Chapter Text
The countryside surrounding Alanfer was almost idyllic, green hills and fields of grass stretching out to infinity, with only the distant blue Otgon mountains as proof of a wider world beyond the pastures.
An occasional herd of cattle would look up to observe the two dozen men and five wagons passing by, their lazy eyes never fully opening. A herder from Sonin waved at them, Harold returned the greeting, trying his best to ignore Hugo who just would. not. shut. up.
Harold thought it impossible to talk about the new aristocracy movement for more than an hour, it was a fairly simple ideology. Serve the people, meritocracy over nepotism, protect the innocent.
Harold thought it impossible for it to be a topic of conversation for more than an hour, Hugo decided he’s going to rant about it for three hours straight, not to mention their previous conversations (if it could even be called that).
The worst part was that Harold couldn’t tell him off, he had duty to house Lyon to support the movement, and getting mad at a young noble for annoying him did not align with that duty.
So he just had to endure. And maybe observe the cattle more, they certainly had better things to say compared to Hugo.
Somehow, it just kept stretching on. Three hours turned into four, then five, then six. They visited three towns of various sizes to make deliveries and buy goods, but it kept stretching on and on and on.
After however much time had passed, something other than Hugo filled his ears. He would have cheered, had it not been for the fact that it was a battle cry. It appeared as though their employer was getting his money's worth today.
From the top of a hill rode out over a dozen riders, headed by two well armored men; one plate and the other a brigandine. All deserters from the garrison or the reserve.
Harold prepared his lance and formed a small wedge along with the other men of the Hual Riders, Harold was placed at the front for his excellent armor.
Walk, trot, canter, gallop. It was his first true battle against other people, he couldn’t help but feel excited about the notion, even if he couldn’t figure out why. Of course you know why.
No different from jousting, he told himself.
Just as the two lines neared, Harold lowered his elven lance, aiming at the most well armored foe. Contact.
The bandit with the plate harness was a second too slow, he was thrown off of his mount by the force of the hit, even if it failed to pierce.
Harold never had the chance to celebrate his victory, he was lassoed and brought off of Atlas by another bandit. But Harold's ability to grapple on horseback was not to be underestimated, he dragged the lightly armored bandit down with him as he fell.
Harold recovered first, in less than a second the dagger on his waist found the throat of his opponent. He was tackled by the plated bandit just a moment later, the man appeared to be struggling to breathe thanks to the massive dent in his chest plate made by Harold. The two men fiercely struggled for dominance, but the winner became clear in just a few moments
Harold had the bandit in a chokehold, he once again drew his dagger and stabbed. It failed to pierce.
Harold kept stabbing, hoping to find a gap in his enemy's defenses. Eventually, the dagger came out red, and the bandit stopped moving.
Harold's mouth morphed into a grin at the sight of blood. He told himself it was simply because he had cleansed the world of a villian, there was nothing sinful about the warmth in his chest.
The bandits clearly weren’t well prepared, the Hual Riders had wiped them out while only sustaining a few non-serious injuries themselves. One of the wagons caught fire and burned down during the attack, but the driver and the horses were fine. Most of the other mercenaries gleefully looted the bodies, the only exception being Hugo.
The boy was standing over a corpse with a bloody lance, his eyes shaking in horror. Harold approached and moved to put his hand on Hugo’s shoulders, perhaps with some notion of offering comfort. Hugo dropped his lance and collapsed onto his knees before he could.
Harold decided it was probably for the best to leave him alone for now.
Harlan—the leader of the caravan—made the decision to camp nearby for the night; the attack needed to be reported to the garrison, both to identify the attackers and to receive compensation if the bandits were garrison or reserve deserters, which they almost certainly were.
The Hual riders grumbled, they hadn’t planned to stay the night and had no camping supplies as a result, but a promise of extra pay from Harlan shut them up.
Harold set up a makeshift bedroll using Atlas’ saddle and barding, really nothing more than a bit of leather to keep him from touching the dirt. He was greatly worried for his sanity when Hugo settled down next to him, even more so when the boy was completely silent.
There was something inherently wrong about him being quiet. Harold considered a dozen different things to say, none of them seemed particularly helpful.
The one to eventually break the silence was Hugo.
“...How do you get used to it?” He asked.
“What?”
“How do you get used to the killing?” he explained. “The emptiness that settles into the gut. I… I knew I’d have to kill eventually but…but…” Hugo appeared to be struggling to find his words, Harold waited patiently.
“I didn’t expect to feel such a… rush of power, to feel good about myself.” Both his voice and his body shook as he spoke, Hugo turned to stare at him with eyes filled with shame. “It terrifies me…”
“H-How do you get used to it?” He asked with great desperation, his face turned crestfallen at Harold’s response.
“I don’t know” He truly didn’t. After all, Harold also killed for the first time just hours ago. He felt the rush of power, yet found none of the shame, none of the emptiness.
The only thing he recalled was a warmth in his chest.
Hugo continued to stare at him, as if he was expecting Harold to continue. He only received silence in return.
The boy eventually lied down, likely contemplating what he did today. Harold did the same.
The guilt of killing. Harold desperately looked through every nook and cranny of his heart for it, yet found none.
It’s because they were bandits. He told himself, the moment they abandoned their humanity to rob another, they had also forfeit their right to sympathy.
They had no humanity, that’s why he felt no guilt.
They set out early the next day, making deliveries to various villages across the countryside. Harlan’s caravan didn’t peddle goods and prices, it was closer to a delivery service. Planning out trips days in advance and transporting goods between sellers and buyers.
Hugo stayed downcast the entire time, his brown bangs concealing his eyes.
