He awoke soon after.
Though, he was unsure if he really was awake, it still felt like he was dreaming.
Most notably was the pain in his head. It felt as though it were laying on a blacksmith's anvil, being hammered upon without relent. He could not make sense of himself because of it. He attempted to grab his head, but his proprioception had failed to return and he could not feel his arms.
His vision was blurred and the subjects around him were ill defined. The world appeared to him only as a dark color palette and he could not distinguish where the ground ended and the sky began.
All was evidence of him having experienced a truly severe concussion.
His hearing and vestibular system were seemingly the only part of his sensory nervous system, his window into reality, that was spared.
It would seem that his helmet was long gone and that he was laying on his side. He attempted to sit up but had little success, the best he could do was roll over onto his back.
He listened closely to the sounds of the Katze Plains as he waited for his working consciousness to return. Save for the sound of his heart beating in his skull, it was eerily quiet.
There was no wind, not rustling grass, and no voice. Not even the hum of a single insect could be heard. It was the domain of the dead for a reason. And indeed, if it weren't for his faint breathing, then there really would be nothing to distinguish his body from a corpse.
He laid there for an unknown amount of time as the sights and sounds of the imagined Asphodel Meadows played out in his mind.
When his cognitive ability had restored to the point where he could sit up, he did so. He felt something wet and cold running down his forehead and into his eyes. He realized then why it was that his vision was dark and blurry.
Blood?
He went to wipe his face but his arm did not move.
He soon noticed the screaming pain coming from his right shoulder. It was either dislocated or broken but he could not know for sure until he took his armor off. However, taking off his armor in that condition would not be as simple as it sounded in that condition and would be a herculean task.
He wiped the blood from his eyes using his left hand and his vision returned.
He was not not surprised to see the woefully familiar Katze Plains and its coarse, meager grass. Only now, the fog had gathered so thickly as to obstruct the sunlight making it to the ground. It was as dark as night and visibility only extended a few dozen meters at best.
He attempted to get to his feet but ran into a similar problem as earlier. His right ankle had joined his shoulder and screamed at him with pain. It was most certainly broken.
With his good hand, he undid his gauntlet and began to fumble with his belt satchel. He had disguised himself as one of King Ranpossa's guards and for that point could not bring anything large with him, but he did at least bring some simple necessities.
He opened his belt satchel was opened to reveal a scant few medical supplies. Included among them were a small roll of gauze, a syringe of penicillin, an ampule of red healing gas and a small syringe of diamorphine.
Huh? No.
The ampule of healing potion he had brought was broken. No no no no.
He must have landed on it during his tumble and fall. It had not been secured properly and the glass had broken. The gaseous potion had dissipated long before he had woken up.
Damnit! I knew I should start putting that stuff in metal containers!
He withdrew the diamorphine and injected himself. The pain plaguing his head body was quickly numbbed to an uncomfortable gnawing. It would not heal him, of course but it would allow him to move.
That's not to say he couldn't have handled the pain normally. He could've. He had experienced much worse pain before.
But now, he really didn't want to endure the pain if he had the option to avoid it.
He rose to his feet. The moment he did so, his digestive system was finally able to adjust itself. A wave of nausea hit him and he vomited out a sickly wad of blood, saliva, and gastric acid.
In a fantastical world with dragons, magic, monsters, and heroes, it was easy to forget how fragile most people really were. And though it was true that even he had a few tenuous abilities, he was still little more than a rickety structure of bones, muscles, and organs. All it took was a good fall to render his body into such a state of injury.
His simple mortality had been well clarified.
He focused on nothing more than standing up straight and letting his body recollect itself. And then finally… After his core and lungs were reminded of their proper functions, and some semblance of a complete person returned, he was able to call out into the fog.
"...Vera!"
But the fog swallowed up his voice completely.
"...Vera!"
They must've been seperated in the chaos and had gotten lost in the fog he figured. She would've likely gone back to E-Rantel to rendezvous with him.
