, as when he returned, he was a man. On the edge of death and coming back to the fray, a new scar showing where death's embrace massaged your soul, you weighted it with love of country, family, and life, then, and only then, were you a true member of the Fourth Regiment. There were twenty-four true Fourth Regiment members, and our only one who hadn't suffered his mortal wound was a young soldier, only twenty-seven, with the name of Bario.

There were some soldiers who died of their mortal wounds, as the name of the injury would have it, and they never truly became a member of the Fourth. But, if you were assigned to the Fourth, it either means you are the type of man who is unwilling to die and willing to fight to the death, or you're just a brash fool. In either case, you're suited to be a part of my military family, the Fourth. And, only when you've been struck down in combat, only to rise again to your brothers, then you're a true Fourth Regiment brother. Bario had been with us for seven months, through three battles, and not been struck down. He was as violent, fierce, and foolish as the rest of us, running with his blade into the thick of the enemy, but he'd not suffered his wound. Everyone embraced him as if he was a Fourth, though, exhibiting every quality of us, except having been laid for a nurse to quote his death imminent.

That's the legacy of the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus. We die, and yet we come back. We're the infantry that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't exist, but yet we still persevere. Other soldiers respect us, seeing us as the ultimate soldiers, and yet we're set with tasks that increasingly ensure our death. It's as if Saint Elimine whispers in Sir Boies' ear to give us another challenge before we can be granted our eternal rests. But, my moment, my perfect moment of life, that came on just such a worthless mission.

Our departure from Laus would take us three days to get to Caelin, and, from there, we'd be on patrol for fourteen days and nights before we could return to Caelin for rest, and, from there, we'd be instructed new orders, which would probably just be another patrol. The night we left Laus, I kissed my wife and daughter good bye, telling them not to worry, as I shouldn't die. How could I? I had suffered my wound, a flurry of blades of my enemy, and yet I survived when I should not have. What drove me to get better was seeing my wife have my daughter, back when I was wounded, as I'd not want her to live fatherless, as well as the guilt in never being a true Fourth Regiment. How disgraceful if I'd not heal and become a true soldier of the Fourth? I'd not allow it, and so I healed, against every odd.

Our mission was patrol; I've said it thrice now. Our first night on our expedition out to the barren lands outside of Caelin was marred by a night that quick fell. It was a night that's as dark as the vapid depths of the black soul of the wicked Lord Eliwood of Pherae. His foolish trials bring us here, to the front of battle. What friendly neighbor sieges countries that haven't a weapon that'd dare slice the flesh of your kinsmen, and yet you attack? The Pheraeans would, and they did. Caelin fell to their sword, and we have liberated it, now patrolling for their inevitable counter-attack.

The night we spent out on the plains, as usually we do. Our armor and weapons are worn sheathed and stowed on our trip, so that if we're attacked en-route, we'll still have a fighting chance. Had I been a dog of a Pheraean, I, too, would attack the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus before we could get set to repel them. However, we also made sure the more obese items, like our main armors and obtuse shingles for our legs, were stored. No use in wearing an item which only will contribute to our tiring out. We each had our sack adorned to the back of our mails, tied on by leather straps and hanging on the rusted hinges of our armor. We each had survival items in there: tents, food stuffs, and utensils. Our food would be found on the plains, and we'd survive how we always did, so we didn't need to burden ourselves with un-needed items. The most burdensome item I carried, outside of my necessities, was a scarf of my wife. It smelled of her and my daughter, and was always wrapped around my neck, warm or cold.

On the first night, we camped hungry. Our bellies had been made full by loving wives before our leave of Laus earlier that day, so there'd be only but carrion to leave had we hunted that night. It would have attracted animals, and any man of the hills and plains can tell when the predators have left for meat on the air. It makes them wonder, are there enemies in the region that have been near and camped out? Although we were safe and in Lauan grass, there could be no telling if Pherae was mounting an attack straight on our capital, so better not to leave traces.

Each of us had our own tent we slept in. However, night fell so quick that navigation would be futile. We ended our night with a stiff campfire that whipped in the wind and stabbed the darkness with a dull blade, hardly illuminating our faces under the oppressive night. We all sat around, the wind whistling through our armor and our mails growling as their shackles were tickled by the wind. We started taking off our gear, laying it inside of our tents, both to weight it and to secure it. We'd get no attack this night, and if enemy found us, it would be by luck. No stars could lead them to us, nor us them, so we waited.

As night idly fell by, we were polarized only to the far-off howl of a wolf to his young and the whip of the violent wind. Eventually, we found ourselves looking around at each other. The fire lit us up in ghastly disproportion, giving only the bottom half of most faces a passing of light, making us all look like Shamans. We had no magic to our names, and our enemies hardly had themselves. To me, magic was a fool's tool, only suited for those too weak to wield a sword. Any skilled knight would kill a foolish magician, not dependent on whatever witchcraft he would use. Man needs no artificial items to fight more than his fists and sweat, and magic was an abomination of the fine craft of battle. The silence was becoming awkward, and although we weren't talkers, there was a mounting hazardous look in everyone's eye. Then, finally, it was broken.

"It'll be two days out from here towards our stake in Caelin. We've been ordered to patrol that area for an additional fourteen before returning to Caelin, and we shall get new orders there," Commander Thiocyan finally said, arcing his head to look his men in the eyes as he said it. "It's not much of a job, but it is one. The Fourth wouldn't be sent on a menial mission, so you can expect enemies. Our blades will slick the blood of those Pheraean dogs before the weeks end, so don't let your mind wander to the crevices of home when battle is on our doorstep."

"Do we know what to expect?" an archer asked. The archer was a friend of mine, his name was Nitrat. He was thirty-seven, a few years younger than I, but about average for the Fourth Regiment. No young kids made it into our ranks, as it was too prestigious and too hard. While we fight eighteen-year-olds on the fronts, while Pheraeans are cowards enough to send children to battle, we fight with honed age and skill. Sir Nitrat was an archer of the court of the Canton of Laus, until he made a snide comment on behalf of Boies' foreplay with the armies of Laus. He was then demoted to the Fourth Regiment, a position he held in higher esteem then protecting the royalty of our combined nations. Nitrat had a mouth that couldn't tell his mind when not to say something foolish.

"What ever Pherae throws at us is what we expect. Be it myrmidons, Knights, archers, Clerics, or Shamans, we will be merciless towards them."

"I've heard rumors of a Pegasus Knight amongst their ranks," Nitrat responded to Commander Thiocyan. We all were silent, looking with confused eyes as to how, and why, Nitrat could continue to speak to our commander in such disrespectful terms. He hadn't the slightest bit of reserve, but we all had known this now for years. Also, he had the steadiest bow of our five archers, as well as any other man whom I have seen wield a bow.

"Pherea has hired a Pegasus Knight to help them fight this war, it is true. What cowards as to not use their own blood, I know not what foolery consumes their idle minds, but it'll not deter us. We're the Fourth Regiment and no soldier of Pherea, Pegasus Knight or otherwise, could defeat us. Sleep well tonight, my soldiers; we wake at dawn with no wife next to us as we had this morn." With that, Commander Thiocyan picked up his long sword and helmet from the rut in the dirt it had accompanied, the slight glint of the dull metal shining into our eyes with the reflected fire, and he was into his tent. The rest of the Fourth muttered amongst themselves for another while before returning to their own tents to sleep.

As the fire slowly died, only I sat there, looking at its embers. The thought of a Pegasus Knight was enthralling, and one I couldn't remove from my mind. Four other soldiers still sat around the fire, lying down on the soft grass to look into the dark sky, or equally pondering some far-off mystery. It didn't take long for Nitrat to stand up and come over, sit next to me, holding his satchel of arrows with him. He settled in, leaning close to the fire, drawing arrows from his sack. He stuck the head into the embers, making sure it wasn't hot enough to melt the leather holding it to the wooden shaft. As he rotated arrows in and out, he looked at me, smiling that grin he always has. Had he not been a soldier, he could have been a jester of the court.

"So, just think, a Pegasus Knight..." he whispered. Snatching an arrow from the fire, the metal head glowed with an orange light before dying back to darkness to mix in with the night. He dipped it into a small canteen he had with him, the sizzling of the steel loud and grating, then setting the cool head back in his quiver. "You Knights don't get all uh' what we do. These arrowheads can be sharpened all they want, but without heat, they're just sharp. Making 'em hot, that fuses it all together, makes a nice, pointy death stick. Think of how your sword was forged."

"I hadn't questioned your practice, Nitrat," I responded in turn.

"No, but your Knighthood had. Do not worry, for I may be odd, we're both in the Fourth."

"You speak to me as if I've not served with you for eight years now, Sir Nitrat."

"One questions allegiance every now and then. Be it your allegiance to Marquess, your country, Saint Elimine, your family, or the Fourth. It's just normal for one to be weary at all times. Have you not questioned?"

"I have," I responded. Of course I have questioned, if it is not evident this far into my denouement.

"Of what?" he mused, his eyes tracing a soldier who stood tiredly before entering his own tent and slapping the ground loudly with his weighted body.

"Purpose," I said without a single note of conviction.

"Wait, you hear that?" he asked all of a sudden. I responded I didn't. "Sounds like a fly beatings its wings, but a hundred miles away..."

"What use are the senses of an archer if he can't discern silence from noise?" I asked with a smirk.

"What use is a Knight without his stupidity and brawn?" I chuckled, slapping him on the back for a moment before he continued. "Purpose of what, my friend?"

"That I know not. Purpose of life? Purpose of fighting? Purpose of our leader, the Marquess, for bringing this bitter war to our door steps. I know it is the Pheraeans who have brought it, but I never leave blame on only one side. Or, perhaps, the purpose of me still breathing. Being a member of the Fourth isn't for naught. Death hangs over every one of our shoulders like an old pal who whispers into our ear, welcoming us back in every battle to sit down to feast with an old friend."

"How poetic of you. You've not a purpose? What about your family? Their purpose, so that they survive, through your sword protecting them. How about your daughter surviving you? That sounds like enough purpose for me."

"It would, for you, Nitrat. Maybe I'm not so simple a man to have a well in my soul."

"You be simple enough to swing your sword for Laus and kill its enemies. That's all any of us need be, that's the limit of our complication. It's a life of a nameless soldier on the battlefield of life, only to slay his enemy and kill who ever is deemed an oppressor of the freedom of the Canton of Laus," Nitrat finished. He pulled his last arrow from the fire, dipping it into his canteen, and back into his sheath. "This fire gives our position away," he said after surveying the surroundings with an archer's long eyes. He took a slight sip from his canteen, then threw the rest of it on the fire. Only he, I, and another man, who had passed out from looking at the veiled sky, were around its lighted embrace.

"What if there was a Pegasus Knight, eh?" he said for a moment, leaning back. His arrows shifted in their quill as he leaned back, the hollow sound of the rustling of the shafts like a tolling of a church bell in the silence. Clicks of the fire's dearth echoed the grassy plains, the few burned embers left golden, charring with a hissing vehemence of the water poured on its embroiled brethren. It fought the same battle that I would soon fight, the one that was losing against an unbeatable enemy, but not one that would be so easily toppled, nor would that ember falter like some child to the enemy. It'd fight until the heat was stolen from its grasp, as my life in my moment.

