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Fontemai knew despair at the hands of brigands. He knew it more intimately than any of the motley soldiers he now fought beside. He knew it well enough that when the wolves burst through the gates and carved a bloody warpath into the Hamlet, he was chosen to lead the charge to dethrone their king.
The entire situation was uncanny in its gnawing familiarity. The ground rumbled with distant explosions, while the air swam with a cacophony of screaming and howling, all muffled beneath the crackles and suffocating heat of hungry flames. Fontemai had been here before, but it wasn’t here, it wasn’t now, and it made his stomach churn. His years of battle and massacre had taught his feet to move, though, so he moved through the chaos by their will alone.
A sharp twang sounded from behind him, knocking Fontemai back into his surroundings. It was followed by another, a contemplative hum, and then another that shifted in pitch as it rang.
“Shh!” Hissed a voice farther back, near the tail-end of the line. “Be quiet! You’re gonna make us lose the element of surprise!”
A sharp chuckle cut through any remaining tension. “Dear Villehardain, dear, sweet Villehardain! You must have me mistaken for some other gaudy fool, because me and quiet? We don’t get along.”
A third, gruffer voice chimed in from directly behind Fontemai. “We’ve already killed some of them. We won’t surprise them.”
Fontemai had been here before, but he hadn’t been here with this oddball bunch. This strange motley group that the Heiress called her army. This unconventional army of broken people that he fit right in with.
“We’ve been killing his men fer weeks now,” Fontemai added, keeping his eyes forward. “He knows we’re ‘ere, and he knows we’ll try to stop ‘im. The Heiress said that he’s been plannin’ this invasion fer ages. No matter what, he’ll be ready fer us.”
Fontemai couldn’t be certain of much nowadays, but this was one of the rare exceptions. He knew, because he felt the same way about Vvulf, because he had his own vengeance to bring. His blood ran hot with justified anger and eagerness at the thought of finally being able to have a rematch with the pack’s top dog. He bottled it for now, and kept himself cool. His motives--near forgotten during his time in the Hamlet, the Hamlet that now fell apart around him--would have their day soon. His duty was as much to his new siblings-in-arms as it was to his old.
They’d be ready this time. He knew better now.
“Feh! Let him be ready!” The fool’s voice stood out, carefree and proud, against the backdrop of destruction. “Kicking lost puppies is bad sportsmanship, anyway. What’s this guy gonna do? Hey, Fontemai! You remember that weird skeleton guy in the grimy robes who sounded like he had the world’s largest apple jammed in his windpipe? That was a lot freakier than just some guy, wasn’t it?”
The Collector, the Heiress had called that beast. It had appeared out of nowhere, materializing directly in their path and leaving them with no other choice than to cut through it. Fontemai had been leading the charge that time as well, and of course, the fool--Warci was his name--had been there to witness it. He’d been there to serenade everyone’s sanities when the initial shock of the Collector’s existence had made them falter. He’d shaken off his nerves and rallied everyone back to themselves with a sharp strum on his lute, a call to stand and fight.
The Collector was a surprise, yes, but it hadn’t been much trouble to take down. That hadn’t changed in its subsequent appearances, or so he’d heard. Sometimes, Fontemai looked back on his experiences with it, and he wondered if it was even malicious. It was an alarming sight, but so weak it was almost pitiful.
Vvulf was not the Collector. Vvulf was malicious, and far from weak.
“The Collector was a strange‘n, but you remember how frail t’was,” Fontemai answered. “‘Tis easy to forget, but men can be monstrous as any critter this ‘ere place spits up.”
“Wow, then I’m really gonna have to be ready to pick your jaw up off the floor again like I did back then! Good to know, good to know. I really got my work cut out for me here, don’t I?” Another twang sounded as Warci kept tuning up his lute. “I deserve a raise.”
“The Heiress doesn’t pay us,” Villehardain pointed out.