Now it came to his less immediate physical predicament.
"...Damn you… Damn you!" He clenched his fist hard.
He needn't have been awake to know Ainz Ooal Gown had claimed absolute victory over him. His mortars were nothing more than toys compared to the likes of him.
"Damn you. Damn you!"
E-Rantel was assuredly occupied by now, that was the only place he could possibly make it to with his injured foot. He would be forced to sulk back through those gates like some shamed and belligerent child into the Sorcerer King's embrace.
It would be so easy to give up. He had felt like this once before too, when he was being tortured in Aamon's crypt. Though beaten and broken, he had a fire in him that kept his mind scheming, kept it focused on revenge. And that was because he was a scientist, a rational person who understood that as long as his enemy was a mortal man there would always be a possibility for success.
It had taken all of his strength, meaning, and malice just to get up from Jaldabaoth. But that was it, that was all of it. He was just a man, and a man's will could only extend so far.
But now, certain death had come for him twice, and twice he was spared from a meager fate. It was all too clear to him now that the universe would not be allowing him to escape torture so easily. His fate would not be so glamorous.
He would assuredly destroy himself if left alone to his own devices.
He needed to find Vera.
And so, he limped off into the fog.
...
Because the fog had gathered so thickly, the exact position of the sun could not be determined. As a result, the cardinal directions could not be deciphered. And because of the abysmal visibility, distant landmarks could not be used to aid in navigation. In a sense, anyone caught unprepared in the fog would be lost on arrival.
Stockwell had simply picked a random direction to travel and tried to stay as straight as possible. His plan was to hopefully run into the tracks of the retreating Re-Estize army and follow them back to E-Rantel.
The fog itself, or whatever lifeform was controlling it, was not simply a passive being, operating to some natural law. It was tactful, and opportunistic. It would not attack large armies that could resist it, that would be a waste of undead. Instead, it opted when able to pick off people who were lost and alone. Especially if they were in a weakened state.
Just because it was busy digesting a very large meal, courtesy of Ainz Ooal Gown and Rhamnusia, did not mean that it would pass up the laughably easy target currently known as Stockwell.
Stockwell saw a figure appear on the edge of his peripheral vision. At first he thought it was a human, but after turning to face, it was clearly a member of the undead.
It was nothing more than a simple skeleton, the lowest possible level of undead. It held in its boney right hand a rusted sword.
Stockwell bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Just give me a break will you!" He screamed into the fog as the skeleton clambered toward him.
As per his disguise, all he had with him was a simple sword at his left side. But his dominant arm was unusable, and because of the condition of his foot, he would not be able to outrun the skeleton should he have to flee.
"Come on you bastard!" He opened his left arm wide as though letting the skeleton in. To say he had a plan would be an overstatement.
The skeleton quickened its pace as it got closer to him. It primed its sword for an attack. It stepped into range and thrusted hard at Stockwell.
The rusted tip of the skeleton's sword smashed into his breastplate and left a dent before being deflected. It was an idiotic choice of target area all things considered, but that was par for the course when it came to the mindless undead.
Stockwell felt the blow in his chest and just barely managed to keep his balance. He grappled the color bone of the skeleton with his good hand. He tried to push the skeleton to the ground but even without flesh and muscle, the low level undead managed to resist. Such strength!
It was a desperate, inelegant struggle. They were fighting well within arm's length of each other.
The skeleton swiped upwards with its sword and cut into Stockwell's exposed underarm. This managed to loosen his grip and the skeleton pulled away, but still within arm's reach. The skeleton had no sense of self preservation fighting in that ridiculously bold manner, but it's not like it cared. It immediately poised for another attack. A slash this time, that would come down on Stockwell's exposed neck.
Stockwell grabbed the sword with his bare hand before the skeleton could swing. He clenched his teeth and gripped hard. His palm bled as the jagged, uneven edge of the rusted blade dug into his flesh. He resisted the skeleton's pull as best he could, But now, the blood from the cut underneath his arm was trickling down his forearm and onto the blade.