"What does that matter? We kill any enemy of Laus, right?" I replied with a smirk.

"Come on, you have any idea how much one of those flying donkeys would be worth? Just think 'bout it. I'd shoot that little bitch out the sky, and we'd snag her horsey, and how much could we sell it for? We'd be promoted to Thiocyan's level, perhaps even be a member of Sir Boies' regiment, and while he may be as impotent as a eunuch, he commands a fine regiment. And, the money, oh by Saint Elimine, the wealth! I could live the rest of my life in the presence of beautiful Lauan women, with their large breasts and hips spread wide for a man of the Fourth, and never have to worry again about an ale being the only in days! I could live on as much wine and pleasure as my mortal confines would allow. That's how an archer of the Fourth should be goin' on his last days."

"Keep your promiscuous thoughts to your own vile brain, Sir Nitrat," I said with a chuckle. He reciprocated the laugh, one that echoed deep into the fathoms of the night. A soldier rustled open the flaps of his tent, looking a weary and darkened face out at us, whispering a curse for quiet. "I'm going to rest my eyes until dawn; we've a long walk ahead of us. You should as well. Keep those thoughts in your mind, Nitrat; you never know when you may just get the chance to fell a valkyrie of the sky." I smiled, patting him on the back, then stood, grabbing my helmet and sword, and retreated to my tent.

If there was one thing I loathed about being a soldier, it was night. Sleeping on the cold, hard ground was something I could never get used to, not after the warm embrace of my wife and the bed I had given eighteen pieces of Caelin gold for. The ground wouldn't give you anything soft to lie into, no matter how hard you'd elbow it in the course of the night. And, when you awoke, you felt as if you spent the night climbing and fighting the side of a Dragon along a Dragon's scales, not like you'd awoke from sleeping. Dawn came quick, though. I had hardly the time to see my wife and daughter before I was jostled awake by the steel-toed foot of Commander Thiocyan into my mail. It didn't hurt, but it's hardly anything nice to wake to.

"Get yer dogged asses up, soldiers!" Thiocyan yelled. He always yelled that, or something like it, when on the move. Anytime he could say something like that to his troops, he did. It was as if the commander thrived off of being superior to his troops, and holding their lives in his hands. He certainly deserved it. Not a single one of us could kill him, so he was our superior in the sense of both politics and strength. That's the type of leader that is able to be followed, not a puny one who leads by name and heritage and not true ability, unlike Thiocyan, who's proven his worth to the Fourth with the map of injury scrawled over his body. Not a single limb or patch of skin didn't have its story for the scar sitting there, like it were prime farming land for the vagabond farmers of war.

Within fifteen minutes, all of us were up, our tents rolled tight and on our backs, and we were setting out. The archers made sure we left no trace, as usual. They would spread out the embers, scrape the depressed ground where we slept, and remove all signs of our civilization, in case someone tried to follow us. The phalanx troops would help the commander plot out where to go, considering being a phalanx, you also had to nearly be a man born in the clutches of a forest and have that knack for nature. The Knights had the brutish work of rolling tents, preparing for the day's trip, and eventually, we'd scout for food. The food endeavor, although, usually falls on us finding and stalking some animal, or just telling an archer to kill it. We're a regiment, a pugilistic, nomadic, militaristic family.

So, we plodded on, second day. There's not a lot to say about that day or why it mattered to where I came, where you, whoever you are, stopped me. It seems my moment might just be the time when I have to evaluate where I have come, and how, but the question remains why. I'll not be so vain as to assume Saint Elimine has come to show me my err in such a glorious moment, but there's absolutely no reason I am not to believe how or why. Maybe this is always what happens before everyone's greatest moment. They let their actions ferment in their psyche like a fine wine, soaking in the steps they took to allow them to be there, at the one moment that validates their life.

We trekked our way as far as we could under the sun. It was a boring trip, highlighted by whatever flora I could pick up with a wandering eye. Under the weight of a chain mail and a breast plate strapped to my sack, it makes it hard to care about much else. The sweat makes the armor feel like it slides over your skin, like a razor to a beard, and makes it more than uncomfortable. None of us wore our leg armor while walking, or our helmets, due to the languid sun that seemed to be rather comfortable, but the more you walked and let it set in, it became quickly malicious, much like that of a wound. I kicked through the dry dirt of the country between Laus and Caelin, ripping weeds and loose chunks of yellowed grass. The land near Laus was fertile and vital; this land was barren and dead. Tracks of horses were buried into the dried mud, alongside those of carriages and foot prints. How old they were, who knew, as the plains were barren of trees or forest, but only the occasional bush. That also played well into us keeping our armor off and energy up, knowing we couldn't be snuck up on.

We made our way down a shallow ravine, complete with a cake of mud that filtered into the air in powdery delinquency as we trucked through. A river looked like it once ran through, the weeds like a trail of blood where the carcass of the stream once was. It was there I saw the only tree I saw through the entire journey. So what, a tree, I thought. It was odd to see one out on the barren plains, but something hit me later, well, now. It stood out oddly in the barren wilderness, kind of like an iconoclastic beacon. The tree itself looked like a shrub that had been enlarged. The trunk was dry and brittle, with bark one could peel with a fingernail and bony tendrils for branches. Its roots weaved in and out of the ground of the side of the ravine, showing its hair-like appendages. It needed water and was displaced by the river it once fed on, but it still survived. The few leaves on its branches whistled in the wind, ready to crumble, but not yet gone.

No one really noticed it or said anything. We had plenty of trees in Laus, they were quite common. You take for granted something like a tree, but when on the yellow fields, you kind of take a sight like that with a grain of salt for its oddity or symbolic purpose. I can only strive to be poetic in a vain attempt to understand the tree, but maybe I am being far too indulgent in the small fact of a tree. However, I think it and I have something else in common. It grabbed onto something that was hardly able to sustain it, and remained strong to the worthless dirt, hoping maybe a stream would once again save it. But, at the same time, it couldn't move either, it was immobile.

I love the Fourth, I love Laus, and I love my family. But, there are more fertile lands out there, better figures to lead by, and better causes to live by. My life's not dictated by that of a word of the canton of Laus, but it is also not totally devoid. Even if his reasons are as foolish as that of the notions of my daughter asking why I have to be a person who kills other people, I follow them. While I may think that our enemies, the dirty Pheraeans, are worthless scum only befitting to be bile that rises in my throat when thinking of their treachery of peace, their warriors fight with lust. That lust, perhaps for their country or for something, is a thing we lack. We fight for Laus, but never have we such ferocity for its humble stones as the Pheraeans. That level of love for one's country, even if misplaced, is powerful. And yet, here I stand, part of the Fourth, immobile.

We camped out that night, as usual. Before night fell entirely, I scoped out a wilderbeast on the far edges of the horizon. Like most animals, they water at the edge of night, where the sky creaks its door shut on all light. It was a fat mother, not far off from birthing. Me and two other knights spotted it, calling our archers over. All five fired their bows with the inaudible twang of a quick finger to silence the string. They had three volleys into the air before their first hit the ground. One of the first five hit, and as the animal turned to run, it was struck by the second and third waves. As a group, we made our way to the fell beast and camped there. Not only did we not have to carry the wilderbeast that way, but we were near a fresh source of water. It'd be that much easier to dispose of our traces and the carrion.

An hour and a half later, we had the stinking entrails spilled out onto the grass. The sharpened edges of the grass cut into the exposed intestines, adding to the aroma, and letting the blood stick onto their edges. The grass was so used to absorbing as much water as it could that the blood instantly made the ground look painted instead of just stained. The archers were quick to collect their arrows, washing them as necessary. Commander Thiocyan was always the first to do what needed to be done, and kicked the dying animal in the head as we approached. The steel edge of his boot dug into its temple and put the poor beast out of its misery, then proceeded to gut it with a spare dagger, leaving his sword sheathed.

The meat was cooked on an open fire that we made by throwing on whatever brush wood we could find. While nothing grew, things did in the few fertile weeks of summer, leaving plenty of plant decay behind. A crackling fire was thrust into the night sky, lighting the parched earth orange with its bristling luminosity, casting a shadow a hundred times longer than the single blade of grass that produced the shadow, almost like a circular arc of phalanx spears around our campsite. It flicked and seared the meat, roasting it around the edges and combating the rotten aroma with one of sweet gamy meat. Once the large chunk of meat we had skewered on a spare sword was cooked thoroughly, we each cut off pieces with our daggers onto our plates. We each carried a plate, a cup, and a fork with us in our rupsacks, metal ones that were solid and easy to clean.

"Y'know, you ain't so quick to join our ranks, kiddo," Thiocyan said, slicing off the first piece of meat for himself, the bits of juice dripping out of the meat and hissing in the fire. He was talking to Bario, the only member of the Fourth who hadn't suffered his mortal wound.

"I'd love to say I wish I could, sir, but I do not wish to have my family know I've been killed, sir."

"If you die, you're not one of us anyways, so whadda I care? All I wan' are my Fourth and a fine woman at my side, and I could take on any army, this land or beyon'."

"I shan't keep ya waiting, sir," Bario responded with a chuckle. Bario was a knight, like me, and not only was he the youngest at twenty-seven, but also the only one who hadn't the official mark of a Fourth. He'd not be for long without it, though. It was, however, our duty to badger him until he did get it. We all had somewhat of a bond with him, seeing our own time before our wound in him, but he was still a remarkable warrior. Being with the Fourth for seven months, and not being stricken down was a testament to his own strength on the battlefield, so no wonder he hadn't got it yet. And, while his sword was swift as any of ours, he had gotten to our skill without suffering our err of an enemy's blade.

"Keep me waitin', eh? Then how do you want it? When ya gonna get it? Ya never know and can't predict it, it's like predictin' when you're gonna die. Well, it is predictin' when ya gonna die, actually," he said with a broad chuckle of a man who had known the feeling all too well. He grabbed the soldier's plates, cutting off pieces of the meat and handing it back.

"Whatever doesn't kill me, sir," he said with an equally broad grin.

"I'll agree to that, Bario," Thiocyan said, throwing him back his bent plate with the sizable piece of stringy meat back. "You know how I got mine, soldier?" Most of us did, or a few of them. His initial was a mystery to me, but I had been there when he had gotten about every other scar of his. We'd all been there in the small room of whatever local hospital we could find in some off-the-beaten-trail small town, as he laid dying in his own fluids and gurgling on his own blood, but somehow, he came through. All he would need was a flask of local brew, the company of the Fourth, and he'd be fine.

