You don't recall how many hours passed with you just sitting, staring at the damage you caused yourself. You find irony in how fiercely you protect yourself against outside injury but so carelessly injure yourself.
You're just one big bundle of contradictions. One big bundle of problems and lies, trying to masquerade itself as a person. But the pain and overwhelming emptiness has faded. The panic has died away.
Instead, you're just left feeling… tired. It's midday, but you feel as if you could sleep already. The hollowness inside you is still there, still gnawing away at your very being, but it's bearable now. It's internalized and compartmentalized, kept away where it will never break from again.
It's too painful to stare down. To gaze into that void. So, perhaps foolishly, you press it away. You've already broken too many times, falling back into memories while you should be comforting someone else.
You must be strong. A rock amidst the storm.
Strong for who?
You can't answer that question. So you won't. Push it away. Deal with it later.
You don't know how long you can just push away these questions. But you don't care. It's better than answering them. Keep it out of your mind.
But this coping mechanism is fragile. It has a tendency to just shatter. Shatter like how you just did. But as long as the shattering is kept private, it will work. As long as nobody finds out just how unfit you are to lead.
Be strong in front of others, and be weak to yourself.
As long as nobody sees the scars. The new ones. The ones upon your wrist and in your soul, then you're okay.
Somebody knocks on the door.
You curse.
Next
You dust yourself off and remain on your bed, but lean against the wall it is pressed against. You lay your arms across your lap, concealing the cuts from whoever may be entering. You do your best to seem casual. To seem normal. And then you call for whoever it is to come in.
The door swings open to reveal Lada, the noblewoman. There's an almost satisfied smirk on her face when she sees you. She's dressed in a more casual outfit than when you saw her last, lacking the bloody apron of a surgeon.
She strolls through the door, very rapidly encroaching upon your space. This sudden advance makes your arm drift to your hip, but you quickly press it back against your side, keeping the cuts hidden.
"Afternoon, dear Marshal," Lada says, tone teasing but friendly.
She giggles to herself. You tense up. "Suspicious of me, are you?"
"This visit wasn't exactly announced," you reply, deadpan.
"I try to be surprising, you know?" She flutters her eyebrows. "Keep you on your toes."
"I'm not a big fan of surprises. Commanding does that to you."
"I've been trying to visit you for… weeks now. You've been difficult to track down." You notice how swiftly she moved on from the last subject. Trying to move past your comments.
Oh, I know," Lada says with a nod and… a smirk. "I know just how hard war can be on the commander."
"That's beside the point," you reply, still suspicious of her tone. "How'd you even find me?"
"It's a secret," she says with a wink.
You glare at her, and she… giggles again. Shite.
"I just asked a guard, wasn't so hard," Lada replies.
You raise an eyebrow. She just… asked. Shite, we need better security around here.
"Then pray tell me what you're doing here?" you ask.
She says, "Checkup. On the stitches. Make sure they aren't gettin' the rot." She then adds playfully, "And maybe just to talk?"
She giggles. "Why, do you doubt me, Marshal?"
"Is that rhetorical?" you deadpan. She giggles again.
"I assure you that I would've been dead by now had the rot set in," you reply. She laughs, taking the line for some joke.
"As a surgeon, you should know that," you add.
"Maybe we skip the checkup?" Lada replies.
You know you cannot let her stay. If your arms move, she may see it. The dried blood on your wrists. The evidence.
Lada looks somewhat disappointed. "Some other time then, Marshal." The swagger in her step is gone as she makes her way to the door.
"I hope to see you soon," she says in that strange tone as she hangs just beyond the exit.
You just nod noncommittally as she leaves, shutting the door behind her and leaving you once again alone to your thoughts.
Next
------
Lada's thoughts drift as she wanders aimlessly down the hallway. She knows that conversation could have gone better, and still doesn't know how to make it better.
Most men would be all over her by now. She's shown actual interest. She's been more than just a trophy to be pursued. By showing this interest, this flirting, she thought that the Marshal would have at least… responded to it.
But he doesn't. Lada chalks it up to repression. He's so emotionally damaged. So repressed. So closed and cold.
Lada smiles to herself. The idea of pulling away his repression, of pushing her way into his heart sounds… romantic. He's attractive. Interesting. Strong. Skilled.
A better candidate than the others she's been offered. If her brother would allow it, she would take this intriguing but cold man over a stuffy elderly man any day.
But she'll have to put in work if she wants to be with this one.
She's up for the challenge.