If the sword grew slick, the skeleton would possibly be able to free it so he needed to act quickly. He tried to move his other arm but it did not respond.
He summoned all of his remaining will power and screamed. "RAWWWWW!" He channeled the last of his strength into his broken foot and swept it into his opponent's legs. He successfully knocked the skeleton off balance.
As the skeleton was falling, Stockwell seized the opportunity and snatched away the sword. He threw it aside.
But the skeleton still had plenty of strength and was far from done. It grabbed Stockwell's legs on its way down and pulled him down to the ground with itself. All the while Stockwell was trying to get back up, the skeleton clawed at anything it could. Its boney hands creaked against Stockwell's armor. It was an intense struggle.
Stockwell knew not from where his last bit of power came from. He managed to get atop the skeleton and pin its right arm to the ground using his own mangeld and bleeding, but still functioning arm. The skeleton's left hand clawed at him and carved a deep red crevasse into Stockwell's face.
"AHHHHHHH!" Stockwell cocked his head back and brought it back down with all the force of gravity. He delivered a devastating headbutt.
The skeleton's skull, having no flesh to shield it and having been pressed up against the ground restricting it from recoiling, received the force of the headbutt in full. Likewise, Stockwell's skull was reinforced with titanium and ballistic shielding. Of the two participating skulls, the skeleton's was the one to give way.
Its cranium fractured mildly, but visibly. An evidently decisive blow, and the skeleton ceased its movements.
"...ha ha ha hAHahHAHAHAHAHA!"
He staggered to his feet. Blood dripped from his face and arm. A massive blue welt was embellished on his forehead.
"HaHahAhAHahHA! Is that all you got!?"
His jaw hung low as he drew ragged breaths. His lungs were fighting a losing battle with his brain over control of the diaphragm.
"Is that the best this world has to offer me!?"
Three silhouettes appeared in the fog.
"Yeah that's right! Come on then!"
The three forms stepped closer. The meager light filtered through the gaps in their rib cages. The skeletons carried a spear, a bow, and once more, a sword.
"Now come on and bring out Gown!"
The skeletal archer knocked an arrow, oblivious to the madman's words. It drew.
"Come on! I don't have all day!"
Then, just as the skeletal archer was releasing its arrow, a shadow appeared. The shadow collided with the bow and the archer's arrow flew off harmlessly into the fog.
The other two skeletons turned to face the new arrival.
Before the archer could recover, the pommel of a sword smashed into its ribs and the skeleton crumbled to the ground.
The shadow maneuvered a little closer and was revealed to be an armored soldier. He was utilizing the half-sword technique; gripping his sword by the blade and wielding it like a club, effectively transforming it into a blunt force weapon to better combat the skeletons.
The skeletal spearman thrusted at him but the soldier deflected it. He drew in close and swung hard, smashing the spearman's collar. Then the spearman too, crumpled.
As the soldier did so however, the last skeleton had approached from his undefended flank and went a slash. But the rusty blade glanced harmlessly off the soldier's armor.
Then finally, the soldier swung around and, playing to his body's momentum, delivered the crushing murder-stroke to the skeleton's head. And so too did the skeletal swordsman crumple lifelessly to the ground.
Stockwell had simply watched the whole affair, silently. His brain, which had been so on gear for confronting the skeletons and nothing more, took a few moment's to adjust.
He had stayed standing exactly as he had been, and the blood dripping from his arm and face had pooled into a small puddle at his feet.
The soldier approached him. Now, with his armor fully visible and its colors exposed, it was revealed that he was a legionnaire from the Baharuth Empire.
It was also revealed that the heroic savior too, was not in too heroic a condition. A wet cloth hung loosely from his face, and before he could speak to Stockwell, he kneeled over and let out a massive fit of coughing.
After he finished disposing of what sounded to be the entirety of his respiratory system, the legionnaire drew in deep breath. It was ragged and tortured, and as he breathed, his whole body seemingly quivered. In a way, the man who had just dispatched the three skeletons seemed to just barely be holding together.
