You sigh. Such is the way war is fought. The rich can afford quality armor. The poor cannot.
You feel lucky enough to have any armor at all.
Next
You approach the guard in front of Elya's pavilion. He salutes you and steps aside. The soldiers know you now.
You step inside, your eyes falling upon Elya, sitting up on her bed roll, clearly awaiting your arrival.
She chuckles and jokes, "Took you long enough, Arthur Hornraven."
"I mean… yeah. You are."
"Good. Glad we got that cleared up. Now, why am I here?"
Elya hesitates. "I just need someone to talk to."
You sit down next to her. "About?"
Before she can continue, you say dryly, "I'm guessin' it's about the battle."
She replies, equally as dry, "Amazing guesswork. Yeah. It's about… you know… the fucking battle."
"Anythin' in particular?" you ask.
"It's just… Arthur Hornraven, I just witnessed a few thousand men die in front of me."
Next
No tears form in Elya's eyes. "I knew it was coming. You had warned me… but… I don't know. I guess it just didn't click until now."
You say nothing, letting your sister vent.
"I don't even feel sad over it. Just… disgusted. I made my peace with the idea of it the night before. But I've never seen such carnage before."
The queen looks up into your cunning eyes. "I can only imagine what The War was like."
You grit your teeth at the sudden reminder. She pauses, waiting for your response. You provide none.
"I couldn't even do anything… I was useless the whole fuckin' time. All I could do is watch." She takes a deep, steadying breath. "And so I thank you."
You raise an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Doing this. All of this. I… I couldn't do it without you. I couldn't do anything without you. And I know… I probably don't thank you enough. And I'm sorry about that. But I want you to know that I do acknowledge all you've done. And I've got plans. When this is all over… I'll pay you back."
The idea makes you hesitate. Perhaps you do deserve such payment. "Not sure if I deserve it," you admit.
Elya sighs. "Don't say that about yourself. You're my… brother, damn it. And my best friend. I love you, Arthur Hornraven. I want you to know that. I really do."
Elya smiles, a genuine happy smile. "At least I know you've always got my back."
"Yeah… I always do." You keep your face impassive.
"I've probably held you up long enough," she says. "Get some damn sleep at some point, Arthur Hornraven. You've earned it."
"You too."
With these final words, you depart from Elya's pavilion.
Next
It is another seven hours before the sun starts to set and exhaustion fully sets into your bones.
Finally, you may get your rest. With an aching body and spiraling mind, you enter your tent. You strip away your armor and down to your nightclothes. You discard your blade to the side and slip a dagger beneath your pillow.
But before you can sleep, you check on top of your desk. A piece of parchment sits atop it, and next to it sits a bottle of ale. You look at the glass bottle with excitement. Such glass bottles are expensive, and generally mean the drink contained within will be of superior quality as well.
From a glance, you can already tell that the parchment is the new census. Darin must've finished it while you were attempting to reorganize the camp, preparing the men to continue their march southwest in the next day or so.
You haven't seen the man since the battle ended. You just hope he's still doing okay.
You pick up the census and hold your breath, already anticipating the worst.
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You really can't deal with these numbers. Not again. You've already nearly broken down once over numbers on a page. You won't do it again.
Breath in. Breath out. You clutch your wrist hard. You're going to wind up cutting tonight. You can already tell.
After a few moments, you fumble for the bottle of ale next to the census. You notice a note resting next to it. Written on it are the words, "Think you might need this."
Thanks, Darin.
[Tactics]
But you don't take a sip. Something about the note is off. You examine closer for a few more moments. Then it clicks in your mind.
You pick up the census in one hand and the note in the other. You crumple the note in your fist and slam the census back down on your desk.
The handwriting doesn't match up…
The note is fake.
Paranoid, you pick the bottle up and take off its leather sealer. Bringing it to your nose, you take a sniff. You grimace at the bitter smell. Much too bitter for any alcohol you've ever tasted.
It smells almost… medicinal.
Next