Next
-Three Months after Belos's Sally-
The last traces of fall and summer have been extinguished under a layer of snow. As winter begins its second month, you wonder how much longer the rebels can possibly sustain this siege. Their initial army of twelve thousand has suffered severe losses, now numbering only seven thousand, seven hundred.
A small group of around three hundred arrived earlier this morning, carrying with them precious supplies the rebel forces need to maintain their siege. But even with this respite, the enemy will eventually run out of supplies. It's only a matter of time.
Or so you hope.
Even their bombardment has died down. The smoking weapons fire less frequently, and with less accuracy. It seems the wetter the months get, the worse their aim becomes. You mentally note this.
Missed shots fly above the walls, bearing down upon the houses of the poor. More and more cave in, destroyed by balls of solid stone or iron, smashing into unsuspecting families, mutilating and obliterating.
You look into the cloudy sky, watching more pure snow pour down from the heavens. It coats the city in its blanket of white. You half-walk, half-trudge through the city streets, passing through the second gatehouse into the outer third of the city.
The poorer folk live in these parts. They're little above the serfs that live in Kanton's neighboring nations. Kanton considers itself more enlightened than the heathens in the southeast or the Kingdom of Loston in the west, just north of the Krorid jungles.
You yourself have never been to the supposed "unenlightened lands" that still practice serfdom, but the stories you hear are grisly. Men owned by their lords, made to do what they wish at their leisure. The lands where lords practice the "right of the first night," claiming the virginity of lower-class women on their wedding night. A despicable practice.
And yet Kantonians find no problem forcing women off to be with men they hate. Hypocrisy fills all people.
Kantonians cry against the system of serfdom, having been freed from it a century before. They play up the atrocities of Loston, sparking animosity between the two kingdoms.
You're skeptical of these supposed crimes that Loston or the others commit. You've never seen it. You've never met a Lostonian who supports the stories. It may not happen at all, or may be a rare incident blown out of proportion.
But looking around at the abject poverty of the peasantry, you don't see how serfdom could be much worse.
They're slaves, in their own way.
Next
Simple, run-down houses line the streets you walk upon. The air is filled with the sounds of life and death. Orphans and the elderly beg those who pass by for coin or bread. Hounds bark, children laugh, adults talk. Life goes on.
Even as bodies lie unmoving on doorsteps.
The shortage of food is evident in the gaunt forms of the young or in the frail dispositions of the adults. The marketplace, once full of bakers or shopkeepers trading foodstuffs and goods, now lies nearly empty. Nobody is willing to trade away their precious food.
You can only wonder how the rebel army is faring.
A young man on your right, leaned against the wall of someone's house, keels over to ground, coughing violently. Blood and mucus sprays to the snow, staining it red. This fit lasts for nearly a minute before he looks back up, staring into the sky while shivering.
You take multiple steps away from this man's side of the road, purposely avoiding him. Bloody, froth-filled lungs choke and gasp, the body going pale and weak. It is more than mere hunger.
You recognize the signs of the White Death. The dreaded Consumption.
There is much concentrated misery here. You really, really don't want to stick around any longer.
You decide to take Aurora to the walls next time you go on patrol.
Next
The walls remain standing. They remain unbroken. Certain portions lie splintered and destroyed, collapsing into high piles of rubble. As you walk along the base, you can see the bodies of the unlucky, smashed beneath the stone. In the broken sections, arms and legs stick out of the rubble.
You ignore them as best you can while your stomach churns.
When you climb onto the walls, you receive the same greeting, delivered by those who recognize you. "Marshal," they all say simply.
But there's a new commotion today. Men gather and point. You tense up, remembering what happened the last time something major happened on the walls.
With haste, you make your way to one of the battlements, slotting in between two groups of levies. You see a pair of riders rush forward, frantically waving something above their head, but the wind blows hard, throwing it back into their faces.
You squint, confused as to what they might be doing. They're holding a white banner, desperately trying to get the fabric to fly with the wind and be visible. Then you realize just how obvious it is. They've been sent to negotiate.
Your heart leaps. Maybe this can end the siege. Or maybe it can end this new war. Or—
"Archers, nock!" a man's voice shouts, full of authority.
Shite.
You move back from the battlements, sprinting down the wall toward the one issuing orders. You come across the armored form of Velinor the Huntsman, arms crossed, standing behind a group of maybe a dozen archers. They draw their bowstrings back, taking aim at the incoming riders.
"Cease!" you cry, approaching them from the rear. Velinor spins around, and seeing you, he calls over his shoulder, "Archers, cease!" Your eyes are drawn toward the group of archers as they return their arrows to their quivers. While not in sync, the motion is impressively smooth, returning to the quiver in just one attempt. Quite professional for only a few months of training.
