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Dismas and Reynauld gaze mournfully at the graves, a dull beat ringing in their ears. There's something of a deliberate ache, something akin to fear but not quite something they understood entirely as they are reminded of the horrors that exist underneath the manor. The only thing they can do now is mourn over the ones with no body that lay beneath the grime and soil, with only their names etched on tombstones that would soon be forgotten, even if they were proclaimed the Heir's champions, as their legend. Human life is such a fickle thing, and even if they were the ones who put an end to the malevolent existence of the cosmic enemy, it's no question that that being would return, a mere setback in the grand scheme of things.
Giffard, the Leper, who looked at the Heart of Darkness with courage and with indefatigable purpose had been the reason why he and Reynauld survived. The weight of his blade, brandishing a wound so deep that the being flinched. Hissing, calling them forth to be sacrificed, Giffard stood tall and opened his arms. “Spare the others, I am ready.” He had called out when the eldritch monster demanded blood to stain the void below, and with a swift blow, he was heralded as a hero. Vivers, the Vestal, had healed their wounds, restoring their vigour to fight. She was a stalwart warrior against the ancestor, against the heart. But, ended up as merely another necessary sacrifice, her screams of terror, her cries left him with a heavy conscience. “I-it’s too horrible! No!”
Dismas and Reynauld were prepared for the end. They both knew it was coming to them. Once they are called, they will answer. But they were kept alive. For what reason, they would never know.
The highwayman promises to mend his ways, to live on to repent from his past sins. His fellowmen had suffered in the hands of the enemy, and he will not bow down to them. He will continue to fight, for as long as he lives, to avenge and to honour their valiant deaths. Dismas has pushed on to the final battle, and he knows for a fact that it doesn't end here. He's killed the bastard once, and he's sure it will come back sooner or later. Pitiful the progenitor who would fall to his gun and blade once more.
The crusader, sword in hand, looks beyond and retains his faith. He is ashamed that the last words he said to his friends, were the broken tune of an abusive man. He regrets having to say those horrible things, just as he regrets the actions that he has done. Just like Dismas, he would stand side-by-side with his companions, pushing on to the tasks end, fighting until the enemy is but mere dust and ashes. Reynauld fights because his faith so demands it and he Reynauld to find it in himself to forgive everything he has done.
—
The Jester, Vaux, had changed. And that is not to say that the others did not — Most of them were despondent that Giffard and Vivers met their end, but the victory against the Cosmic fiend had rendered them courageous, powerful. But the way he carried himself was different from that. He never no longer made jokes nor sang his favourite ballad. It felt like he was broken, like the news of their triumph was not a big deal.
Dismas ultimately understands why.
Giffard was Vaux’ closest friend, his confidant and his lover.
They spent their days together when they are not chosen for an excursion, often listening to songs Vaux composed or just laying beneath the trees. He has heard of Giffard's poems through the Jester's gushing. He sometimes would hear a playful hum on the Leper's lips when they camp. It is the type of solemnity that Dismas had grown to be jealous of, but he was happy for them. Vaux and Giffard would also play around like children, despite their respective ages. Sometimes, Dismas would see Giffard kiss the cheek of Vaux' mask. Sometimes, he would notice how their hands are entangled with each others. It's such a strange sight to behold.
The looming death, the estranged sight of darkness, and yet these two people had found peace with each other's company.
Giffard’s death has taken hold of his thoughts. That itself was apparent.
He does not breach the topic with the man, does not find the need to do so. Dismas worries about him, but he knows Vaux will push through this adversity. He always has. And this would not be any different.
“I’m going to live for him.” Vaux says to him, brandishing his sickle, wiping away the blood of the Sycophant when they camped to fight the Countess. “For both of us and to not let his valiant end become but a mere memory.”
Dismas looks at him and nods sagely, “I guess you’ll be making songs about him then?”
“I’ll make him a legend.” Vaux laughs, taking out his lute to play a gentle tune, “Him and Vivers, of course.”
“I’m sorry.” Reynauld suddenly says, taking the Jester aback. The look of regret when he took off his helmet was something that Dismas has gotten used to. And he understands the man's lament. “We didn’t know.”
Vaux takes of his mask, a kindly yet sad smile on his lips. “I don’t think anyone did.”
“You truly loved him.” Caradas, the Flagellant, suddenly speaks up. Rare of him to do so when he is normally kept to himself, “Why?”