"Well, ya see, I was a lowly ol' little beast of the Fourth when I was about your age, at twenty-five. You can't run into the Fourth like you can other regiments, we take only some of the best, you gotta prove yaself. So, my first battle, a skirmish against some of those damn stupid mercenaries out for our horses one night, well, they came into the Fourth barracks, and were about to take them. Someone saw them, and we started a brawl, a good ol' fashioned melee. Like all military outside of the Royal Guard and Sir Boies, we're too far off from Laus to actually get help within anything of an hour, so it was just us twenty-something against them. They were just out to grab our crap and go, like some vagabond pirates, but we got 'em caught up. Anyways, I forgot my sword like a damn stupid rookie, and I tangled with one of them piratin' whores, and he got me good. Right under my ribs. I was in the Lauan nursing house for three weeks, and my commander at the time, rest his soul, Hubert came and dropped an entire pint of ale onto my ribs. I swear on Elimine it ran up to my mouth and could taste it, but that kept me awake and alive for the rest of my time 'cause after he did that, he kneeled down and said to me that I was now part of the Fourth, and if I didn't come back to his regiment, I'd be as worthless as the brew he just threw on me. And, I came back, and he bought me a real ale to go with my wound's drink."

Bario was silent for a moment, thinking it over. "Great story, Commander Thiocyan. I hope that I can at least have one that interesting."

"That ain't the only way to go, boy. Hell, we each got our stories, and none of us are without our scars. Tell the kid, Nitrat," Thiocyan said, sitting down roughly on the ground with his ample slab of cooked wilderbeast. Nitrat scoffed down his last piece of meat, standing up with his plate and unsheathing his own dagger, approaching the bulk still skewered above the flame.

"Well," he started, cutting another piece off, "I'm an archer, youngin'. I don't get none of that shit-stupid in-close combat that you will. We got the sight, the taste, the smell, and the hearing for miles, and we don't need to be fighting like kids, we do it with style. Like that, ya hear it? The light flicker of an insect's wings, something you stupid Knights never understand." A ruckus of clamor was heard from the section of everyone else in the Fourth, save the archers, including me, as we told him to shut his fearful mouth, because only real battle took place when you can see your enemy, with a grin. He quieted us all with his jesting gestures, then continued. "And this is why we prefer to do it with style and far away. I was shooting off all the arrows I had, my second battle, at this damn convoy. It must have been their commander, as he was lined head-to-toe in this exotic looking armor, probably from one of the other countries, where them damn flying donkeys roam and the women have more balls than the men, and he was heading at me on his horse. He had this phalanx on him he was using like a joust, and I shot about nine or ten arrows at him in the span of about ten seconds, all of the bouncin' off of him like pebbles. So, he came up and ripped that tip through my armor, piercing it like a damn piece of wood, and threw me up against a tree. I was pinned to that damn tree all night with a spear through my abdomen." Nitrat lifted up his shirt with the clinking of his mail, showing the worked over skin that seemed dented in, just slightly off center of his navel. "Spent five weeks in the home before getting back out, and this woman-among-men here," pointing at Commander Thiocyan who waved his fist in smirking resent, "was smart enough to say I took a spear as good as any other rat," which let a rousing laugh from the most of us. "As long as we're going, you go now," he said, pointing at me.

"Oh, uh..." I stuttered. I never stuttered. I always knew what mine was, and so did everyone else, but I never actually got a chance to talk about it, or word it. It's like when you know something you saw happened, and everyone you were with knows it, so you never have to explain it to them, but when you do have to explain it, you can never get it as right as what you experienced, and what everyone saw. "Well, I got stabbed. That was about it."

"Well, that was terrible. Do better," Nitrat urged me on. "You think a kid like this knows anything about glory? You're gonna leave him under whelmed and disappointed when he's lying in his own piss and blood if you make it out like that."

"Fine, it was eleven years ago, twenty-nine. I had been cut off from the rest of the Fourth, from our flanking group. I was taking on as many soldiers as I could. They would see me alone, then rush at me and try and take me down. I kind of stand out, I'm a large man. No one wants a big guy on the battlefield. So, I had three different guys against me, back when we would fight amongst our own of Laus. One guy slashed at me, I jumped back and stabbed him in the throat. As I pulled out my slicked blade, the other got me under my arm. The armor slowed it, making it only a small slice, but it cracked a rib. I swung around and cracked his skull with the blunt force of my blade. It mashed his helmet in, but didn't break, but he fell as dead as any other body. The third one jumped at me and got another good stab in on my chest, same side as the other. As he tried to draw it out and attack again, I cut his wrist, leaving the blade in and his hand on the ground. But, not before he used the other hand to grab out the blade and slice me across my abdomen. Finally took off his head in my next slice, but then fell next to his twitching carcass as I tried to hold my intestines in."

"I remember that 'cause I had to kick in your guts when I picked yer ass off the bloody ground," Thiocyan said with a grin. "I don't know how ya lived that, brother. You got it one of the worst of us Fourth, a real honorary of our ranks. Y'know, I don't even know any man who would survive that kind of gamble without somethin' there. What was it?" the Commander asked as he ripped a piece of meat from a carved off bone.

"My daughter. She was due soon, and I didn't want her to be fatherless, nor my wife without a husbandless. Seeing her face is what drove me to live, and it's why I know I won't die. I'll never leave without knowing I'll be back to see her."

"And that, Bario, ya puny whore, is why he is a Knight of the Canton of Laus in the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus. Keep it in mind, as you can't do any worse than he," Commander said, standing. He threw the bone into the embers, watching them curl up and grasp the bone, searing what little meat was left on them before walking to me. He grabbed my face with his wide palm, like my wife would, my cheek in his broad grasp, patting me in a filial love, then proceeded to his own tent. Before he ducked in for the night, he said his piece. "I want that fire out within the hour, I want all of you knocked out and ready to patrol in front of Caelin tomorrow, and whatever meat's left, I want it dried out for the morning, but leave no scents. You know what that means, Phalanxians, sack it and tag it. We're gonna need it. Let your dreams be full of the flowing ale of Laus and innumerable virgins, men!" A hoorah emanated late into the night from us, I included. I wished not to be unfaithful to my wife, but it was a code of honor to keep to. Never would I deny her the full capacity of my love.

The rest of my brothers fell into a somniculous bosom quickly, retiring quickly after Commander Thiocyan. I, however, lingered. Not a night went by I didn't think of my wife and daughter. They both shared the same curly, golden hair and deep green eyes, one I could see an emerald reflection of my rough face in. Their supple cheeks were so different than my scarred and blood-soaked ones, and my scraggly hair had nothing for their delicate silk. In the jumping fire of the dying embers, I could see their faces made out in the slithering flame. My eyes were broken and my smile fractured as a sound slung me back to reality.

"Uh...sir, can I ask you something?" I looked over. It was Bario. His face was lit in a disproportionate flicker of the campfire, highlighting his smooth face and inexperienced eyes. They were eyes that hadn't been brought near death and seen beyond the sky in his face, but into something beyond our realm. He hadn't shook hands with Death, and his eyes had their innocent luster. Eyes start pure, then lose two hues; the first is when you kill a man, the second is when a man kills you. After those two are gone, all you have is another organ on your face, not a window to the soul or any gauge, but something as useful as a liver or a lung, and nothing more. I asked him "what" in a flat and angry tone, mostly for breaking my moment of bliss. "Aren't...weren't you scared?"

"Of what?" I didn't get it. What did he want? He was just a rookie. He had been in the Ninth Regiment of the First Laus before us, and that's commonly known as the highest death toll regiment of them all. The inexperienced children go there, but it seems he survived enough for someone to wonder why he was there, and sent him to the Fourth. He's proven himself a competent warrior, but no wound, yet.

"That when you got the, erm, fatal damage, were you scared of dying? What if you didn't come back, and were never a Fourth? What then?"

"You're such a rookie. You may be twenty-seven, but you could be an eighteen year old Pheraean dog and not be any different. Was I scared? Of course I was. My family is all that matters to me. I love the Fourth, every one of my brothers in arms, but never would they out-weigh my love for my wife and daughter. Not seeing them again was more than anything else I needed to make me survive. Being a Fourth matters, but it's not what I needed. I needed to be a father."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Bario said, leaning back. Suddenly, another voice entered.

"Shut yer trap, ya worthless knights, get yer ass to sleep," Nitrat said, peeking his head out of his tent. I picked up a near stone and chucked it at him, hitting the tent and not him. "Leave the long-range to me, fool. If you want me, you gotta get close like an ape to club me!" he said with a snicker before retreating back into his tent.

"He's right, Bario. I'm going to sleep. If you need to find some sort of reason to live once it happens, well, I cannot help you. But, you have to know why you fight and for who. It doesn't matter the country, the canton, or the regiment, because ultimately, it's your blood that leaks from the wound, no one else's. That's when you have to find it in yourself to survive, and it's not the Fourth's duty or anyone else's, it's yours. If you need a reason to live, make it to finally become a Fourth. Make it for your new wife, or make it for Saint Elimine. I can't tell you, but if you're so stupid as not to get what to live for, then you're not going to live."

"I'll find something, and I'll tell you," he said with a shy, genuine smile. I patted him on the back firmly, almost like a son before going to my own tent. I quickly adjusted my sword, holding the end of it up like a post. My sword was on one side and my sheath the other, making a triangle-shaped tent, each of them serving as a support and dug into the crumbling dirt. I usually don't remember my dreams. They're full of the faces of the ones I have killed, and they look at me with their weapons in hand. Before I killed everyone, whatever they were about to do was ingrained in my eyes, like that of a scar. I see their faces and movement, except this time, I don't parry and stab, I don't dodge and slash, I take it, and I die. I die a thousand deaths from a thousand men's attacks. And, once I have died them all, they come and pick me up and they welcome me. It's eerily like the Fourth Regiment, and perhaps some sort of motivation. I don't know what Saint Elimine is trying to tell me. Perhaps only at death am I truly welcomed and right? That would be my grand moment, the moment for living, if any. But, like all errors of faith, it's only so much as you make it.

Morning was quickly upon us. The sun sat on our shoulders like a small demon, catching the side of our eye and whispering into our ear that we were on the edge of starting our patrol. The patrol was going to be grueling. Not because it was tough, but because all we would be doing was walking in a long patrol line, a hundred paces between each of us, and strolling around the plains, day to night, night to day, on the look out. And, if we all got killed in the middle of a battle that we got, well, we'd be letting down the other regiments in Caelin. We were the first line of defense, and expected not to buckle at any weight.

The Phalanxians were quick to divvy up the dried meat between the twenty-five of us, each of us putting it on our travel pouches. They carried salted pouches that dried meat in the course of a single night, and we all benefited from it. If we rationed it right, we'd not have to hunt that day. Before we left, we filled our canteens from the watering hole and threw the corpse of the wilderbeast in. The archers cleaned the campsite, we knights packed up, and Commander Thiocyan was left alone to plot. He told us the day as we did our routine.

"First thing is we go to Caelin. We get out orders, and we head out. Nothing bad, hard, or wrong, just do it. And, we're not picking up any of the local brew or broads, men. We're here on orders from Sir Boies for the Canton of Laus, got it? When I go in to talk to whatever officer there is pulling the strings, you all stay together, behaved, and like what these rookie kids, no offense Bario, think the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus is all about." As his word held true, we made it to Caelin within the day. It was about noon when we did, but the city looked built to resist any troops. Unless someone attacked with anything less than a trebuchaire, they were going to have a hard time.