You quickly shift your attention to Velinor and…
Velinor chuckles to himself. "I's find it rude when they shoot at us."
"Gotta be the better man then, gov'nor," you reply.
He lets out a long sigh. "Ain't a better man in a war, my friend."
This statement is oddly somber for the man. You raise an eyebrow.
But your attention is quickly captured by the dull thud of longbows being loosed. You curse and rush further down the walls, crying, "Cease! Cease! Stay your weapons!" You reach a damaged portion of the wall and leap, barely clearing the gap where the sharp stones lie below.
Many of the archers hesitantly lower their weapons. Others, maybe out of bloodlust or disrespect for your command, continue to loose arrows upon the pair of riders. With another curse, you lean back over the battlements, watching as the two turn their steeds and rush in the opposite direction, back toward the encircling camp.
They hadn't even closed within a hundred yards of the walls. The occasional arrow continues to harass them, until they reach four hundred yards and exceed the range of even the best archers.
You sigh, leaning against the wall as the last hope of peace fades away.
Unless…
You have an idea.
Next
You return to Velinor, who offers you a thumbs-up as you approach. You ignore it and say, "They scared off the fuckin' envoys."
He shrugs. "Boys are pent up. Angry. Tired of gettin' shot at, which I's assume you can relate to. Just the other day, I overhead one go, 'If I see any of 'em rebel scum, I's shoot 'em meself!'" Velinor laughs at this comment. You do not.
It's actually worrying. Men can only take so much unrelenting cold, disease, and bombardment before they snap.
"Might wanna suppress that sentiment, gov'nor," you reply. It's phrased as a suggestion, but it isn't one. It's an order.
"I's see what I can do," he says dismissively.
"Later," you say. "Right now, I want you to head over to Darin's and let him know I need Obren and a handful of knights." You pause and then add, "Oh, and a white flag."
Velinor places a hand to his chin in thought. He says with an almost fake-sounding chuckle, "Ya know, my friend, seems as if ye're just usin' me as a servant at this point."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
"I'm payin' you," you deadpan.
He breaks out laughing. "I'm jus' fuckin' with ya, Marshal. I'll go get yer buddy, jus' take command while I's gone, alright?"
You nod, and he leaves to fetch Darin. With a sigh, you return back to the battlements, staring out at the glistening white fields.
Nearly two hours pass.
Next
Darin shakes his head doggedly. "Hell no. That," he clasps his hands behind his back, pacing in front of you, "is gonna getcha killed." You raise an eyebrow in reply.
Obren turns to Darin and says, "The flag of truce is in place for a reason."
Both men had arrived with a contingent of ten knights, who are mounted and ready near the main gatehouse. You stand atop it, conversing with the two commanders as Velinor leans against the battlements, listening in.
"Yeah," Darin says, "but we fuckin' shot at 'em, aye? They's not gonna respect truce if we don't."
Velinor pipes up from the side. "You'd be surprised, friend, at man's stupidity."
"Ever since I met you, no stupidity has ever surprised me," Darin cuts back without missing a beat.
Obren glances between the two men, obviously uncomfortable at the exchange of insults. But by the expression on Velinor's face, it's nothing but banter between them. The huntsman goes back to staring out in the distance as Darin turns to you.
"Lad, I's know ya want to end this. Hells know I do. But goddamn it, don't get yerself killed. It ain't gonna solve any problems."
You sigh. "If you're done interrupting me, could I finish speakin' my plan?"
He sighs in return. "Fine. Just…" He hesitates. "Fine. Go ahead."
You clear your throat and continue, saying, "Of course I ain't gonna go ridin' up at his camp and get myself killed, you idiot." Darin seems noticeably relieved by this. "I was gonna meet him on neutral ground. Exit the walls, head out to the field. Get 'em to come to me, aye?"
"Neutral ground ain't gonna stop 'em from just… runnin' ya down, Arthur Hornraven. Rade could jus' charge ye."
Obren says, "As long as we display the flag of truce, the enemy must take us as a diplomatic party."
Darin snorts. "Hey, kid, ever heard of Alverton?" At the mention of Alverton, Velinor peeks up from his rest, the name clearly capturing his interest. However, you raise a hand to signal Darin's silence.
"Not here, Darin." Velinor shakes his head and leans back against the battlements.
He sighs in frustration. "Ya don't seem to understand the danger ye're gonna put yerself in."