Thirteenth Stroke – Somber Crumbs

Conducting a burial was easier said than done. The ground was solid and rocky here, so it would take more than makeshift tools. After a few moments of breaking up ground with their swords and trying to scoop it aside with their shoulder pauldrons, Jessica ordered Racquel to run into Treadersberg and borrow some shovels.

Sylvia kept working, scooping and scraping the resistant earth, while the other was gone. Jessica knelt next to her, much the same. Neither spoke much. The single-digit's countenance was grim and unrevealing, but that was little different from normal.

I wonder if she has done this before? Sylvia could not voice the question; it would never do to ask that. She had buried only one comrade in the past, years before, after her first encounter with an awakened being. That had been a sad occasion, but it could not compare to the overwhelming blanket of grief and wrongness consuming this event. It was hard to focus on the task at hand, and the Claymore kept finding herself stopped suddenly, having lapsed into recollection, seeing Lynne's face again.

It was the smile on that face that tortured Sylvia's mind. The strange, impossible happiness she had seen there in the moment before death. She could not understand, could not comprehend. How did you come to accept it Lynne? There was no answer to be found even in the depths of her own mind; only repeating scenes of a head floating slowly through the air, in a cool arc that would never end.

How long it took for Racquel to return was not knowable, in the blurry time of deep gray, the sky glimmering with only hints of a rising sun far away. Return she did, and passed out shovels as they looked upon the pathetic handiwork accomplished while they had lacked proper tools.

Thereafter it went faster, dirt and stones flew away quickly, the blows striking ground as fast and hard as tools could take. One shovel only was wielded with all the strength its handler could put behind it. For the three half-human half-yoma restraint must be constantly exercised, or their great strength might well break the tools so essential to speedy completion.

Tyrin labored under no such restriction. Her strength might be substantial for a human woman, but there was no risk of her smashing wood in half. She wielded the shovel with a will, breathing hard and sweat pouring down her face, seeking a form of release denied the others. Sylvia looked on the human warrior with something like jealousy for a moment, but then grief overwhelmed it again.

Gradually a deep hole, roughly oval, took shape in the rocky ground. The sun rose off to the east slowly bathing all in gold and banishing the lingering chill of the summer night. The sweat poured off them in the end, scented metallic as it absorbed the blood lingering in uniforms and on skin. Soon the air about them all smelled of a battlefield.

Again and again Sylvia observed the conflict of the day before replayed in her memory, until the handle of her shovel felt like a sword hilt, and each blow plunged it deep into the crackling flesh and bone of a human soldier, just as Lynne's blade had.

Then they were scooping out leftover dirt with Tyrin's helmet serving as a bucket, and all was ready.

"Sylvia, Racquel," Jessica motioned to them, putting down her shovel.

Blinking carefully to clear the mixture of sweat and tears from her eyes, Sylvia put her own shovel down. She shuffled about with bent knees, moving to the top of Lynne's body, trying to avoid glancing at the severed head as she did so. Racquel moved to the other side. The youthful Claymore had a soft, saddened look blanketing her face.

Slowly Racquel reached under Lynne's body and lifted her by the hips.

Sylvia used that moment to slide free the long sword from its holster. She placed it down on the ground next to the body. Then, looking at Racquel to make sure she was ready and there would be no mishaps, she grasped Lynne's body by the cold metal of her shoulder pauldrons, and lifted.

They moved together with great care and diligence, slowly lowering down into the hole so freshly dug the cool body of their comrade. When the body was placed Jessica reached over the side of the grave and carefully handed Sylvia the head.

Clenching her teeth to avoid any outcry or retching, Sylvia took it, looking only at the backside, not daring the cold silver eyes. She placed the head quietly on its side, where it would have been attached before being so recently severed, and then turned away. I am sorry Lynne, Sylvia shrieked inside. I can't bear any more than that.

When the pair had exited the pit Jessica shoveled on the first pile of dirt. More followed, as all wielded their shovels rapidly, saying nothing.

The dirt and stone piled up loosely, forming a low rounded mound above the grave when they were finished. Jessica picked up Lynne's sword and with both hands drove it sharply into that mass of earth, solid enough to insure it would not be idly moved.

"Is that all?" Tyrin asked quietly when no one spoke and the single-digit began to turn away.

"Our swords are our grave markers," Sylvia explained carefully.

"No, no," Tyrin shook her head. "I mean, is there some service or something?"

"You mean a religious service?" Racquel's voice was full of surprise. "Do human soldiers do that?"

"Yes, of course," Tyrin appeared confused. "I mean, most groups have some kind of chaplain, and there's usually a mass for the dead if there's any time."

"What if there is no chaplain?" Jessica asked, not curious, just speaking.

"Well, most officers are taught a field prayer, for patrols and such," Tyrin fielded the question after a moment. "I suppose that includes me, if you want."

"Do you think the gods would listen to prayers for such as us?" Sylvia asked softly, trying to hide her desperation at such a thought, and fearful of the answer.

Tyrin stood silent, and Sylvia, looking at the human warrior, wondered if she too feared the answer to that question.