“Ohhh Villehardain, you precious soul, you sweet little thing,” Warci cooed, “don’t you fret, I haven’t lost all of my mind yet--just most of it. I just think it’d be fair if the Heiress gave me permission to pocket some of the loose change we find on the ground as we’re getting stabbed by cultists.”
“Save it for when we’re done. You draw attention enough without the squealing,” came the gruff voice of Margas again, reminding Fontemai of his presence. He was the only one the man-at-arms had little to no experience with, and he disliked how unsure it made him feel about how the upcoming fight would go.
“And you’re surprised? What century were you born in? Huh, Margas? How old are you under that helmet?” Warci knocked on Margas’s helmet a few times. A few times too many, judging by the sharp squeal of pain that Warci let out.
“I’m not taking more rabid dog bites for you,” Margas stated.
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point! Can I have my wrist back now?!”
Margas grunted in response, but apparently conceded.
“Wow, was your grip always that strong…?” No reply from the bounty hunter, so Warci cleared his throat and soldiered on. “Never said you had to be my meat shield, though. Leave that to Fontemai and Villehardain.”
“I-I never agreed to-” Villehardain started, but the jester amended his statement before she could finish.
“Leave that to Fontemai, then. My apologies, little Ville, my memory must be going, because of course Fontemai would sooner meet the most undignified end than let anything harm a hair on your dear little head!” And Warci was right, because since the day that Villehardain had been assigned the same quest as him for her first, Fontemai had made it his personal mission to keep the nervous vestal under his guard and away from harm (she’d grown bolder with time, but was still a tad too young in the face and too old in the eyes for his liking).
Warci interrupted himself with a chuckle, sharp and almost a cackle. “Luckily, our ends are gonna be...if not dignified, then fantastic. After all this nonsense, we deserve to have fun the whole way down!”
Fontemai stopped and held up his hand (from the scuffing behind him, he assumed that Margas was the only one who actually obeyed the signal). Ahead of them, a pitiful wooden door sat nestled in a pitiful crumbled wall. The defiant wreckage was all that remained of a building, and now it only acted as the final threshold. Underneath the pained wails of a town falling to pieces, Fontemai could hear the laughter that had echoed in his ears for too many years.
A flash, an explosive roar, and the ground erupted into tremors. Fontemai faltered, but battle-hardened will kept him steady. Margas grunted, Villehardain yelped, Warci’s bells screamed, and instinct took over. Fontemai thrust his shield out before him and gathered his companions behind him.
Never again. He’d never let it happen again. He knew better now. Even so, he still heard their screams.
And then it was over, and the dust settled. Fontemai hesitantly lowered his shield. If his adrenaline wasn’t pumping before, it definitely was now.
“Everyone alright?” He asked, turning to the trio.
“No one’s hurt,” Margas answered.
Villehardain nodded. She was obviously shaken from how she held onto Margas’s arm to keep standing, but Fontemai couldn’t see a single scratch on her.
“So, that’s what we’re gonna be facing?” Warci asked, brushing down his gaudy outfit. “Hmm...I’ve never performed with explosives before, but there’s a first time for everything.” He pulled his sickle from his belt, twirling it in his hand. “Let’s get this party started!”
Fontemai looked back to the ruined wall. It still stood, though its integrity had noticeably declined. The doorway itself still looked safe enough, or safe as they could ask for. The brigand warpath left them no other way to get to Vvulf. Convenient for them, certainly.
Margas bumped him on the shoulder. “Your job is to fight, not to protect. Remember that.”
He’d spoken so quietly that his helmet nearly hid his words, but Fontemai barely managed to catch them, and barely managed to suppress a flinch. He turned to face Margas, but the bounty hunter was making sure Villehardain could stand on her own two feet, leaving the man-at-arms at a loss. Whatever that was about (Fontemai had suspicions and he didn’t like any of them), it would clearly need to wait. Further incentive to survive, he supposed.
“Stay behind me and keep close,” Fontemai ordered, immediately reclaiming the commanding tone of his younger days as he turned again towards the door and marched forward. The steady steps, jingling bells, and flighty footfalls of the others followed close behind as they crossed the threshold into Vvulf’s den.
