The academy was bustling.
Some practiced diligently, while others lounged leisurely on the fields.
Stares he had received, some glares, and some glances.
It was not his place.
"When will they ever stop with that look?" Hubert muttered.
The academy grounds soon turned to that of nature, a stream of water that came from the waterfall, one he often preyed upon from his meddling. Where he saw kids his age playing at where he stood now.
"..." he looked onward. Maybe, imagining again that it was him and his friends, Dareon, Ivanna, and Ron, playing in the stream. With cheers and laughter between them.
Chuckling, he reminded himself.
"Imposibble…"
With his own hands, the same pair of hands which he built his relations with all those mentioned, all those who cared for him, all those who he understood now were his true friends. With those same hands, he crushed and destroyed all that he built.
In the end, blaming oneself was useless. The weight of sins he committed, he buried in the deepest place of his heart. Even when the hope of forgiveness was scant, he hoped.
A hope of which he knew would never be realized.
There, one thought struck his mind, of his mission.
"Forsake them… for this mission, doesn't sound that… bad," he said.
The cost of the mission and the forgiveness weighed equally as badly to him.
"Ha… priestess, I hope you keep your promise,"
—
The far north.
The air was cold and death reeked there. Barbarians had advanced deeper from the northern border. The watchmen were sent, each new batch of fresh recruits and young men massacred by the barbarians.
Villages were burned, farmlands ravaged, livestocks slaughtered, forest lit and people displaced from their homes. Waves of refugees traveled the dirt roads of the countryside, their boots covered with mud and their mouths dried from the lack of provision.
All of those from the northernmost border aimed for one place, the city of Trilly. Residence of the duke of the north, headquarter of the knighthood order of Trilly.
The last checkpoint of the refugees, which was called the last gate of the northern bareness, was one village of Penfirth. Of which the road was muddy and the air damp, the refugees crowded the place.
"Through snow and blood, they said, tch," a man with ripped cloth, a refugee clicked his tongue, his eyes leering toward a group of knights of Trilly, with chest proudly puffed and banners of the order flying against the north wind, against all of the refugees that went the other way.
"What did you say?" one young knight replied to the man, only his face was seen as his helmet's face guard was lifted up.
"A-ah, nothing, good sir!" the refugee responded hurriedly. His group, a woman and a kid stopped amongst the masses.
"No, if you intend to cuss us, then pick up a sword and defend these lands, dead weights," the knight added. His group halted their horses and watched the show. Their chattering and laughter, inconsiderate of the refugees' plight.
"Ye-yes! Pardon my lowly tongue, sir," the refugee pleaded before turning around and ushered his wife and kid forward.
"No, wait, come over here," the knight dropped down from his horse.
"Si-sir," the refugee pleaded again.
"Knight…" a voice called from the side of the road. His steps were heavy, and his armor clanked with each movement. His helmet covered his entire head, with a neck guard that left people wondering if the helmet came separately with the armor or not.
In his hand was a war hammer, its head as large and wide as a horse's head and its shaft made of a pole of steel, not hollowed. Yet the inquisitor carried it with one hand.
"Inquisitor," the knight greeted.
"Move along," the inquisitor commanded, his armor white, a beacon of hope amongst the darkness. He was the inquisitor of the church.
"Ptuih!" the knight spitted on the ground in front of the menacing inquisitor.
"Why should I?" the knight challenged.
"..." the inquisitor stared through his slits.
"Hey, Arlus," an older voice called from atop his horse.
Arlus turned around, agitated by the call between the stare-off, only to be greeted with a glare of his own superior.
"Yes, sir!" he replied, then hurriedly got atop his horse.
"You're lucky that today we're headed for the barbarians, inquisitor," Arlus bid as he rode away with his group.
The knight's captain bowed down to the inquisitor before catching up with his group.
"..." the inquisitor replied in silence. He turned to the refugee.
"Thank you sir, thank you," the refugee thanked.
