Wordless intents haunted Markus, fueling the malignant worry in the back of his mind, pressuring him to do what was needed of him, to fulfill his purpose.
Wandering the plains of his Gallery of War, he grasped at the tall red grass, playing with it idly. The grass was a beautiful shade of red unlike any he'd seen in the real world. So beautiful, and so sad. Or was it beautiful 'because' it was sad?
Only he knew the grass was not truly red. Beneath over a decade of spilled blood, those blades of grass were once a verdant green.
In the distance, he could see people moving to and fro, enjoying the constant dawn light of this place, or playing idly with the grass as he was. He knew those people, 'had known' those people.
"It's been a while since you've all come here." He said to no one in particular.
"We're always here, boy. It's you who has not come to us." An elderly man with a slight hunch spoke from beside him, seeming as if he'd always been there.
"I suppose I've been… troubled."
"[!$@#]" That intent spoke louder in his mind and the world shook for a moment as he winced.
"So I see." The old man continued, still watching the other figures in the distance. "But hiding here won't make it go away. What happened to that youth who scoffed the idea of a shield? He wasn't the type of man to hide from his problems."
"I'm not hiding."
"[^^&%@!!]" The world rocked once more and Markus groaned as a drop of blood fell from his nose, devoured by the red grass below.
"I just don't know what to do." He said after a moment.
The old man finally turned to look Markus in the eyes, his aged face showing spots and scars. "You do boy. If only you'd accept, you would realize you do."
"Arthur…"
"[!!*@^#*]"
Markus shouted in pain as the world shook and the sky above threatened to break, like something beyond it was forcing its way through. Old Arthur Reyes vanished alongside the many other specters of the dead, and soon his vision began to fail.
"Swear!!" the intent boomed throughout sky and earth, shaking his soul to its core.
Then everything went black.
****
Standing among the bodies of the dead, longsword in hand, Quinn panted as his muscles tensed. Swords and spears stabbed at him from every angle as he did what he could to hold them off, channeling the small amount of power his Gallery afforded him to its maximum.
His vision was a blur and his thoughts were overrun by panic as he stood his ground.
'What happened to the old man? He went down watching me fall!' Quinn knew Markus' rules for battle, he had been forced to remember them all so well he could spell each backward without delay.
Don't turn back, no matter what you hear. That one was more important the further ahead you were in a formation, and Markus was at the front of their spear.
The old man had broken his own rule because it was 'him' that fell.
'Don't even think about dying old man. If you do that, what was the point of it all? You could have stayed home!'
His sword took the eyes of a Hasshan soldier, but a charging warhorse stormed by so quickly he was thrown to the ground.
Three sword points aimed down to plunge at him before he could stand, and indignant denial flared up within his chest. 'Not here, not now! I, Quinn Faucon will not die a bloody squire, trampled beyond recognition by nobodies!'.
His sword swept up from the ground to open the contents of one man's belly, but another drove a blade through the shoulder of his sword arm, pinning it to the ground.
"Not yet!" He wailed, left hand flailing about. Yet even still, the sword that would end his life fell.
"Oi Oi! No need to bully children!" A large, wavy blade longer than a tall man swept with such force that dust formed clouds, illustrating the sword's path.
The blade that would have spelled the end of Quinn's life was knocked aside before it's wielder was bisected cleanly, blood decorating the air for a short moment as the putrid smell of the battlefield worsened.
Roars and cheers and warrior's spirit overcame the surroundings as infantry of the Crimson Company stormed through, doing their job in securing the rear of the cavalry. Don Cox, tall but not very wide, with his thick, curled mustache, looked down at Quinn, sprawled out on the ground with a sword through his shoulder.
"Well shit, 'aven't you got yourself in a mess."
Wrapping his strong hand around the hilt of the sword, he yanked it free from Quinn's shoulder without warning, grabbing the boy's hand even as he yelled in pain and pulling him to his feet.
"Alright lad, it's fair to shout but you should bottle it up by now. You'll have to bear through worse to come so get used to it."
Quinn grit his teeth and withheld the moisture in his eyes as his hand instinctively rested over the wound on his shoulder. "The old m– Markus, he was struck off his horse and I've not seen him." He spoke quickly and loudly over the surrounding chaos.
"Markus? How the hell did that ghoul get himself dismounted? Should know better than that."
Quinn bit his lips in response. He wanted to stand up for his mentor, to say it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. What if Markus truly was dead? Would… would 'he' be responsible?
"Well whatever, he's suffered worse, believe me. Go get that wrapped and join your aunt, this concludes your little foray into the battle."
"What? No, I can—"
"Boy! I have given you a command." The usually overflowing cheer and warmth no longer swam in Don's eyes as he stared down at Quinn; Only cold command and a desire for battle.
In that moment, he was Brutal Don, barely containing his urge to plunge into battle with the common men.
Quinn didn't dare disobey any longer, with only a fleeting glance in the direction he thought Markus would lay, he made his way back, pushing through the space protected by the infantry.
The battlefield had changed quite drastically with a wide line of Hadrialan forces breaking up the Hasshan army, and many cavalry units clashing on the far edges of the field. Quinn showed no care for that now though, running as fast as he could to his aunt and her reserve troops nearby.