Caelin itself was built like a fortress, and it truly was. Tough stones showed their mettle with the off-colored scheme of the high-walls, showing where weakened bricks had been taken out and replaced. It also had plenty of aesthetic damage. A few arrowheads still stuck out of the mortar, there were large indents on the walls where it looked like a boulder was hurled, and the archer posts at top had only three, of over a hundred stone blocks, broken off from attack. Swords scars, oil slicks, and other signs of war lined the bottom of the walls, as numerous as Commander Thiocyan's own battle wounds. Of all the things I noticed were the rusted shields posted up upon the walls of Caelin. On the large, gray stone walls, there were a large amount of knight shields, ranging from ones of Pherae, the Old Guard of Caelin, and even Lauan, showing their varied history and how many different people were killed in trying to siege their walls. It also represented more than the number but the time they survived, showing some old insignias and aged shields, lined in rust.

The gates of Caelin opened slowly, being roped open by the gate guards of the Ninth Regiment of the First Laus. As we entered, both sides of the entrance were lined in Caelin folk and Lauan soldiers. The thought of having the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus was a sight to them. Every single man had been through enough war to be so tough as to look death in the face and sneer. Each of us was so tough that we could break the walls of Caelin with a malicious stare. Each of us were so brutal we could kill an innocent baby without thinking about it, and then spit on the weeping parents. Or, that was what they had heard about the Fourth.

Commander Thiocyan reveled in the sight of people whispering as we entered, every eye fixed on him and his men. There weren't a lot of us, but every one of us had presence, a sort of aura that people feared and respected. He strutted with a smile, ear to ear, winking at every beautiful girl he could. They blushed, turning away, and then looking back with coy eyes. He turned, looking at all of us as he walked.

"Become a real Fourth, and you too could enjoy this, Bario," he said, making us all chuckle. The crowd erupted at hearing his voice, wondering what sort of leather was put into his throat, or what snake had grew in his voice box. Unbeknownst to them, though, his voice was rough and distinguishable as one of the most awkward and unsettling sounds known because his throat had been cut by a wild beast that attacked him not but four years prior. Even before that, though, he had an imposing and intimidating voice. I never comment on it because it's normal to me, but when we're in public like this, people tend to notice it, and I realize again why they whisper. Bario blushed heavily, grabbing his gear tighter and walking as normally as he could, hoping not to be identified as Bario. The crowd was equally confused, not understanding the act of public humiliation Thiocyan had just done, but to us, it was completely normal and deserved. It was the way of the Fourth, and until he became one of us, he was going to be subject to whatever we could dish out to him.

We didn't get too far in before a soldier stopped us. He yelled around, getting his own troops sprinkled in the dazed onlookers to resume being a soldier of the Canton of Laus and to disperse the crowd. The crowd was coerced into leaving, and then the captain looked at Commander Thiocyan, preparing some words.

"Are you the Fourth Reg--"

"Yeah, what are our orders?"

"Uh, with me," he said, his pride taking a hit. It must be hard being a commander of a worthless regiment, I mean, all you do is either get killed or watch your men fumble with their swords in some stupid display of how not to be a soldier. It was no wonder he was so quick to just surrender under Thiocyan's intimidating stature. He too was affected by the glamour of the Fourth. Commander Thiocyan turned to us, smirking the same, big smile he has when he looks over a battlefield lined with bodies, and grabs the nearest Fourth, and holds him firm in his wide crook of his shoulder and says to him "look at that, we survived this and these worthless carcasses, they were unworthy to survive". He nodded his head, and we started walking further into Caelin. The cobblestone walkway from the gate went into a central town square, branching off like a tributary of stone walkways. The biggest one headed straight through the serf homestead below the towering shadow of the Caelin royalty's house, the towers of their castle. Compared to the chamber of the Canton of Laus, it was small, but it still towered over the one-story mud-huts of the average people. But, I lived in the exact same accommodation, with the same wife and child as those we passed, so my pessimism seems a little bit misplaced.

The center of the Caelin castle was a monastery. The monastery was what you had to go through to get to the rest of the castle, like an overly expensive atrium with a religious theme. Sculptures of Saint Elimine hung in pious memorial, lingered with the solemn candles being tended to by the mute pastors. We entered, the door being shut by equally silent monks, closing off the small amount of light let into the dark chapel. The faces of small children chased us to the moment the door shut, their tiny footsteps audible outside as they clamored about who saw what and how unbelievable this was that the Fourth was here.

The commander of the Ninth walked forward with Thiocyan. He looked back, waving his hand to stay put. They went forward in the chapel, the distant hymn of a prayer floating through the house of Saint Elimine greeting our ears. A few other soldiers, clad in Lauan armor would walk by, giving us partial glances before leaving again. The pastors kept their chants low and concentration high as they tended to worship, us standing out more than needed. We were the merciless killers of the Lauan army, we had no place in the house of Saint Elimine. About half an hour of just standing passed, some of us leaning against walls, others sitting in a free row, and we started to get bored. Eventually, Sir Nitrat came up and sat down next to me on the long, wooden spectator benches to whenever the pastor would start his rhetoric to the total population of Caelin.

"Do ya wonder what the Commander's doing?"

"Talking, like usual," I responded pretty flatly.

"Thank you for that wise insight. You should be an advisor to Sir Boies with that intellect. Nah, but seriously, whaddya think about this all?" I flashed him a questioned gaze, so he sighed, then explained. "You really think it's right to be out patrolling? All this he-said she-said over Caelin's made me not give a damn about who took this place and who attacked it first, but fact is Laus has it, and Pherae don't. Pherae's gonna come get it, so what do we do? They send the Fourth out to patrol it. Think we're going to get any action?"

"We've got a fourteen day stay out there, I'm guessing we are. Thiocyan is getting the rundown of who, how, what, when of the patrol, and probably an extension of the date, too. We're just gonna do our job, and if we find something out there, yes, we will kill it."

"Heh, always the pragmatist of us. I heard rumors of a Pegasus Knight, y'know..."

"Give it up with the whole Pegasus Knight thing, Nitrat," I warned him. "You keep thinking about that stupid thing and it'll never show up. You just want to see one so you can go 'I shot it out of the sky!' and sell the horse."

"You're damn right I want to! Can you tell me that the pure amount of gold one of those things would bring in, to the right people, would make you stop working for the Fourth and go on a vacation for the rest of your life?"

"It'd be nice to raise my child without having to leave, but I couldn't ever raise her knowing I wasn't protecting her. Money can't protect anyone, it's the people like us who make sure that there's safety for our home."

"If I had the money from a Pegasus, Laus could rot while I went and made my own small kingdom out in the middle of nowhere, and I'd take fifteen supple beauties with me to keep me company. I'd hire ten brewmasters, I'd move in some serfs, hire some architects, and make a kingdom! In three generations, they'd say that Sir Nitrat III wars with Laus, Pherea, Caelin, the fools abroad the ocean, and the world, and they would win with their superior might!"

"Speak softly of your lofty dreams, for they're as worthless as your words."

"So the pragmatist is a poet too. Even without the money, think of the glory. The Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus struck down a Pegasus Knight, Sir Nitrat under Commander Thiocyan landed the killer arrow. Muses would sing of my glory in all of the courts of the lands, my name would be synonymous with every single archer in training, and they'd go 'if only I could be like the great Sir Nitrat'."

"Lofty dreams, Nitrat. You have to fell the beast before you can claim its hide."

"But, you know those Pegasus Knights, they're girls, right? And, what I hear, they're young. Just think if I took her alive with that horse. I'd make her my woman, and she'd be so perfect. She'd be as lethal as I am, she'd be as quick as I am, as cunning as I am, and she'd be beautiful. Her body would be supple, but firm. Her breasts like ripe melons. Her legs like stalks of grain, and her hips, oh her hips, they'd be small and maneuverable, but wide and accepting. And, that voice, a broad voice, oh how it would moan for me."

"What ever makes your dream, go for it. But, I'm pretty sure they'll stay dreams," I said with a light laugh, noticing the unsettled pastors giving us looks of disdain. Nitrat had always been the guy who thought lofty, and never quite grounded. He was a comedian, always in it for glory, fame, and whenever he could crack a wise one in getting the guys to laugh. He was about the only one who could talk back to Thiocyan, and with good measure, because he was just in jest. If you didn't know him first, they might think him offensive, but once you got the jist of his antics, then he became another brother, albeit the one who never matured.

A nun walked by, catching my eye. She was carrying ashes in a decorated, brass bowl, spreading their scent into the air as she said her prayers. I couldn't make out her words, but something struck me about her. I never really go to pray, and I don't really take much heed in Saint Elimine, but there's some serene truth you must observe when in a place like this.

"The worst part is that the Pheraeans believe in the same junk. Makes you wonder if the divine even care for the trials of us mortals," Nitrat said, leaning back. I looked at him oddly for a moment, him arcing his back over the edge of the seat, stretching out. He wasn't a type to philosophize or say anything worth half a gold piece, but he just had said exactly what I was thinking. My thoughts drifted to how justified we were, when our enemies found the same justification in their religion, ironically the same one we believed in. No god could hate one and then approve of the other if they both believed in her, and yet, somehow, it happened with us and Pherae. Or, was Saint Elimine merely a spectator? Does her strength flow to those who are worthy of it, and given scarcely out to the warriors who deserved it? And, more importantly, was I deserving of it out on the battlefield against a dog of a Pheraean?

We waited more, the sight of the church filling my lungs. Sights usually don't fill a lung, that'd be a smell, but if you saw this placed, you could breathe in the piety. It was so thick, from the idyllic hum in the background of a far off choir or the dull footsteps of the pastors surrounding the candles at the bottom of Saint Elimine's statue, there was something you could literally feel. Maybe it was belief, or optimism, something in the place, but it had its own aroma, its aura. But, not to say it didn't have its own smell. It had a dust on top of the booths and sides of its religious edifices, leaving floating debris in the air that shined in the examining light of the stained glass windows. The wood had a polished lacquer smell of cherry, and the worn aisles had the smell of a ripe, old man's cottage. Somewhat sweet, but pungent in an amicable way, coupled with the dust, shown from its stealth, floating journey in the colored light, and the distinct scent of the candles far off, made the place seem like a tangible feeling was in every breath.

Commander Thiocyan wrapped around the back of one of the doors on the far side of the chapel. His voice, the chopped-up inhuman snarl, was distinguishable, especially to a member of the Fourth. He was babbling on indiscriminately with the commander of the Ninth as he returned. The monks gave him an odd look, breaking the silence with his gruff voice and loud, abrasive armor. Thiocyan's response was a confrontational "whactha lookin' at?", which shut them up quickly. Both of the commanders made it to us, where we sat in the back of the chapel. He approached, looking over all of us for a moment, then Thiocyan spoke.

"So, we're out on patrol for fourteen days. Intel says that we're going to run into some recon troops, so if we do, we've got this guy here," he said, exposing another man. Or so I thought it was a man at first glance. However, he was hidden behind the commander of the Ninth, standing like a shy child behind the figure of his mother. Once he was pulled out, he looked naked and exposed from the shadow of his commander. He had armor on, the soft blue glint of Lauan armor obvious, and the stature of a boy. He had to be old enough to be a soldier, or else he wouldn't be here, but was just on the cusp. "This kid's the fastest wimp ya ever seen. If we're engaged, he'll skimper back here and let the other regiments know." The commander leaned down, looking at the shaken boy in the eyes, examining his pure face, contrasted to Thiocyan's worn and scarred one. "Don't be too scared, we're the Fourth, remember?" Then, he turned, looking to the commander of the Ninth Regiment of the First Laus.