"Praise be!" He looked over Stockwell.
Stockwell stared blankly at the man. His brain was still in the process of changing gears to be able to converse cogently with the men.
"I'm glad I found someone else alive. I've been wandering in this fog for hours." The legionnaire said, "Wait—" He raised his sword. "You're not a zombie are you!?"
It was a justified worry. Stockwell, standing still and covered with blood, cuts and bruises looked near indistinguishable from a zombie. Let alone the fact that he had not responded to the legionnaire.
Light returned to Stockwell's eyes. "...N-no. I'm human."
"...good, h-hehe." The legionnaire let out a pained laugh and returned his sword to its scabbard. "… do you…need help with that?"
He trailed off as Stockwell collapsed to the ground exhausted, and began to fiddle with his armor.
"Can you help me get this off?" Stockwell said.
The legionnaire obliged. "Mmm, okay."
He began to help Stockwell with his pauldrons and the armor on his upper and lower arms.
"I'll need to take off my right greave too, my foot is broken and needs a splint."
"Wow, okay. Just let me get this breastplate off," The legionnaire began to lift the piece of armor. He stopped when Stockwell flinched painfully.
"You alright?"
"I think my right shoulder is dislocated."
The legionnaire seemed impressed. "Great gods you're one tough bastard aren't you? You handle pain well, too well. Hold on, lemmie get this off of you."
He carefully lifted the armor away, revealing the arming doublet underneath. "Alright, let's get this off too."
As he went about undoing the knots on the doublet, he would sometimes cough and mistakenly jerk Stockwell, he apologized for it but he couldn't do anything about it. Eventually, he undid all the knots and the piece of cloth fell away from Stockwell's body.
"Crap…"
It was a sight to behold.
"Are you… are you sane, man?"
Scars ran all over his chest and back. And these were not the fashionable, manly scars that women swoon over. These scars were the kind of scars that were deep and ugly, the ones kind that no one wished to see. And it was clear from just a cursory glance of the wounds that they had been put there as a result of torture.
Stockwell looked at his shoulder but could only make out so much. "How does it look?"
"Um yeah…" The legionnaire investigated Stockwell's shoulder. It was more than just dislocated. It had turned a horrendous shade of blue and it was caked with dried blood. Much of the flesh around the area had completely necrosed. "It doesn't look good."
"How not good?"
"The 'If it gets infected you'll lose the arm and needs to see a priest immediately' kind of not good."
Stockwell gestured to his belt satchel. "Open my satchel there, there should be a syringe in it. It's a potion of sorts. It should stave off infection. Just inject in the region that looks most vulnerable."
The legionnaire nodded and found the syringe. "A potion that staves *cough*... that staves off infection, you say?"
"Yes, hurry up please."
"...if you insist." The legionnaire did as instructed and injected the region with the 'potion'. He then helped Stockwell bend over. "Alright, I'm going to relocate your shoulder now. Brace yourself."
He quickly and cleanly twisted it back in. It was clear that he had had practice doing it before. He was impressed once more when all Stockwell did was release a small yelp. "You really *cough*... you really are a tough bastard."
In truth, the main reason why he was able to act normally, both physically and even mentally to some degree, was simply because of the large amount of diamorphine circulating his body.
He felt a tingling in his fingers and was able to move his hand once again.
He began to wrap up his arms with the roll of gauze he had brought with him.
"You might want to wrap up your face and forehead too. They're also still bleeding." He figured that help guide the madman along since clearly he had more injuries than one could count. It also appeared to him by the way Stockwell had been talking to him, that the man was still in a bit of a daze.
He helped Stockwell remove his greaves. His foot was certainly broken, but it looked like it would heal in time.
He looked around for something to help splint it with. The problem was, no bushes or trees grew on the Katze Plains so there wouldn't be a stick for miles. Then he got an idea.
"Hold on."