Harold was pleasantly surprised when they eventually stopped at Sonin, the livestock village hadn’t changed one bit since he fought the troll nearly two months ago.
Rather than immediately begin unloading the cargo like they had before, Harlan left the caravan to speak to the village chief. It seemed like they were going to wait here for a while, Harold didn’t really mind. In just the few minutes since their arrival, several villagers approached him to give their respects and thank him once again.
It felt good knowing you’ve helped people.
In the distance, the same little girl who made him a crown of flowers excitedly waved at him; it seemed like the little lady recognized him. Harold couldn’t help but smile at her delighted squeak when he made a motion of putting a crown on his head before gesturing a ‘thank you’.
The pleasant moment abruptly ended when angry yelling was heard from where Harlan was. A moment later the merchant came running to the caravan with a bleeding nose, the mayor and a few other men hot in pursuit. The now dismounted Hual Riders immediately formed a phalanx to prevent the villagers from reaching Harlan, Harold joined them.
Safe behind his mercenaries, Harlan turned back to yell at the mayor. “I told you! The shipment was burnt down in a bandit attack, there’s nothing I can do about that!”
The mayor yelled back. “You promised the safe delivery of that grain! We planned it out weeks in advance, we blew through our stores during the fall festival because you were supposed to bring us that shipment!”
Men and women were beginning to gather at the sounds of the commotion, none looked happy.
“And I keep telling you, there’s nothing I can do about that! Until the harvest begins in a few weeks no one is going to be selling grain anymore. You’re just going to have to figure it out amongst yourselves!”
A dozen outraged people argued back, some beginning to press up against the Hual riders. More villagers arrived, most holding spears and farming tools.
“You expect us to starve?! I can see a wagon full of grain right there, sell us that!”
“That’s a shipment bound for the Alanfer garrison. The guards will skin me alive if I don’t deliver!”
“We’ll skin you alive if you don’t sell!” “At least pay us back for the delivery!” “You have to do something!”
The argument continued to escalate, both the mayor and Harlan could no longer be heard over the angry yelling of three dozen people. The Hual riders tightened their ranks, some preparing to draw their weapons as the villagers began to push the mercenaries in an attempt to reach Harlan.
Shoving turned into hitting as tension increased, the mercenaries began shouting threats to make the villagers back off, it only seemed to stoke the fire further.
A scream of pain, the spilling of blood. A metallic smell alerting every single person in the area.
Harold didn’t know whose it was. Perhaps one of the riders lost their nerve, perhaps a villager decided to force their way through the phalanx using cold steel.
All Harold knew was the chaos that followed. The mayor was cut down where he stood by Randy, one of the lighter armored riders received a hoe to the head. Someone standing in front of Harold swung a shovel at him, Harold parried and stabbed in response.
In just a few moments a dozen bodies hit the ground. In a minute almost half the Hual riders, veterans of the frontier with years of experience, were killed by herders and farmers. Not one of the villagers were spared.
Harold didn’t know how many people he killed, but it must’ve been many. No skill or thought was needed here. He simply swung his blade, and another corpse was added to the list.
A young boy no older than sixteen, a woman who had just likely celebrated her twentieth year alive, an elder who had probably seen seventy springs. They all fell, no different from the rest.
A middle aged man turned to run away from him, Harold gave chase. He thought the man looked somewhat familiar, but he ignored the feeling.
Such thoughts were worthless when compared to the thrill of victory.
The man tripped in his panic, Harold’s blade met his throat just a moment later.
Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a blur run towards him. Harold prepared his stance and turned to the new attacker.
His opponent stopped, they were shaking in terror. He’d have called them a coward, had it not been for the fact it wasn’t an enemy at all. It was the same little girl as before, glancing between him and the corpse at his feet.
A single broken whisper was carried by the wind as tears began to flow from her shocked eyes.
“Father?”
…That’s why the man seemed so familiar, it was the little girl’s father. He suddenly recalled each person whom he had just cut down.
Just two months ago they…
“How do you get used to it?” “It terrifies me…” “The emptiness that settles into the gut.”
Harold searched desperately for the emptiness described by Hugo, for the guilt that should be plaguing the heart of any human being for having slaughtered another.
He only found a warmth in his chest and a sense of power that waned into a single feeling directed at the fallen. The same feeling that’s haunted every victory that came easily. A feeling that could only be described as—
‘ Pathetic’
—contempt.
He suddenly remembered every single teaching of house Lyon, every nugget of wisdom his father had bestowed upon him, every word of advice his mother had seen fit to part with. They all pointed to the sheer wrongness of this situation.
He reached out his hands towards the girl, she screamed in horror as she backed away. For the first time, Harold noticed his gauntlets, they were steeped in the blood of the innocent. Down his blade it flowed, settling into a puddle drip by drip.
With his downcast eyes he saw himself in its reflection. Yet, they were no longer the ruby on his ring, instead having turned into a swirling pool crimson, not so different from the liquid that reflected it.
It felt like his entire world was collapsing in on him, nothing made sense.
This is all just a dream , he wished to tell himself, that in just a moment he’ll wake up and be hounded by Evelin for another training session.
Yet the eyes of the girl banished any such thought. A monster like him wouldn’t be capable of dreaming of such a look; filled with a mix of terror, betrayal and loss. It was too real, too guttural, too human.
Harold didn’t know when he began running, nor did he know if he mounted the right horse. It didn’t matter, he just had to get away from here, away from the beast that had cut down the father of that girl.
To Evelin? Thomas? Vannol? Divara?
To father.
He’d know what to do. Father was always right.
He’ll tell Harold what to do, he’ll tell Harold what was right.