"You'll be getting your runt back in a day when he tells you that the Fourth just mopped up the entire Pheraean army," he muttered, the collective hoo-rah from us echoing into the cathedral's infinite halls. "Let's move, Fourth," he grunted. A monk tried to open the door for us, but he quickly shoved the man out of the way and threw the door open with his might, not in the slow and methodical way the monk tried. He laughed a deep bellow, from deep within his gut, then walked out back into the peasant village surrounding the base of the Caelin monastery. As I said before, the monastery connected to the castle, and it was all one big structure.

We were quick to make our way out of Caelin, leaving to the same crowd of people. They parted as we walked forward, Thiocyan leaning back and smugly smiling, grunting at the men and whistling at the ladies. He loved his glory and he loved the Fourth. Then, a little girl pushed her way through the crowds. She kept yelling "Fourth! Fourth!", probably one of the few words she knew. When she emerged from behind the taller people, she had a large basket in her hand. Inside of it were about a dozen loaves of bread, her smiling face accented by about ten grown in teeth and a white dress. I grabbed one of the loaves, breaking it off and handing the other half to Nitrat. In the distance, the girl's father, a baker, waved with a smile, and we gave him an equal nod back. The gates were pulled open by the taut ropes of the Ninth's spare soldiers, and we were quickly outside. The stones creaked and made a grating noise as it shut behind the twenty-six of us. The commander took a deep breath of the air, howling deeply into what he knew was coming. Then, he turned to us, addressing us all.

"Okay, we're getting ten miles out of this city, then patrolling. We have a back-and-forth bullshit route. We camp and find our own food, and we're out here for fourteen nights, including this one. And, if they say this one doesn't count, they can try to tell it to all of my Fourth Regiment. Move out," he screamed, turning and plodding forward. We weren't wearing most of our armor, again. Most of it was snapped onto our rucksacks with a spare piece of leather that jingled with every step we took. The sun beat down on the yellow grass and glinted off of the mails we never took off. We just kept walking out, but it became increasingly hard not to notice our new addition. He tried to keep his cool and just keep walking while in the back, but he was obviously jittery. His pace was uneven, sometimes lagging, then running to catch up and bumping into the man in front of him, who would sneer back. His armor was too big for him and it made an obvious grating noise as it jumbled around his small frame.

By nightfall, he was worn. Never did the kid try and tell us to stop or let him rest, too afraid of displeasing the Fourth Regiment, but once we camped and made the fire, he was looking into oblivion. I knew the look well. When you're so tired and so worn out from something, you're past tired. You got to the point of exhaustion where you don't even need to sleep, you just need blood back in your brain. We didn't hunt that night; we just ate what meat we had. It was plenty for a meal, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. When you lose the accommodations of home, you appreciate the smaller things, like a well-cooked slab of meat over a dried-out chunk of jerky. I felt bad and gave a little to the boy who had tagged with us, as did everyone else, so that he had a decent amount of food. We may have been the rough Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus, but we weren't merciless. He took them with a breathless thanks and scoffed it down without a moment's hesitation.

As night pressed on, our usual schedule went on. Thiocyan made his last words for the night before retreating to our hoo-rah to whatever witticism he decided to tempt the night with, and we tempted it back. If any of our enemies were around, our camp fire and our braying would bring them, but we had no inhibitions about it. We would seduce our enemies in any way we could, because we lacked that enviable facet called fear, but in the mornings, we weren't stupid enough to leave a mark straight to us. I decided to head in early, seeing as how I was usually one of the last out. Once I was lying on the inside of my burlap tent, the rough edges frayed and held up by my sheath and sword to make a small sleeping area over the hard ground, I heard the talking. People always stayed up and talked, but this time, I wasn't amongst them.

"So, you're the puny boy who runs back to Caelin if we get attacked, huh?" a soldier asked. The boy must have nodded, because they continued talking in the affirmative. "Ya such a runt, whattarya, only sixteen? It doesn't matter, if you can run quick and get there, then we'll be fine. But, seeing as how you got your ass kicked today, I dunno. You might be quick, but you're nothin' for distance, kid. You might just be fodder for one of those arrows if you run stupid." There was no response from the boy, but only a laughing ruckus from the man who said it and his buddies. Lithior, I thought, it had to be him. He loved giving Bario a hard time too. He was an old one of us, jaded and scarred, seeing youth as stupidity, not innocence.

"I'll run as fast as I can, sir," the timid boy responded, almost drowned out by the crackle of the fire and cackle of the men.

"I'm sure ya will, runt," Lithior responded, followed by a brief silence before he continued. "Ya didn't bring a tent, did ya? Oh, man, look at this, Bario, the kid forgot his gear! What a damn rookie! Tell me you weren't this bad, come on..."

"I was in the Ninth Regiment of the First Laus, but I wasn't that bad," Bario said, a smirk evident in his words. "I never knew this runt anyways. I was one of the few who didn't get cut down when trying to get a sword out of its sheath like the rest of the worthless Ninth. Don't worry, kid, if you can at least run quick, maybe you'll live along to get out of that unit."

"You may sound and look like a Fourth, but ya ain't full yet, Bario, so to me, you and the runt are on the same page," Lithior responded while Nitrat laughed loudly behind his words. "Serves ya right to be sleeping on the ground, runt. I'm going to sleep in my nice tent while you enjoy the weeds," Lithior said, turning into his tent, Nitrat resounding a seconded opinion. "And, put out the damn fire." In a few minutes, almost everyone was into their respective tents around the fire. They left Bario to clean it, he being the youngest and awake. I was kept awake by some unknown variable or factor, but I couldn't bring myself to join the conversation or to stop listening. A few minutes of silence passed, and I assumed it was over, but apparently, there was more yet to be spoken.

The dull hiss of the fire being kicked to embers with the sole of Bario's boot jostled me from my harbored sleep. In the small interim of muted noise, I almost fell asleep, but I was awoke by the crunching of burned twigs and the last dying screeches of the pyre. Bario sat down exhaustedly, the jingle of his armor loud and abrasive, like all armor of a Knight.

"You, uh...were part of the Ninth?" the boy whispered. I can only imagine Bario gave him the most odd of looks before he chuckled and answered.

"Yeah, I was. I was in it for about six years, more than anyone lives in that worthless regiment. Then, for two years, I served in the Sixth Regiment of the Fifth Laus, then seven months ago, here in the Fourth. I was the only person in the Ninth who had survived more than a year and hadn't moved on. They eventually got drift of my longevity and age, since they always put kids like you in the Ninth. If you happen to live, you get in a good regiment, and if not, too damn bad. If you live this little outing with the Fourth, you'll get moved out of the Ninth."

"I certainly hope so, sir...I find the leadership rather lacking and that the only purpose I serve is that so that grave digger has a job back in town."

"Yep, that's the Ninth Regiment of the First Laus for ya," Bario said with a chuckle.

"Sir...?" the boy asked, hoping not to be offensive or interrupting. "What, exactly, do you do, erm, as a Fourth? I mean, I hear so much about you all, but I know so little. Now that I'm here, and talking to you, a real member of the Fourth, I, uh...I don't know what to say."

"Ha, I'm not a real Fourth. Y'see, to be a Fourth, you gotta die. Sounds stupid, eh? Let me explain. Once you're assigned to the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus, you're a member by the Canton of Laus, but not by Commander Thiocyan. You have to be struck down in battle and assured death in a mortal wound, then you must recover to become a true Fourth. I am the only one of the entire Fourth who hasn't had their fatal injury, so I'm not a real Fourth."

"To us, to everyone else, you're no different. You're a Fourth to me. But...why do you have to get that injury?"

"It's a pride thing, I don't know. One of the knights, over in that tent," I knew he pointed at mine, "he told me that if I don't know what to live for, then I won't live. Once I got something to live for, no blow can truly kill me. I'll live until it is my time to die, if I have a reason to live. I don't know if I got one yet."

"Whaddya mean? You're part of the Fourth!" the boy said excitedly, quieting himself after the outburst and apologizing.

"It's not that easy. If I was ever told I was going to die, or dead on the battlefield, I don't know what would bring me back, and make me live again. Saint Elimine be damned if my belief would resurrect me, but I need something, some emotion or idea, that I will live for. I don't know it yet, but I'll find one. Once I do, it doesn't matter if I have to take on the Mages of Pherae or a thousand Pegasus Knights, I won't die. Then, I'll be a Fourth."

"Why is it so hard to find out a reason to live?"

"If I killed you now, what would be strong enough to make you live, kid?" The boy was silent. He opened his mouth, a few syllables exiting before shutting up again. Bario wasn't that young, he was twenty-seven, but young in comparison to us. This little kid really made a point of contrast to us, and even our "rookie", which was frightfully more mature and world-weary. Had he not suffered his wound in a year's time, I think I'd just consider him a Fourth in any case. He certainly showed it. "Whatever, I'm going to sleep. Long days coming up, and we're gonna need it. I left the embers alive for you to sleep by the fire, kid, so get used to it. That'll be your mom's breast for fourteen days, so love those embers." With that, Bario retreated to his own tent, the rustling burlap sounding on the light wind.

I tried going to sleep, but I only could find admiration for Bario. He was truly a young man who knew far beyond his years, and was as keen as any men twice his age. That was the sort of man who needed to be leading us, not some worthless Sir Boies. An idealistic, strong, and concrete man like Bario. As a soldier, I should say Commander Thiocyan, but Thiocyan with absolute power would be kind of scary. Every boy, thin and fat, every man, baker to soldier, would grab an axe and a shield and be marching. Compassion, that was something that far too few soldiers had and more of what war needed. Ironic though, isn't it? We need compassion on the battlefield when we crush the skull of our enemy. It's one of those things you only know when you've spilt the blood of a man, I can't explain it other than compassion.

That compassion, I think I have. After about fifteen minutes of the wind rustling my tent, I finally moved. I grabbed the blanket I was using, walked outside, and threw it to the boy. He looked fearfully up at my powering figure, obviously lighted by the ember's ghastly glow, to seem like a nightmarish demon, but he accepted the blanket graciously, wrapping his body in it. I returned to my tent. I don't think I needed it. The wind was quelled to the sides of my tent, not being barren and open like he was, and it helped I had enough girth as it were. His frail body needed the heat more than I did. And, I think some sort of inner heat nursed me to sleep that night, the compassion I felt in helping out that kid. I couldn't do that if Commander Thiocyan was up, or any soldiers, it was one of those small things that you did as a person, not when around others.