The Jester picks at his lute, contemplating, before he answers, “Because he is more than just a ruined man, more than just an individual with a disease.” He says, eyes downcast, “He’s a warrior and a poet, and my lover. To love someone like him is easy, to forget is hard. Giffard has taught me how to face against adversity, that is why I grow stronger. He has seen the ugliest part of me, and yet he never left and chose to better me.”
Caradas merely nods, “His death, what does that mean to you?”
“It means that I need to continue fighting, the evil doesn’t end at his and Viver’s sacrifice.”
They let the topic rest after that, and when they find themselves in front of the gate of the Countess. There’s a lingering hope that they will win.
—
Papon drives her axe unto the head of the Cultist Acolyte, her scream a war cry that bolsters her companion’s confidence in the midst of battle. Her unrelenting savagery an asset that had led to the groups victory in their excursion to the Weald. But somehow, there’s sadness in how she carries herself. As if forcing a front.
Vaux especially feels for her, because he understands the pain of having to have lost a beloved.
“I guess this is your way of coping?” He says to her once they return to the Hamlet, both steadily walking towards the tavern for some ale. Papon spares him a look, waiting for him to continue, “Demanding to go on trips to anywhere you could potentially kill?”
She clenches her fists, bruised knuckles turning white. Vaux thinks he is going to get hit for his tactless comment but receives a tired sigh from her instead. So, he waits patiently, sitting by the barkeep as he asks for the best ale they have at sale. “I miss her.” Papon admits silently. She does not cry, does not even seem like the type to do so but the crack of her voice when she says those three words felt like a crushing weight on their shoulders. “I heard from Dismas that she didn’t want to die. But was forced to.”
“You can vent if you so wish.”
“Might as well, I am angry and mournful of what had happened to her. Vivers was the only woman I had bed, and the only one who truly understood who I was as a person,” She says, “She accepted me for who I was, that I was a coward. That I let my tribe down because of my fear of dying. Her end isn’t something I cannot accept, and I don’t think I’ll ever do.”
“I understand.”
“The moments where she held my hand, where he placed a gentle squeeze to it whenever I am afraid, fuels me.” Papon admits, letting out a shuddering breath, “I am not a religious person, I don’t think I will ever be. But I hope she has found peace. She was always afraid of the whispers inside her mind.”
Vaux nods, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder as he gives a firm squeeze. “I made a song for them; would you like to hear?”
The Hellion smiles a tad, shrugging his hand off with a small chuckle. “Go ahead.”
“A sword in hand, he marches in the blood-stained battlefield,
A promise on her lips, when she said she will come back,
From her mace the enemy faces judgement,
From his blade the weak fall back.”
Vaux lets his voice be heard, his fingers playing the lute with ease. He hears his audience clap to the beat, and how Papon’s expression softens, a tinge of sadness and appreciation.
“To struggle and know futility,
To embrace solemnity and existence,
Giffard fought valiantly, unrelentingly,
His end meant our survival.”
The shouts of “To Giffard,” rings loudly in the tavern. Bottles of ale being ordered one after another, some of their kleptomaniac friends taking advantage of the ruckus. “A true legend, a true champion.”
“To condemn the enemy, to heal and attack,
To sing of hymns and deliver terrible violence,
Vivers, a hero that bought solace and peace to the weary minds,
She will be remembered as hero.”
They now shout Viver’s name, Papon joining in the noise. They dance, shout and drink to their hearts content. Dismas and Reynauld walk in, pulled in to join the merrymaking. The utter confusion on their faces a hilarious view to watch.
“To Dismas and Reynauld,
Who carried with them the last treasures of a king,
Giffard’s will and flute,
Who carried with them the last memoirs of a martyr,
Viver’s beads and book,
We thank you as well, for fighting the corruption.”
They both look at him, with a newfound determination. Dismas no longer has a mournful look in his eyes, Reynauld might not have forgiven himself yet but he is willing to push on.
“We will continue to fight, and stand by your side,
For we will no longer back down,
From predetermined ties.”
The roars of the people in the tavern rang loud and powerful, drinks sloshing in their cups when they are raised high. “To Giffard and Vivers,” they call out, “To Dismas and Reynauld.”
And with a final shout, Vaux lets out, “Fuck the progenitor of the world! You’re nothing but a piece of shit.”
To fight and to live on.
To keep their memories alive.
Not only for them, but those who have perished through the way.
The blood of the enemy will once stain the earth once more, and this time, all of them are prepared.