He went to the skeleton that was still more or less still underneath Stockwell. He started to shuffle through the now loose and unconnected bones. While he was doing so, he noticed the fracture in its skull. He remembered the welt on Stockwell's head and put two and two together. "*cough*... fucking hardcore..."
He found a set of bones that looked like they would ork. In fact, they were just the foot bones of the skeleton that seemed the appropriate size.
"Here."
Stockwell nodded and began to splint up his foot with the bones and the remainder of his gauze.
"Great, looks like you're all patched up."
He helped Stockwell put his doublet back on along with some of the more integral pieces of his armor.
"Now let's get out of here."
…
In a way, the silence of the dead fog was serene. All the two could men could hear was each other's breathing, the legionnaire's coughs, and their awkward, three-legged foot falls. The legionnaire was using himself as a crutch for Stockwell.
They had limped along in silence for a very long time. Soon they had found some tracks of what looked to be retreating Re-Estize soldiers and began to follow them.
Stockwell eventually broke the silence. "... I suppose I should thank you."
"Yeah… *cough*... don't mention it. It's what any decent man would do."
"But according to your armor, you're from Baharuth though, yes?"
"Yes, and according to yours, you're from Re-Estize, royal guard no less." The legionnaire replied. "What of it?"
"...nothing, I guess… nevermind." Stockwell said.
There was nothing more that needed to be said about it.
They limped along in silence once more.
Eventually the legionnaire broke it this time.
"Were you born in the kingdom?"
Stockwell shook his head. "No, Los Angeles."
"Los Angeles? Where's that? A city in the Theocracy?"
"No, it's… it's pretty far away. Off continent."
"Off continent ? Wow, first time I've heard about that." The legionnaire examined Stockwell's face. "You look Estizian to me, perhaps a little Slaine, but not so distantly foreign at all really."
"Well, my father was American and my mother was German… so make of that what you will."
"Huh," The legionnaire shrugged as best he could with Stockwell on his shoulder. "So how'd you end up *cough*...end up coming all the way from a different continent and into the ranks of Re-Estize's royal guard?"
"Well, I'm still unsure to be honest."
"You're unsure you say?" The legionnaire tried to chuckle lightly, but it was plagued by painful coughing. "... yeah, I guess the gods have a way of doing that."
He waited a moment for Stockwell to continue the conversation by either elaborating or asking him where he too came from, but he did not do so. So the legionnaire took it upon himself to continue for him.
"As for me, I was born in a village in the Draconic Kingdom." The legionnaire said. "I don't remember much of it since my family had to flee to the capital when I was pretty young. But because of all the other *cough*... other refugees there due to the beastmen, making a living there pretty difficult for the poor. So I decided to immigrate to Bahartuh where I swore loyalty to the emperor and became a legionnaire."
He coughed a few more times before continuing. "It isn't the most glamorous of professions, I admit, but It's honest work. Hoped that maybe one day, when Jircniv got serious about helping the Dracoinc Kingdom, I might be dispatched to reclaim our lost territory from the beast men. Hoped I might be able to see my old village again."
He tried to smile but broke down into a fit of coughing. They had to stop their pace and wait for him to finish. It was a heinous, phlegm filled kind of hacking that would've made most people watching it queasy.
He finished and wiped his mouth with the wet cloth hanging from his face. "...Sorry, the poison is really doing a number on me."
"What did it smell like?" Stockwell suddenly asked.
"Excuse me?"
"The poison gas you breathed in, what did it smell like? And what color was it?"
"Uhh…" The legionnaire was surprised at the strangely specific question, but he was pleased that Stockwell was opening up to him and appeared to be returning from whatever hole he had found him in. "It was sort of like garlic and horseradish. And yellow, very yellow."
Stockwell nodded. "I see…"
The man undoubtedly inhaled sulfur mustard Stockwell thought. Raeven used the mortars after all. The exposed areas of the legionnaire's body and within his lungs would be forming the characteristic blisters in a few hours, and it seemed that the initial damage to the lungs itself was already taking its toll. The man was not long for the world.