I didn't have a lot of sleep, but for some reason, it was clear. I woke up early, and felt totally energetic. I woke up with the same smile I fell asleep with. And, I usually don't dream, but I had one. Not like a total dream, really, but more over, a vision. Blue clouds swept a dark landscape, slowly revealing grass and weeds, then two figures. My wife stood there, smiling, her golden, curly hair falling down past her breasts and her tied up garment laced tight up her back. Her hands had not the dirt of labor and cleaning as usual, and her face was full of vitality, not stripped and exhausted. Her hands reached down and caressed my daughter, standing with her back to my wife's leg. They both had their smiles on their faces, the same freckles on my wife's face placed on my daughter's. I walked forward, extending my hand. It was barren, no armor on it, but as I stepped forward, they moved back. And, not stepping, but just that they seemed to extend to the horizon as I got closer. I sprinted, and they went further. Finally, they were gone on the horizon, and I fell down. From there, the light was gone, and I wept. I don't know what dreams mean, and I am no purveyor of meaning, but then something I couldn't place made me smile. I heard their voices, no words, but just the lull of their sounds, and I smiled. It was then my eyes snapped open, their hum swept with the wind along the plains. They were praying to me, I know it, and it carried on the edges of a desolate gale.

Morning was there quickly. I woke up at dawn, collecting my belongings, especially from the kid so no one would know. He didn't know who I was, or which soldier I was, only "some knight". He was groggy, but still smiled a wide, toothy smile that I forced myself not to reciprocate. I just took the blanket back and stuffed it into my pack, turning around to let my smile break my lips. He couldn't see a Fourth be nice, it wasn't right. We packed up quick that day, and started walking. Phalanx troops planned with Thiocyan, knights packed the campsite, and the archers made it look like we were never even there. When we started walking, I still had my smile on my face. I thought it was going to be a good day. I never knew it would be so glorious.

We walked through the yellow grass without so much as a care. We had to make sure we had our normal patrol line though, which meant a hundred paces between each one of us. We reached our destination mark before noon, and were quickly called together by Thiocyan. He got us all together, and then began his speech.

"We're here, ten miles out. Maybe we're not, but we must be damn close. So, I want phalanx troops on each end of our line, then archer behind them, fill in the knights, and then two more archers on each side of me in the center. Standard line, you know the drill, boys. Stay by my side, kid, so that if you see anything, I can give you a firm kick in the ass to move you quicker. We're going mile patrols from this point, that means you phalanx troops, keep distance markers. It's your job to be the mountain men, so do yer damn job. Mount up, men, we're not traveling light, we're in the fray now."

We stopped for half an hour after Commander Thiocyan's speech, readying ourselves. Now, our mission commenced. The spare pieces of armor strapped onto our sacks were taken off and slipped over the mails, our weapons secured to our bodies, and our helmets fastened to our bodies through the loose leather straps. My armor was obtusely large, but so were all knights. The breast plate seemed more like a castle's drawbridge, but once I slid it on, the mail seemed to secure it, and I reached around to fasten it together. Finishing off by putting on my helmet, arm, and leg shingles, I heard the voice of Nitrat. Like all archers, their armor is slimmer, and more suited for movement than ours, so it made securing his together harder. For some unknown reason, the way the armors were designed let his strap be hard, but ours easy. I tied the straps together under his armpit, with his muttered thanks, and we began our patrol.

The line proceeded exactly how Thiocyan had said. We made sure we had enough space, and we started our pacing. We made it a few miles out, then turned around, and went the other way. My view was obscured, and rightfully so. Only a slit was there for my helmet's view, added to the cumbersome armor made it rather unsettling to actually search the distance. I felt like I was inside of a tea kettle, and the heat of the sun made it feel even more convincing I was on Saint Elimine's stove. I could hear the chuckling of people behind me, obviously chatting over the distance. It wasn't hard, I picked up traces of the conversation as well. No words decayed on the soundless plains, letting only the rustle of our footsteps and our words to fill our vacant ears. Archers looked to the sky and the distance, that being their job, while phalanx troops led and us knights were just there to kill anything we found.

About halfway through our patrol for that day, Commander Thiocyan let us rest. It was no surprise we were all bored, something we'd learn to settle with for the next thirteen days, and we'd probably be just as objected towards this ridiculous duty then as well, taking breaks every now and then. We were told thirty minutes, and then we were to be walking again, before Thiocyan himself fell down onto the hard ground to rest. It wasn't that it was tough work, it was just hot, and not that it was too hot, it was just tedious work. Nitrat found a rock and quickly made to sit on it triumphantly, while the others just stood around or lay on the ground. The archers kept a firm eye on the horizons, as even when we rested, it didn't mean the enemy did. But, we all were relaxed and calm. It didn't matter what attacked us, we were the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus. The one who stood, eyes staring around restlessly, was the boy. His armor rattled as he scoped the area with a jittered look, hidden under a knight's armor far too big for him.

"Hey, come here," I heard. I turned and saw Bario waving me over. As soon as I arrived, I sat down, greeted with a chunk of bread he ripped off. He kept some from the baker in Caelin it seemed, the smiling girl and her father, I remembered. I took it graciously and sat next to him with a heavy wear in my bones. "What do you think of this?" he asked in a whisper, trying not to attract the attention of Commander Thiocyan, who unplugged a flask from his sack and took a large gulp of whatever grog he had in there, his scarred face contorting in bitter glee as he took it straight.

"Patrolling is worthless. They told us to patrol only so that whenever Pherae attacked, we'd stop them up. Patrolling is just a ruse, since they can't tell us 'hey, Fourth, go out and kill something!'."

"Even though that's our jobs?" Bario asked haphazardly.

"Even though it is our job. But, it's a job I love. I fight for the Marquess of Laus, as do you. Or, you've not yet found your reason to live, right? You may fight, but it takes a real fighter to live."

"I know, I know," he mused. "I need a reason to live and all, once I am struck down to come back. But, I'm far beyond those like him," he said, motioning his hand to the uneasy boy, who flipped around every few seconds to try and see if some sort of enemy troop was trying to sneak up on him. I had to agree. "But, y'know I been thinking, maybe I know what I'd live for."

"And what would that be? You were just married, I was there. All of us were, your men of honor to see you two off. Nice gal, she is."

"No, not her. I love her, and love to see her face and her smile, but she couldn't bring me back to life if I died. No, that'd be something different. I think I fear becoming a true Fourth because I don't know what would bring me back. I think I know...it's--" Bario was cut off by a loud yell, both of us turning our heads to the sound of the yell.

"Hey, what's that!" Nitrat yelled. He had his hand pointed to the sky, his other held over his eyes to shadow them from the blinding high sun.

"I don't see anything," I commented.

"You're a knight, you don't see anything but what's in front of the tip of your sword. Look, Commander Thiocyan!" he yelled. The other archers turned their eyes skyward, seeing only the blinding light of the sun sitting cloudless.

"If there was something, ya fool, someone else would see it," Thiocyan growled, leaning up from his lying position, capping his flask.

"I'm tellin' ya, there's something!"

"There's not a cloud in the sky, shuddap, Nitrat," Commander Thiocyan yelled angrily.

"No, sir, he's right," another archer timidly mentioned. "I think I see something."

"The hell could be up there anyways?"

"...A Pegasus Knight," I whispered. While everyone was attentive that moment, my whisper was like thunder. Nitrat smiled, nodding affirmatively at me, then looked at the sky again.

"That means it's on reconnaissance. Those Pegasus Knights scout out the area ahead of the troops, and report back. We can't let it get back to the Pheraeans, or it'll know we're here. Archers, fall that foreign flyin' donkey," Thiocyan said, finishing off his flask with a howl. "Kid, get yer ass back to Caelin, we're getting ourselves a bit of action." The boy looked confused at first, unsure, but started gathering his pieces of armor he had taken off in the small break. Commander Thiocyan walked up quickly, grabbing him by his throat, lifting him to his feet, and true to his word, kicked him from behind towards the direction of Caelin. The boy stumbled at first, falling back into the dirt, then stood, and ran, picking up speed and dropping what useless pieces of armor he didn't need. Thiocyan chuckled, turning back to us as he put on his own helmet. "Another day in the Fourth," he muttered.

The four other archers lined up by Nitrat's side, finding his bearings in the sky. They all followed his fingers, aimed their bows, and released on his command. Five twangs released five sticks into the air, flying with as much grace as a twig could have. They whistled into the barren sky, taking our breaths from our lungs. We all looked upward, standing slowly, waiting to see. It seemed as if they fired directly at the sun, trying to pierce the golden yolk that sat blisteringly hot, but never wanted to fry. The air seemed to be ripped from my lungs, everything about me inching upward to where those arrows were, as if to ask "what can you see, arrowhead?". I kept watching, and soon found four falling back to the ground, clanging and bouncing back on the dirt. But, one was missing. Breathless whispers moved around my comrades, but Nitrat just smiled, hushing them.

A loud bray came next, a piercing and unmistakable nay of a horse. The silence magnified it to a roar, lending absolutely no margin of error. It was a Pegasus Knight up there, somewhere, hiding in the sun. Nitrat looked at me, smiling, knowing his arrow hit flesh.

"And, that's been the patter of wings I've been hearing in my ear all week," he said with an I-told-you-so grin that he made so well.

"Tight formation, men!" Thiocyan yelled, unsheathing his sword. He moved behind the five archers, us all falling in behind him. "Reconnaissance can't get out of our grasp, it's gonna have to attack us, or be shot down! Phalanx, spears up, archers under them, I want second formation, and knights, sit under the phalanx troops!" Second formation meant that the five phalanx troops holds their weapons to the sky, not letting anything get close, each of them a few feet apart with the archers kneeling between them, creating a small barrier to the ground, and us knights would sit in that shield.

I would have never known my moment, the reason for me to live, would come here, at this time. There's never any warning, or telling. There's nothing to prepare you or tell you, only that once it comes, you must be ready for the fight and able to do what ever it is that is asked of you. To me, that would be here, against my enemy, the hired killer of Pherae that sat in the blinding blue above me, flying reconnaissance for the inevitable mass of troops to follow. Something else fell that moment, the fifth arrow, Nitrat's arrow. The shaft was covered in crimson, having hit something then been ripped out and left to drop back to Earth.

"Hold your bows, men, wait until we see the enemy...it can't hide in the sun forever," Thiocyan growled, looking up with a hand to block out some of the brightness. "Archers, ready your arrows and draw your strings, fire if you see a single thing." Then, even I saw it. A Pegasus Knight, swooping in and out of the dollops of falling rays, trying to hide its existence.

"It's your drink and pleasure, Nitrat," I whispered, kneeling down to him.

"It's your glory," he whispered back, then turned to Bario, continuing. "And, it just might be your Fourth, if I don't murder the worthless pest atop that flying donkey first."

"If we can kill this recon fairy before it gets back to the Pheraean dogs, we'll be able to hit them unaware! Kill this fool!" Thiocyan yelled, a muted roar exiting all of our mouths in a singular hurrah. I still didn't know it was my moment. So far as I knew, or cared to know, that thing, whatever it was, sitting in the sky, was my enemy. Whatever evil possessed that thing to bring war to the doorstep of my family, my country, well, I'd strike it down as quick as the malicious grin would cross its face if it could splay my organs.