"It does not matter," Jessica spoke for them both. "It is not our way, though I commend your feelings."

"What now?" Racquel dared in the heavy silence that followed.

"We need rest," Jessica determined, and Sylvia knew she was quite right, they had gotten no sleep this night, and their bodies were suffering from repairing their wounds. "And to clean off as best we can. After that we can replenish supplies and plan."

So, the four women slunk through the woods to a small stream paralleling the road. Still silent they did their best to wash away sweat, blood, and dirt from battered uniforms and scratched armor. Success was middling at best, but Sylvia found the cold water cleansing to a degree. Washing away the stains helped put the first wash on her memory, blurring the details like water, making it just a bit more bearable.

Lynne's smiling face still haunted her mind, that would never fade entirely, the sickening price of failure and the blood bought by human treachery, but Sylvia had great practice in control and endurance, and now, as the sun rose higher, those old familiar patterns began to reassert themselves. Systematically she buried the grief and regret bit by bit, piling on layer after layer of stubborn emotional restraint. I am not strong enough to fully bear such burdens, Sylvia knew, she had learned that long ago. So, I will bear what I can and force the rest away. That is all I, and perhaps any of us, can really do.

Exhaustion helped in its own way. With their labors done, the long delayed fatigue came up from behind and hit with sledgehammer force. Jessica, whose wounds had been so serious, and whose focus was straightforward, was asleep within minutes of pulling her body from the stream. She seemed eerily calm, lying propped against a scraggly pine, her blade draped across her front. Sylvia adopted a similar pose, struggling to keep her eyes open. Dimly she observed Racquel settle into a cross-legged posture, as if at prayer, and not move thereafter. Tyrin, unlike the others, did not settle down so easily, but paced warily about the streambed, turning her helmet over in her hands. The Claymore felt a spasm of concern for the human soldier, but she could not muster the sympathy or the energy then, and sleep came up to envelop her in darkness.

Whether or not Claymores dream much was never something Sylvia had been able to ask any of her comrades. For herself, she rarely had any memory of dreams, or even of having dreamed. Yet she did indeed dream, or at least experience wretched nightmares sometimes. She had expected it this day, and was not disappointed. The details blurred in the instant of awakening, heartbeat pounding in her ears, but one particular image remained. Sylvia saw Jessica's hand reach into to catch a severed head from striking the ground, only it was not Lynne's head, it was her own.

Aware almost immediately after awakening, a consequence of hard training, the Claymore first noted that it must be about noon, as she was staring up at the sun high in the sky. Then she recognized that someone was crying. Jessica and Racquel, both still clearly asleep, were easily eliminated, leaving only Tyrin, but she was not in Sylvia's immediate view.

Sylvia scrambled to her feet, jerking towards the sound. She wasn't sure exactly why, after all, comforting people was not something she was good at, but there was an inescapable pull to that sobbing. So she went.

Tryin was seated by the edge of the stream, facing into the cold rushing water. She sat cross-legged, her helmet lying idle on the ground, as did her shield, but she held the sword in her lap, passing in back and forth from one hand to the other in slow, wrenching motions.

"Which of you is it?" Tyrin asked suddenly, her voice raw, but alert. "Your footsteps all sound the same."

"It's me," Sylvia answered, knowing Tyrin could recognize her voice. "I'm sorry to intrude, but are you all right?"

"Am I alright?" Tyrin's voice was oddly bemused, but she didn't to look at Sylvia. "Tell me, would you be alright after having executed someone only a few hours ago? Someone who you knew didn't deserve to die?" Tyrin held her sword up in one hand, placing it between her and the sun. "This sword, it's always been a weapon, and I've come to except that, but not…this." She fell silent slowly.

"I regret Lynne's death too," Sylvia spoke, and she meant it. "Far more than I ever thought I would, but you are the least to blame of any in this."

"I held the sword! I cut off her head!" Tyrin's voice was raw and hoarse. "Nothing can change that!"

"She wanted you to!" Sylvia shouted back, shocking herself and the human woman, for she almost never raised her voice. Tyrin's head spun abut and she looked up to the Claymore's face. Sylvia felt the mist of tears forming, though she could not say why. "She chose you Tyrin, over any of us. You didn't have to agree, but you honored Lynne's choice. Hard as it might be, I think that was a very kind thing to do."

"And what if she had chosen you?" Tyrin asked; empty of feeling. "Would you be able to accept it?"

"To take each other's lives when it is asked is how we are trained," Sylvia answered with deep sadness, but subdued emotion. "If Lynne had asked any of us it would have been our duty, and refusal would have been impossible. We have no choice, but you did. Should not that make a difference?"

"I couldn't have refused her," Tyrin shook her head slowly. "That would have been too cruel."

"Isn't that it then?" Sylvia wondered. She was far from certain herself, but hopefully her words might help Tyrin regain some equilibrium.

"Maybe," the human soldier wiped her face and put away her sword. "I hope that's enough. I guess I'll have to find out."

