(Should be able to keep up a once-a-week pace, at least for the next few weeks)
The Tale of Beowulf: Unrelieved
It was a long and weary journey back to his father's estate in Gariland, leaning on Reis with every grudging step across the frosbitten foothills of southern Fovoham and the sodden climbs of norhtern Gallione. Reis left almost as soon as they'd arrived—she had been apart from the Templars too long, and Beowulf could not ask her to stay. His father did not ask too many questions: he brought him soup, applied healing ointments, and largely left him alone. So Beowulf had time to reckon with everything he'd done.
He had killed men and women who deserved better. He had treated human lives like they were toys. And worst of all: he had failed, and been wounded, and let his comrades down when they needed him most.
He was no legend. He was no hero. He was a cruel, vainglorious child. He needed to make things right.
As soon as he could walk on his own, he stumbled from his father's estate into town, and bribed his way onto a merchant caravan heading for Igros. The mood in the caravan was one of relief: the Death Corps had been driven out of Gallione, and the merchants were overjoyed to know the roads were safe again.
Beowulf did not share their joy. He kept to himself, as a cold breeze rolled out of the north.
But when he arrived at Igros, he found the people there felt much as he did. Not after the brutal battle in the mountains that had left so many Hokuten dead. Not after the explosion that had destroyed Zeakden, and left even Zalbaag Beoulve wounded.
And of Teta? Of Delita? Of Ramza? There was no word at all.
"No one will tell us anything," Reis told him, sitting on the steps of Igros Cathedral. "We don't even know if they're alive."
"They're alive," Beowulf replied, and hated the sound of tears in his voice.
Reis pulled him close, and he rested his head in the crook of her neck, and tried not to cry.
"Is this the boy you've told me so much about?"
Beowulf looked up. Standing in front of them was a man Beowulf instantly liked. His long, silky dark hair gleamed in the runelamps along the cathedral's brick walkway, a few patches of silver sparkling like stars in a night sky. A trim mustache framed a mouth that seemed made for smiling. His dark eyes surveyed Beowulf with the warmth of an old friend.
"It is, your Grace," Reis said, bringing Beowulf to his feet and bowing with one hand still interlaced in his.
"Your Grace?" Beowulf repeated, too tired to bow or make the connection.
"Poor lad," sighed the man. "Still weary, I take it?" He glanced at Beowulf's chest as though he could see the bandages concealed beneath his tunic. "And wounded, besides. You do not lack for courage." He waved for Beowulf to follow him. "Come, let's see to your wounds."
"Who-" Beowulf began.
"This is Bishop Bremondt, Wulf," Reis said, and smiled at the older man. "My teacher, my commander, and my friend."
"I am glad you came," Bremondt said, as Beowulf's tired mind stumbled in awe. "I had hoped to see you...and see if you might consider a place among the Templars."