Yet the inquisitor turned around without a response and continued toward his post, the house of a certain someone.
"Guard…" he muttered lonely as he watched from his narrow slits refugees moving along and knights and soldiers marching in the opposite direction. He was a lone guard to that shed, many would come if the priestess desired.
—
Hubert washed his hands on the stream, then his face, then his hair and then his body. He dipped down and relaxed as he became part of the water.
"Ah, when was the last time I got a chance like this," he closed his eyes and focused on his hearing and the nature around him, one that gave him a sanctuary.
Everything had been stressful, his mind was burned, and his body was torn. This was a respite from the mixing of emotions. Some events were confusing and unexplainable, some were lonely and detached, some leaned to the casual and loving side.
"I hope this all ends…" he muttered as the water besieged him.
One thing was clear, it was far from over, and Hubert's heart was troubled yet he feared for any actions. He feared that he destroyed the bond with the only person he could trust right now, he feared everything would end up the same.
He feared.
"Hubert," the soft and familiar voice called. Ivanna had come.
"Ivanna? No, this must be a hallucination," Hubert refused, not even opening his eyes for the truth.
"Hey, Hubert," Ivanna called again.
Then he felt splashes of water, chill and real, hitting his face.
He opened his eyes and looked toward the source. It was really Ivanna.
"I-Ivanna? What are you doing here?" he asked, eyes slightly widening, panicking for his clothes as he was chest naked.
"You can't see?" Ivanna said, her eyes pointing toward the basket of crumpled cloth on her sides.
"Oh,"
"Are you not happy to see me? Well, I guess my guess was correct, then," Ivanna asked, almost barking, as she dropped down and prepared for the washing.
"N-no…" Hubert replied.
"Neither am I. So, just stay quiet and let me finish my job," Ivanna responded, her tone was uncaring this time, unlike the usual.
"Alright," Hubert affirmed.
He went back to closing his eyes and Ivanna started scratching dirt and crumbs from the clothes.
Shrek
Hubert's ears shook, the sound of scratchings overwriting all his enjoyment. But that was the least of his worries, as the longer he stayed there, the more aching he felt in his chest.
Like it wanted to explode, his heart.
"Ivanna… I'm…"
"Hubert, I know, but please, say it not to me, but to the others," Ivanna said, cutting him off. Her words were sharp and aimed, like a dagger.
The dagger which made him ached more over what happened.
"No, I can't…" Hubert replied, his stare was blank as he placed it on to his open palms. A sense of disgust filled him, and the water around him, he felt tainted by his presence. A scrap of this world, useless, with no empathy and common sense.
It was him.
"You can. Say it like a real man, one that knows when he's in the wrong," Ivanna said, her reply was the truth.
At this moment, she had begun bashing the clothes on the rock formations beside the stream.
"..." Hubert thought, his silence replied Ivanna.
"Hubert, I've known you since the first day you were admitted to the infirmary. Then, I thought you were a kind man, one that could perhaps… take care of me. But now, I realized," Ivanna vented.
"Realized what?" Hubert asked, though at this point, he felt empty and hollow, void of his feelings.
"I realized that you are the most immature and egotistical being that I've ever known,"
"..." Hubert gritted his teeth.
Ivanna began packing up the washed clothes into the basket, then she picked it up.
"Tell your forgiveness to Dareon, who locked himself up after that day. For me, I will stand by my words, remember them, I do not need your plea," Ivanna said.
It was the last words of her before her steps grew distant to Hubert's ears.
Hubert clenched his fist, all parts of his body, from the neck down until his toe tips, even when they were submerged, felt hot, like being burned in the fire of hell. Burned by his sins and wrongdoings and his ego.
Once again, he knew not what to do, or knew not how to do it. The weights he buried at the deepest level of his heart began showing themselves again. And he blamed himself for it.
The thoughts, or the whispers of demons in him that told that the only way was forsaking his friends, began surfacing again.
Yet all he could say as he teared was
"I know, Ivanna,"