The figure emerged from the blinding backdrop of the sun, seeming to drip like wax from a candle, finding definite form and shape as it descended further from the singular flame in the blue oblivion. It was diving straight for us, slowly coming into view. I don't know how to describe it other than an angel, such as the effigies on the insides of Saint Elimine's chapels, laced in her figure and singing trumpets to her as she looked skyward with that innocent, pleading face. I couldn't make out the form, but it soon solidified, and then swooped in on us. The phalanx troops had their spears high, grazed by the end of the enemy's weapon as it flew low, then cut back into the sky. Five twangs of bows followed it, the arrows tracing its flight. Without the slightest hesitation, both the rider and its animal, turned, as if pushing off an invisible wall. The lance the enemy carried swatted two arrows from the air at once, cutting the shafts in two, and then ducked under a third. The other two completely missed, but the grace needed to do something like that, as well as the skill, was simply astounding. Usually, arrows took down careless aerial units as easy as any avian for a feast, but this was different.

There was something unnatural about this enemy. The white armor it had on glimmered, not just shining from the sun, but emanated its own glow. It seemed ephemeral, almost unbelievable in that it shined like a gloss of a fish eye, but it was tight and easy to maneuver in, as shown by the twisting acrobatics that were performed, as if suspended by a puppeteer's strings. It was unlike any sight I had ever seen, where a white horse with a warrior clad in white on top moved in such a way as to suggest that nothing kept anything bound to the ground, and I could simply float away, stopping and turning suddenly, or looping around an arrow, or sliding to the side to miss one. The head was covered in an ornamental helmet, obvious of the soldier's foreign roots. It served no pragmatic purpose to have it encrusted, but it was as impressive as the rest of the armor. Small engravings of religious epithets, from the conquering of Mycens, or the loss of Juniper, all were shown on the armor, with the figure of Saint Elimine embossed in the center. Even the weapon, which would soon share my brother's blood and mine, was a piece of art. The long lance, a solid construction of a single grain of wood, painted white and hand-carved out with equal angelic-figures near the blade, had an abnormally large tip to it. Usually, a lance had a blade that was about one-fifth of its size, but this one must have been very nearly one-third, buckling out at its base, then quickly coming to a lethal point. The warrior spun it magnificently, the air whispering as it did, the sun glistening off the rotating head, and then securing it in an attack grip with as much ease as any baby has to let its bowels go.

The horse, the Pegasus, was unlike a creature I had ever seen. It was majestic, as if any horse put next to it not only lacked wings, but it lacked the very elements of beauty. What could be seen as a strong, and pulchritudinous display of natural beauty was shown to be ugly and flawed when compared to the perfect Pegasus. A white fur, accented by an equally white mane, were only small pieces of the elegance of the animal. The saddle and reins were made of the same white hue as the armor, small jewels shimmering the light as they warped it in the splendid acrobatics of dodging and evading our fire with a small mask, complete with azure blinders, giving the animal an opposing, yet impressive, stature. The wings, sprouting out to the front of the saddle, held with a second set of reins that wrapped around the tips of the wings, kept them from truly expanding the wings fully, but it also kept the animal in a bound that left my imagination not too far beyond knowing I was in a tangible reality. The carapace changed from being fur to being feathered, a gradual shift of elegance and paramount spectacle, seeing the wings bellow and flap with the ease and grace I'd expect from my wife's curt smile and my daughter's own warm hug.

I was shook hard by Commander Thiocyan, slapping my helmet with his bare hand, my thoughts returning to the fact that this splendid sight was an enemy. It wanted me dead as much as I wanted it dead, and we both had blades, tips of our weapons, thirsting for the blood of each other. My fist yearned to punch through that armor, into the very innards of this enemy, and rip its black heart out to show the cruelty of those Pheraean dogs. By the same token, my enemy would parade my body high into the sky before setting me in front of Pheraean children, leaving me unarmed and bound, for them to beat me till my bludgeoned death. Whatever it was, it was out to murder me, and I was here to murder it.

It took another dive, swiping the tips of the phalanx troop's spears, the thunderous smash of steel against steel, racking our five air-thrust phalanx formation to the side as it racked all five in one pass with its graceful lance. When it came down to sweep, five arrows sat to meet it, and when it sped away back to the heavens, five raced it. The Pegasus and the knight both masterfully looped around the arrows. They flew under them, over them, rolled around them, or dodged with a dancer's style or the ease of an insect over a stale pond to simply glide over its murky surface. After this abomination of the Pheraeans would sweep down, looking to snare a head leaning too high, it would go back into the heavens for a moment, or a minute, before sweeping down again. Once, it tried to fly away, trying to go higher than our arrows could reach.

Nitrat led, running out to the side of the barricade, firing off three arrows as quick as he could, showing that no barrier had height limitations. The horse nayed, swooping downwards, then spinning in a downward spiral, leveled out and made a course for us. Nitrat turned, running back to our barricade, my voice a mute yell among twenty-four others, and my own head incapable of hearing a thing as my heart beat heavily in my helmet, each thud could have been the hammer of a blacksmith, and I the sword to be forged. He turned to fire one more arrow, leaping back at us, the bow's string ringing out its peculiar twang as he was swallowed up by our ranks. He quickly made his way to his feet, the phalanx troops shifting to point their spears angled at the oncoming enemy as he stood and readied another from his sling.

The rider slapped the spears again with its twirling lance, but as it did, the extended blade in its right hand to knock the spears' heads, its left swept around, nimbly contorting to throw an arrow, an arrow that this beast had actually managed to catch, and hurtled it back down into the brief exposed area between the javelin barrier. It hit one of the soldiers holding a javelin up, ripping through his flesh between his neck and his chest, right through his mail, and through his collarbone. The long arrow had a few inches left showing, the wound quickly producing blood as he fell back, his spear falling to the ground in his clinched hand while the wood bounced back and forth. He clenched his teeth, looking at the arrow, unable to move, shivering.

Commander Thiocyan looked at the sky shocked, then back down at his troops. He moved quickly to the soldier's side, looking at the arrow that had gone vertically down into his chest. He coughed, nodding to Thiocyan. The commander closed his eyes, using his index finger to move the man's chin up. "Look now," he muttered. "This enemy has killed a brother of ours, Sir Francium, Third Phalanx of the Fourth Regiment of the Third Laus. It will not take mercy on us, and is no amateur. We fight an enemy that is capable of not wounding us, but killing us. Take no mercy on this lecherous dog of a Pheraean, for the bitch of a country has equally vomitous offspring, and will hire putrid stench beasts of the same ilk to do its bidding! May Saint Elimine guide your soul to happiness, my friend..." he trailed off, grabbing his dagger. Thiocyan's eyes were still closed, but he knew what he was doing as he made a quick cut through Francium's throat, one side to the other. The commander then grabbed the spear from Francium's twitching hand, kneeling where the missing phalanx troop ought to be. "Keep formation!" he yelled.

Something inside me at that moment broke. I was used to death. I had killed many people. My mother died when I was a child. I killed my first man when I was twelve; a robber tried to steal from my hut at twelve and I stuck him on his way out. My father died two years after I left to become a knight from a plague sweeping my village. I, too, had met death and cheated his grip with my vice and penchant to give him more souls in the return of mine, like any Fourth. But, something unsettling hit me. I looked at Sir Francium, his eyes visible through the small slit on his steel helmet, looking at me. They stared into infinity, gone beyond vitality, but they stared at me, and I couldn't help but stare back. I hadn't seen many true Fourths die, and I knew, at that moment, me being a Fourth meant nothing. I was as vulnerable to an enemy as any child or woman, and my mortality was just as fragile. The blood thickened on his neck and chest, pooling in his armor and dripping to the dry, cracked earth, ripped like an old man's skin and holding no life but the withered weeds. I heard the far off cries of the attack coming again, the men's grunts and growls as the enemy clashed to the spears again, rattling them with its own weapon, but I was gone, staring into the lifeless eyes of Sir Francium. I was brought back by the slap of Commander Thiocyan's open hand, the rattling of my helmet against my skull putting me back into my life, showing me this was tangible, this was real, not any dream. My life was as weak as any other's. I now noticed my moment was here.

The air seemed to change around me. I looked up at the sky, noticing the different hues of blue tinting the sky as the sun played its luminescent games on the edges of the horizon and every crack of dirt, off of my sword and armor, off of everything. The wind blew a harsh wind, one that was cold and bitter. I took a deep breath, feeling the tingle rape my lungs, proving to me I lived, I was alive. I looked again to the sky, seeing the figure bound down, slashing at the spears with a titanic calamity, followed by the distant sounds of whispers as the arrows traced its flight. Except, instead of continuing its parabolic journey, it instead twisted on the edge of its swoop, turning around in mid-flight, rasping the air and phoning the nay of the horse before jetting again at us. The knight atop the horse seemed one with the animal, both leaned forward in a speed-gaining advantage, the wings flapping furiously in a pursuit angle, as if to bomb us like the catapults of Pherae. It wasn't high up enough to be a landing, but instead, was more flat. Our phalanx troops moved quickly to try and set up a spear barrage to the side it attacked, but weren't fast enough to the perfect grace of the animal. The first phalanx who started to lower his spear was disarmed, his spear being sliced in two by the swooping lance of the enemy, then grabbed by the fierce hand of my flying nemesis, and the Pegasus flew upward, kicking off the ground with its heels. It soared into the heavens, then swooped down again, the heel of my comrade held in its grasp. He yelled for help, being tossed and turned around as the animal barreled through the sky. Our phalanx troops had their spears up again, and as the beast passed, and then let the body drop onto the spears of my brothers. His armor crunched in as he slid down the spears, past the steel, onto the wood, splintering it and breaking with the weight.

His death was quick, one spear through his chest, one through a leg, and the third through his neck. The armor had given way, looking like tin to the force which the body was thrown onto them. His blood splattered all of us, his last scream as he fell echoing with the gorged gurgle of his last escaping breath. He fell to the ground, all five phalanx spears now gone. They drew their auxiliary swords as Thiocyan moved forward, kicking the man's body over. He was dead, and Thiocyan took a moment to shut the poor soul's eyes before letting him pool in his own blood with the splintered shafts of wood and three spear heads sitting like roots of an inverted plant springing from the infertile ground.

"Kill this demon in any way possible!" he screamed, knowing our tactical advantage was gone. The enemy hovered in mid-air, a few hundred feet above us, the loud gusts of wind from each flap of the Pegasus' wings like a challenge, a mockery of what the Fourth Regiment stood for. Our archers fired off arrows, the knight rearing back as the horse seemed to fall backwards while flipping, then jetting forward, twisting as it did. The knight had its sword extended as it flew low while twisting, holding tight to the saddle to not fall off. The sword slashed through a comrade's head, the helmet flying off like a dejected ball, the force not only sending the soldier flying to his back, but the top of his skull caved in, his eyes a mess of bone and tissue that all melded into one grotesque picture. He twitched for only a moment, then died.