The blood of Ness, the war-trained mare Markus had gifted him, Markus' own horse in times past, ran down his body and painted his face.
****
Markus woke to a pain in his head far greater than any migraine. His head was pulsing with a sharp and splitting pain, his vision bloodied and blurry, and somehow… off.
For a moment, he couldn't recognize where he was. His chest hurt as something hit it, the boots and greaves of armored men stepping on him as they battled.
'Battled?' Right, of course. He was in a battle. At the… the Dragon.. Gate?
His vision cleared slightly just as he saw a boot step down on the earth next to his unprotected head. His brows rose and pain assaulted the right side of his mind once more.
He was sure he had been wounded deeply by something, perhaps someone truly had stepped on his head.
Slowly and shakily pulling himself up, he supported himself with his left hand, sitting in the gory mud. His legs wouldn't move, the armor encasing them had broken beyond use and trapped them in their current posture.
With a shaky hand, he touched his right cheek and winced. A very deep cut.
'Right… that was… an arrow?' The image of two archers standing atop their saddles as they rode, firing arrows at him surfaced in his mind.
'Huh, imagine that, little old me attracted the attention of the Valche brothers. And… I was fighting someone?'
His shaky hand slowly rose above the deep cut on his cheek, intending to feel for wounds on his forehead, but with a shocking jolt of pain, his hand bumped into something else.
A horrible foreboding filled his mind as he tentatively felt for that 'thing' once more.
"A-aahh." He groaned as he softly made contact with it. It felt like… a handle.
The image of a man, Kodor Obi, the Grand Knight surfaced in his mind. He had pinned Markus on the ground, and they struggled over...
"A dagger," He said with a shaky breath.
There was a dagger lodged deep in his head, through his right eye.
Hesitantly, he wrapped shaky fingers around the hilt of the dagger and tried pulling just the tiniest amount. A Hadrialan footman bumped into him and the dagger was jerked with a spike of horrid pain.
Markus growled through gritted teeth as he grasped the dagger and pulled again. Bit by bit, as others bumped into him, he pulled the long blade out of his right eye, his mind shaking and thoughts collapsing as he did.
For a time, he forgot where he was and what he was doing as he slowly extracted the weapon. Then the pain spiked again as his senses returned and he almost stopped, but with a clenched jaw and a body soaked in cold sweat, he continued.
He was bumped again, knocked back onto his side as he roared in pain and anger, until finally, with a sudden absence of any resistance, the knife was pulled free, and everything went black.
****
A heavy impact jolted him awake, and through his bloodied vision, he found a man fallen atop his legs. No, it was two men. A Hasshan warrior strangling a Hadrialan against the muddy ground.
Thoughtlessly, Markus tightened his grip. There was a dagger in his hand… why? Left hand propping up his weight slightly, he drove the slippery dagger through the Hasshan's neck and pulled down.
Blood showered the Hadrialan on the ground, and Markus fell back once more, incredible pain assaulting him.
"He-hey! Are you alr—" The stranger's words cut off as he leaned over Markus to see the hole where his eye used to be. "You… That's impossible." He murmured in shock.
Markus spoke with a voice as dry and barren as the earth of central Hasshan. "Nothing… Impossible."
Grabbing the man's shoulder roughly, he tried pulling himself up to a seated posture even as the battle raged and other Hadrialan soldiers pushed past them, filling the ranks of those who died ahead.
"Could you…. Help a man out?" He tried to smile as he gestured to the broken armor trapping his legs, but the other man's eyes went wide in fear rather than surprise.
"That's not… that's not possible." His eyes turned to the broken armor, the dents created by the kicks of a Grand Knight, and his face paled further.
"I-i'm sorry, I can't—" The soldier tried to remove Markus' hand and back away, but his grip only tightened. "Help me." He growled. "Remove the armor on my legs." He held the man's frightened gaze for a long moment before the soldier gave a shaky nod.
"All right… all right."
Slowly letting go of the man's shoulder, Markus began unclasping plates on his chest and shoulders while watching the other man.
"What's your name?"
"V-vance. Vance Arrick"
"Okay, Vance. My name is Markus Nabora. When we're done here, I'll need your help reaching my comrades, okay?"
The man's hands stopped for a moment, but a second later he continued removing the broken armor with a nod.
"Thank you."
When the broken parts of his armor were removed—practically all of it in truth—he rose with the help of Vance and tried taking stock of the battlefield once more. The cavalry had moved far from where he was now, and the infantry's frontlines were a small distance from them, only a few Hasshan men pushing as deep as this.
He could feel the resonance of his path within, recognizing tens of knights and even a few grand knights in the crowds. One of them returned his gaze, the bald Hasshan man, Kondor Obi. His eyes stared wide and his face paled slightly, but after a moment he nodded to Markus across the ranks of infantry.
Giving one short nod back, Markus bent over to withdraw the dagger from the earlier deadman's neck, truly looking at it for the first time.
A chill ran down Markus' spine as his eyes roamed the length of the blade. It was a long knife. Very long.
'How did….'
"We need to go…" Vance put in from the side and Markus gave a noncommittal nod, tucking the dagger under his sword belt.
"Right."