"I consider myself lucky *cough*... I managed to get out of the formation despite all of the explosions around me… though…" A lost look appeared deep within the legionnaires eyes. "Though… I'm not proud of fleeing from my comrades who were less fortunate… the ones I passed on my way out who needed help…
I think that perhaps," The legionnaire continued, "That perhaps we all have our moments of weakness. I think that all we can do is *cough*... is repent for our sins and try again."
The legionnaire smiled weakly at Stockwell. "So since you asked about the gas, I guess you were paying attention to what was happening on our side huh? You must really be a considerate person if you had enough care to look out for us when you had your own problems to run away from."
He chuckled lightly. An off key perturbation leaked subtly into his voice.
"Hell, I think the theologians are going to be running from this one for a while too, trying to explain it away. End of humans and all that business. You felt that too right? Ainz Ooal Gown and those poison gas bombs, these things aren't natural."
To his disappointment, Stockwell remained silent.
"But hey, we can't let stuff like that *cough*... like that get us down, right? The best we can do is live our lives honestly so hopefully when we die we have a bit of dignity. As long as we preserve our humanity, then humanity will be preserved."
"You're one hell of an optimist..." Stockwell finally said.
"No…" The Legionnaire shook his head. "I'm actually so terrified I can barely move."
Stockwell turned his head to see the legionnaire's body trembling.
"Being there, on those plains. Seeing how little difference we made… how nothing I did or ever will do as a legionnaire would matter... to Ainz Ooal Gown, to those poison gas bombs… I knew the world was ending. Those things can not be unseen. I-I thought for sure I was going to—"
He broke once more into a coughing fit, "—thought I was going to die. After we routed, I got lost in the fog."
His body continued to tremble. "I had lost myself for a minute. Thank you."
"Thank me? What for?"
"For giving me purpose. I heard you yelling through the fog, and I thought *cough*... thought if I could save just one person from this hell then maybe everything could get better. That there might be hope."
Stockwell remained silent.
"But hey, what would I know about hope? Judging from your scars, you probably know more about despair and picking yourself back up than I do."
The legionnaire adjusted Stockwell on his shoulder. "I mean, just look at you man. You've probably been in this fog for hours fighting skeletons with a shattered foot, no sword, and gangrenous, dislocated arm. But you're still breathing, so clearly there must be something worth living for."
"...I think you're giving too much credit to my character and not enough credit to human DNA's knack for self preservation." Stockwell finally replied
The legionnaire had a puzzled expression on his face. "...DNA? I don't think I know what that is…"
"Well, of course you wouldn't. I'm not even sure if you're really even homosapien sapien to begin with. Our genomes are probably wildly different, all things considered…"
They remained silent for a very long time after that.
To most, being lost in the silent dead fog would've been an anxiety inducing horror. But to the pair of walking corpses, it was comforting.
To the two who for the last hours have been resonating with the dead, the fog provided a tranquil backdrop onto which their mortal foibles could be given clarity.
"Well," the legionnaire finally said, "Regardless of why, I don't think anything but a human could still be walking after all of that. I think that the truth may simply be that living and suffering are inseparable, and what makes us truly human is the pride to accept that truth on this chin and live on anyway."
A loose and mocking laugh escaped Stockwell's lips. "Hah haha… you've come to the conclusion that 'living and suffering are inseparable' and now you think yourself a philosopher. truly your wisdom knows no bounds."
The legionnaire responded with a defeated chuckle. "You're probably right." He shrugged, "All I know is that there must be something about human life that makes it special, more than simply just not dying. Otherwise the immortal undead wouldn't be so envious as to kill us over it."
Stockwell did not reply after that, and they returned to another long stretch of silence. They had nothing more to listen to but each other's breathing and the beating of their hearts.
"Do you think any more skeleton's will show up?" Stockwell asked.
"I don't know, what do you think?"
"Probably not."