The knight turned at the end of the swoop, about to engage in another when a volley of arrows met it. At first, it seemed as if it swatted them from the sky, but Nitrat kept firing. He was furious, reaching for arrow after arrow, firing them off with the renowned precision of a member of the Fourth. While the rest fired in volleys, he was shooting as many as he could. The tactic was to conserve ammunition and launch as many as possible at once from as many bows at once, putting a lot in the air without ammunition constraints, but he just kept rifling them through his bow. It seemed worthless, the floating Pegasus not worrying as the Knight sliced each shaft from the air, but then something unexpected happened. One of them hit the knight, the ornamental armor making a loud creak as it caved inward. The arrow fell dejectedly, no blood to its shaft, but the force was enough to send the knight into a state of remiss and confusion for a moment, then toppled. The body fell a good twenty feet, hitting the ground with a tough thud. We all rushed quickly onto the enemy, but it was about two hundred feet out from our cluster. Before we could even reach the enemy, it was standing, lance in hand, whistling at its ride.

Nitrat fired another arrow, scaring off the Pegasus to return to the sky. A comrade of mine ran ahead of me, jumping to get a powerful, downward slice on the knight. With a nimble sidestep, the Pegasus Knight slapped his head with the blunt side of its lance, then swung it around to stab under his arm pit, stabbing deep at first, then pushing further before ripping it out, splashing an arc of blood on the ground. He fell down, and it grabbed up his loose weapon. Nitrat fired another arrow at the knight, whizzing by my head, which was deflected, before being engaged by a comrade knight of the Fourth. They exchanged blows for a few moments, blades clashing in iconoclastic irony as one weapon was forged in a foreign land, but the other, in the enemy's hands, was one of my kinsmen. That sword was then left in my comrade's torso as it slashed down from the shoulder, square into his chest, a large vertical cut slicing anything that was in the way, leaving no bone, organ, or tissue intact before it rested in his chest. He fell to his knees, then was kicked to the dust with the foot of the knight, its eyes turning to the next victim.

This enemy, this Pegasus Knight, was quick. The frame was much too small to be that of a burly man, like us Fourth, and the movements were so quick they could be confused with a muse's as she would be enchanting kings with stories of far-off lands. The way it fought was mesmerizing, as if poetry had found physical form, mixed with the brutality of war. Each slash echoed reverberating sounds of metal or the dying screams of my comrades, before their mouths were shut by the knight. One of my friends engaged her, slicing, then blocking, then stabbing, and dodging, until finally, a single blow was ill-placed and he received a punch to the throat as the enemy danced out of the way. It used the opening, as he stumbled back, clutching his throat, to kick him to the ground and stand over his body before stabbing downward into his torso.

Then, Bario attacked as it pulled its weapon out. He tackled the enemy with all of his might, both of them tumbling beyond the body, kicking up a cloud of brown dust. Bario had managed to disarm the lithe antagonist, the sword rumbling in a small patch of dirt until it sat quiet. The enemy was getting knocked around, and I saw the first trace of something weird. Hair, but not any ordinary hair, but a long string of purple hair, braided hair, with an ornamental bow on the end. I didn't have time to think, and I ran to catch up to Bario. He made a few punches, straddling the body with his ironed fists before the enemy managed to grab him by the collar and toss his body off of its waist. It then made a quick stand to move, and then kicked Bario in the face, crunching his helmet in with the blow. We were catching up, but the battle kept moving farther away, and us older soldiers were no match to run up quickly. My face was flustered, my helmet wet with my precipitation, and my breath haggard. My lungs burned with the ache of fire, each breath a stinging reminder of my frail age and mortality, something I never felt before.

Bario moved to stand, removing his helmet, showing a cracked face spewing blood. As he stood hazardously, no sense of balance, the enemy ran towards him, grabbing Bario's own dagger from his hip, and placed it squarely in his gut. He fell backwards, a shriek of pain echoing into the dry desert, then fell flat. His hand grabbed a weed in the ground, ripping it from the root up, his pain unbelievable as his other hand ripped the dagger from his belly, the armor he wore crying as much as his face did as it was pierced. The enemy made a quick movement, rolling over to its lance, then whistled for its horse.

The Pegasus tried coming in for another swoop to pick up its master, but was only granted an arrow in its shoulder by Nitrat's steady bow that was quick to let another one fly into the brisk afternoon. The knight turned, seeing its Pegasus wounded and retreating, the next arrow hitting the enemy in the forehead. For a moment, all went still, the distinct pang of the arrow on armor sending all of us into a state of wonderment. Is it dead? Did Nitrat kill it with his sure aim? The enemy fell backwards, and I ran closer, trying to catch up. Every step I took, the battle moved farther, and my comrades passed me. The shine of the helmet gleaned in my eyes, showing it rolling off of the figure whom it was attached to. Then, the body moved, sitting up, showing a small trail of blood running down its forehead, pooling on the nose and dripping off. No, no longer an it...a she.

This is my moment. You're placing me back here, into my life, no longer leaving me to show you why I am here, but leaving me to be here. What...how...gone is that feeling of floating, and now, here I stand. This dirt under my feet, this sword grasped in my hand, the sweaty steel of my helmet making that air bounce back into my eyes and my heart beat the only sound I can hear, like war drums. Then, everything disappears to me. That enemy stands, and rushes. Another soldier ahead of me attacks, but is quickly thrown off. He throws his sword in a wild slice, which is blocked by this female, as she leans down to pick up a new sword from the ground as her lance blocks him, then ducks and swivels, slicing off his leg at the knee. He topples forward, his face meeting the ground while a plume of dirt kicks up around him. She rears back and kicks the helmet with a furious glee in that motion, and I watch the body contort to that blow, flinging back a foot, then twitching. She kills him, another man dead at this...girl's hands. And, she doesn't stop, she takes that sword, still lingering the blood and dirt on its edge, and smashes it downward into his face, leaving the blade stuck into his brain, still erect as her hand leaves it, waving in his sinew.

Damn you, Pherae. You send these harmless girls after us, to fight us! What cowards! They train their females to kill, and with such ruthless efficiency, with such unbelievable corrupted souls! Their lives, ruined, their intuition, lost, and their innocence...as innocent as I can predict for a person who would throw a soldier of their enemy into their enemy's spears or kick the face in of another defenseless man. I know not what beasts brew in the minds of Pheraeans, but I know that their lies, their deceit, and this war, their war, it's worthless. As worthless as the damn sky, idly becoming night, then shining victory uninhibited to whomever stands the next day! It shines for the victor, whoever may win, and that victor could be the morally corrupt, the decayed evil, the imperceptible ruin of our world, and it would still be the day of glory for them! What divine justice may perceive to let atrocities, such as this...a girl, a ripe female, to possess that murderous rage? By Saint Elimine...

She rushes at me. She swings with that lance of hers in a diagonal fashion, I block it. She turns quickly off of the glint of the blade, slicing horizontally to my other side, I block by turning my blade vertically. She then pivots again, moving forward all the while, stabbing at my gut as her long weapon wraps around her lithe body. I dodge to the side, and raise my blade. I'm going to strike down, kill her, she's my enemy. My moment of hesitation hurts, her eyes locking on mine and my weak morale, as she turns and stabs me in the arm with the sword. I falter back, and she attacks me again.

Her open hand keeps punching at my exposed parts, like my neck or my useless right arm. I can't bring myself to do anything but block, looking into her face makes me unable to attack. Every opening I see, where a soldier should attack, I let it close, without moving to attack. A furious elbow knocks my helmet off of my head, ripping the leather strap in two. I falter back, feeling my nose gushing blood that splatters onto my hand, grabbing my face. She runs at me again, sweeping my face in a kick as I fall to the ground, swallowing dirt. I stood up, blocking more slashes, falling behind all the while. Her face...it's unbelievable. The hate, the furious anger, can she not see I feel pain? Can she not see I do not attack her? Her right slashes furiously; I am unable to block them all. Most of them hit my armor, denting it inward, shattering bones and bruising muscles. Her fists pummel my skin. I yell with each blow, feeling my leg crumple, then my neck collapse under that mighty fist, then I feel a stabbing pain in my right arm as her blade cuts my wrist off, the blade falling idly to the ground. She kicks my knee out, then stabs me through the shoulder as I fall backwards, pinning me to the ground.

I'm crying, I can't stop it. I have mortality. My moment, the moment I lived, is the moment I realize I can't keep living. The moment I live is so I can die. The one moment that defines me, as a person, is to die here, realizing my folly, to realize what wrong I have committed. I have lived to see that I may not live. Not to see my daughter grow into the figure that men chase, and not to see her wedding as she smiles that blushing smile and the man she marries becomes a fine gentlemen of the court of the Canton of Laus. I may not grow old with my wife, lie by her side in our dying days, and collapse of my old age, with scars and pride of Laus, and I may not be buried next to my father, and my father's father, with their honor and glory of living through their days as a Knight in the service of Laus. I'll not have my brothers in the Fourth there to see me off to the next world, to donate to me their last memories, and each of them to give my coffin their collective daggers. I'll not be there for any of it, because now, I stare up, on a worthless battlefield, at the face of the person who will kill me.

The Pegasus Knight stands before me, placing her boot on my chest as she rips the lance from my shoulder, pulling dirt and clods of roots into my blood and tissue as she does so. I scream, it hurt so bad. Tears flowed from my eyes. I tried reaching up to her, but my arm wouldn't respond. I wanted to ask her why, why someone like her would murder, how she could be here. I have no reason but that my life made me it, but one so fare as her...how? I want to scurry away, run, crawl, but my legs burn with the pain of bleeding and broken bones. I'm looking around furiously, I see my brothers are too far to save me. Nitrat reaches for another arrow, but finds his quiver is empty, flagging another archer, with a yell I can't hear, to shoot her before I die. Brother, save me! My blood pools around me, I can feel some of it touching my hair now. My helmet's lying next to me, but she kicks it away. She then lets the tip of her lance rest on my throat, in-between links of my mail.

She is beautiful; I can only see bits and pieces through my teary eyes and erratic breathing. It hurts to live, to breathe, to exist. I want to see something else, something more, live more. I'm not allowed to. She's beautiful, so amazing. A frail face, she couldn't be more than eighteen, if even that. Round curves that set limply between two sets of curly, light-purple hair with a tied ribbon at the bottom of each braided column of hair. She has huge eyes, ones I could see my pathetic reflection in, an azure blue that blended in with the sky. Her face is contorted, the heavy breathing of her figure and the scowl on her face telling a different story than her beauty. Her eyes are lined in dirt and tears, I don't understand it. She's...crying? Her Pegasus nays in the sky, circling me. A small set of beads adorn her forehead, ones that shake with every breath she takes, every contortion of her exhausted body. Her arm is shivering, her gaze unsteady, but her eyes filled with evil, with pain and agony. She hates me, I don't hate her. I love her. She's shown me my moment. I can hear Nitrat's voice, his plea, I hear Thiocyan's growl, their padding footsteps, and she rears up with the lance above my face.

I see my daughter in her eyes. Slowly, her complexion changes, those purple pig-tails into long, curly blonde hair, her cheeks filling with freckles, and there's my wife, standing over her. I reach my hand out, I can move again. I stand, looking at both of them. The bodies slowly move, they're gone. No blood is on the ground, my armor gone. I go to grab my daughter, and hug her. She moves away, so does my wife, I stand up, and I run to her. She's moving father, farther...no, no, come back for me! Do not leave me! No, sky, stop fading, I see your blue, your black is not there! There's light left! You're there, the horizon, I'll find you, I'll always come for you! Stop...please...I love you...I am worthless without you, I am worthless...