Sylvia stood by silently, not wanting to disrupt things. She had little enough confidence in her ability to counsel anyone. Tyrin had always seemed so stable to her, unburdened with a Claymore's woes. Yet, she realized suddenly. She has now been wrapped up in a crisis of ours, and there's no easy way out.

"Why did you strike Luny?" Sylvia asked. "It will go ill for you because of that. You might be somewhat safe from us, but the organization will find a way to get revenge. Besides, you've been roped into our mission, and it will be extremely dangerous."

"I just had to hit the bastard," Tyrin spat. "You're right that it was a stupid thing to do, but I just had to do it." She met Sylvia's eyes head on. "Even if I let things get out of hand, I don't regret it. I don't think I could live with myself if I hadn't struck out then."

"I see," Sylvia replied, not really understanding. Had I done that it would have been giving in to my yoma half, but I suppose it's different for her. She decided that it would be best to change the subject. "There is something else," and she pulled out the scrap of dirty cloth from her armor. "Do you recognize this?"

Tyrin took the fabric carefully, and turned it about in her hand. "This is an officer's insignia. Where did you get it?"

"I took it from one of the soldiers who attacked us," Sylvia explained, recalling the risk she had taken then.

"Two bars probably means a captain, and one would be a lieutenant," Tyrin explained. "That's the standard I recall. A captain would be pretty highly placed, leading a small mercenary company or a senior officer in a big one." The soldier turned the scrap around a few more times. "The image is a bit mangled…but…it must be the Black Wings."

"Black Wings?" Sylvia did not understand.

"A mercenary company, a large one," Tyrin's expression stiffened. "Maybe one hundred and fifty men all told. Tough troops, not the best, but plenty tough."

"You know these men?" Sylvia asked.

"I was never with the company myself," the soldier noted. "But I did serve alongside them, I guess maybe three years ago, in a big bandit hunting campaign." She scowled. "They weren't exactly nice people, most mercenaries aren't, but I'd have never thought they'd make this kind of deal."

"What would make them do it?" Sylvia questioned, trying to peace together the motives of human soldiers, men who must be in some ways like Tyrin, to side with yoma.

"Money," the word was immediate. "A lot of money, the kind that builds castles or cities. If you think about it," Tyrin went on. "It's not like you could work for anyone after working with yoma. Who'd trust you? So you'd want the kind of money you could retire on, give up the soldier's life after the job was done."

"Is money all that would matter?" Somehow it did not seem enough. I might be wrong, since money means so little to us, but the risk seems too great.

"Well, I imagine whoever made the hire made some promises, like how the men would only fight Claymores who can't kill them, and showed they could keep the yoma in line, but it comes down to money in the end," Tyrin shook her head. "I've been a mercenary, most soldiers have, there's few enough permanent stations out there so everybody wanders, kind of like you Claymores, from job to job. Promises of money are the quickest way to override morals."

"You say money, but that makes little sense," a harsh voice interjected. Sylvia pun about to see Jessica standing behind them, watching. How long? She wondered in shock. How long have you been watching? She could to ask the single digit that, but it disturbed her.

Tyrin's face contorted, clearly angry at being silently observed as well. "Why does money make no sense?" she bit out the question.

"An awakened being is our foe," Jessica said, talking sparingly as always. "Only one such could command yoma, but they should have no more money than us."

"Does it really matter where the money came from?" Sylvia wondered aloud. "It would be easy enough to acquire a fortune, given our skills and a willingness to kill, there could be a thousand places."

"Point," Jessica acknowledged. "More importantly, Tyrin," she fixed the human warrior with a flat expression. "Are you truly with us?"

"What?" Tyrin's expression held complete incomprehension.

"You are not bound by the orders of a man in black," Jessica explained, and Sylvia, to her surprise, realized she hadn't even considered that. Did I take her company for granted? She looked away in a brief wash of shame. "Your best course would be to run." The single-digit's assessment was frank, but the other Claymore could find no fault with it. Going up against some scheme led by an awakened being is madness for a human, even one like Tyrin.

"I'm not leaving," the soldier's voice was utterly firm. "I could care less what that bastard said, but there's a death binding me to this now, and I'm not abandoning this until I see it done." Her eyes misted slightly, but that was soon buried beneath a flush of righteous anger. "Besides, you're the ones who need my help. Lynne died for that rule, but it's still hanging over your heads. It doesn't mean anything to me. If you go alone you'll all be marching to your deaths one way or another, just like Lynne did. Claymores hunt yoma! Leave the humans to their own!" Her voice rose and breath came fast and full, but there was steel behind it. Sylvia looked in admiration at Tyrin's resolve. She did not think she could match it. We are not free to choose our battles; does that mean we lose the courage to make that choice? Please let me not be that weak.

"Very well," Jessica inclined her head to Tyrin slightly. "I am grateful, but you will have to accept my commands."

"It's not like I have the guts to try and give one of you orders, I'm not crazy you know," Tyrin smiled at last, running a hand through her hair.

"Good," the single-digit flashed the ghost of a smile of her own. "Back to town then, we need supplies."

Notes: I've made a bit of an assumption here about Claymore burial, since one has never been shown in the manga, but I feel this very simplistic bare-bones method fits them.