"Yeah… I feel the same way too." The legionnaire smirked weakly. "I think Katie's given up on us."
"Katie?"
The legionnaire gestured all around him with a sweeping motion of his hand. "That's what I've been calling her."
"Ah, of course it would be a girl. Otherwise it wouldn't be able to devour so many armed men so easily."
"Hehe*cough*hehe... Yeah. She seems to be resting. Probably digesting and doesn't care to gamble anymore on the likes of us."
Stockwell nodded. They had no way of knowing empirically, but perhaps listening to the fog so earnestly for so long had given them so insight on its nature. It certainly seemed to them from just the way its lazy votresies tumbled and dissipated, that the creature was resting, finally asleep.
The legionnaire spoke quietly, "I think some insane part of me is almost sad to have to say goodbye to her."
Stockwell chuckled and agreed.
Following the tracks, the two of them eventually made it out of the fog.
…
"Praise Be!"
They found a lone horse standing on the side of the road. The legionnaire gently set Stockwell down and quickly went up to examine it.
It was initially jumpy but the legionnaire managed to calm it. "Woah there girl."
He put his hand on its flank. "Yeah, that's a good girl. Poor thing, she must be from Baharuth."
Stockwell called from where he was sitting, "What makes you so sure?"
"She—" The legionnaire looked the mare over. "Just sit there, I'll bring her over to you."
He gently took the reins and guided the horse over to Stockwell so that he could get a better look. Once he gave her a cursory glance, it was clear why the legionnaire said that the horse was from Baharuth.
The horse's breathing was staggered and though it was hard to see, a portion of its skin underneath her hair was discolored. And most notably, the horse's eyes were swollen and filled with pus. It was undoubtedly blind.
Stockwell had no doubt that the horse had been exposed to lewisite and potentially some other gasses.
The legionnaire affectionately combed his fingers through the horse's hair. "You're a tough girl aren't you? Did your rider succumb to poison?"
They could only be assumed that the horse's rider had been exposed to the same gas that had affected the horse and had either died or had been separated because of it.
The legionnaire turned to Stockwell. "You should take her back to E-rantel."
"I should take her…? You mean alone? You're not coming?" Stockwell asked, confused.
The legionnaire shook his head. "Just listen to her breathing, she won't possibly be able to carry two grown men. You should probably remove your armor too to make yourself lighter. I think she's that weak."
Stockwell wasn't sure what kind of expression to make.
"Unlike you, my foot isn't broken," The legionnaire continued, "Once you're gone, I'll be able to move faster without having to support you. Besides, you desperately need to get your arm checked and get your face healed lest you want another scar. It's only right you go on ahead of me."
He helped Stockwell onto the horse.
"I'll get there eventually."
Stockwell nodded slowly. "Will you really be alright walking into E-Rantel by yourself, as a Baharuth soldier?"
The legionnaire shrugged. "Hell if I know the current political situation. Hell, I don't even know if Ainz Ooal Gown has actually annexed the place yet or not. I think you should probably be more concerned than me."
"Perhaps you're right…" Stockwell said.
"Then get out of here already you crazy bastard!" The legionnaire smiled. "She's blind but she's still a genuine Baharuth war horse, the finest the world has to offer. She'll get you to E-Rantel."
The legionnaire gave him one last, weak smile. "Go on then."
Stockwell shook his hand. "Thank you, I hope to find you in E-Rantel."
The legionnaire returned the hand shake and waved him goodbye, and with that Stockwell rode away.
The two had never bothered to exchange names. Neither of them had felt it necessary.
As Stockwell disappeared over the horizon, the legionnaire finally broke down into a magnificent coughing fit. He had been holding back for the sake of making his goodbye seem cooler and more stoic.
The mustard gas had irreparably damaged his respiratory system and he had just recently begun to notice an itchy sensation everywhere on his body. He doubted his chances of actually making it to E-Rantel.
But if worse came to worse, at least he had saved one person. He could avoid becoming an undead and he could die with dignity.