From there, everything went downhill fast.
Though he’d said “never again” so many times, Fontemai could only admit that this time was just as much his fault as the last. His fellow mercenaries met the brigand leader with as much courage and determination as any other fight. They had a fire in their hearts, but Fontemai had knowledge in his head. He knew Vvulf’s tactics, and he knew his shield’s durability. If he’d just kept his head right, the plan would’ve went off without a hitch. He’d have his revenge, his redemption, and the Hamlet would have its peace.
Vvulf called his lackeys down upon them, though, and Fontemai remembered. He froze.
And then a bomb went off somewhere behind him. Villehardain screamed for Margas. The music stopped and a blur of purple rushed past Fontemai, but was easily repelled by Vvulf’s shield. A flash of green light. The brigands descended, and Margas rushed to meet them with his fists and flashbangs (he had an axe, why wasn’t he using it?).
Fontemai had enough sense to raise his shield when one of the brigands came for him, but that was all he had. Everything else was still numb. His ears rang with the blast of the first bomb, with the rallying warcry of the towering man in front of him. Just like that, he was on the backfoot again. Defending, defending, always defending, but never saving anyone but himself. Not saving even one of his brothers. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, so he’d chosen to be nowhere. He’d chosen to abandon those under his wing and go toe-to-toe with Vvulf himself. It’s hard to say why--a need for glory, a pursuit of justice, a garden-variety stupid decision--but whatever his motives, all he’d gotten was a lost eye and a dead platoon.
“Your job is to fight, not to protect. Remember that.”
But maybe now, if he could just move his feet…
“VILLE, LOOK ALIVE!”
The ground quaked, and Vvulf laughed.
This time, Fontemai felt wide awake for all of it, the explosion resonating like an alarm in his head. He allowed himself a glance back, to see if it wasn’t too late (never again, never again, never again…).
Blood on the pavement, on the rubble, on the broken fragments of a white mask, burned fabric and seared flesh, nary a sound from man nor bell. Warci had taken this one, taken it head-on, and Fontemai’s stomach dropped. Villehardain and Margas had armor to take some of the blast, but Warci didn’t, and that became painfully obvious now (by the Light, what was the Heiress thinking…?!).
Villehardain was on the ground nearby. Her robes were torn up and singed but she was relatively unharmed, especially when compared to the jester she was gawking at in abject horror. She was frozen, propped up on one arm, her free hand covering her mouth in shock. Then she was scrambling to her feet, calling Warci’s name and running to his side.
She didn’t see the brigand whose attention she’d caught, but Fontemai did, and after all these years, he finally made the right choice. He ignored Vvulf and returned to his fallen soldiers while they still had time (his long dead brothers, may they be at ease knowing their old commander was doing right by them now. May they be at ease knowing that he’d learned).
Villehardain had knelt down by Warci by the time Fontemai rammed his shield into the brigand, sending them reeling back. He kept his attention ahead, but he felt Villehardain’s startled eyes on his back.
“Get ‘im back on his feet. I’ll cover ya!” Fontemai ordered, readying his shield as the brigand came at him with blades drawn.
The brigand was an easy one to keep occupied, but that was because it was just the one, and Fontemai was only one man. He could see the other brigands approaching, drawn like vultures to a dying animal (gods, would Villehardain even be able to do anything for Warci?). He couldn’t see Margas at this point amidst the smoke and ruin, leaving just him to guard the young vestal and battered jester.
He felt no fear, not this time. He’d learned. If he needed to be everywhere at once, so be it.
The brigands descended on them in a flurry, and Fontemai pushed his old bones to their limits to match them. He jumped from foe to foe blocking attacks meant for Villehardain, though he couldn’t do anything about the volleys of blanket fire that’d rain down on them. He had to rely on his armor, forged of the strongest material the blacksmith had available, to protect him from blows that did not meet his shield.
He was already scrambling to keep his new siblings-in-arms safe, already struggling (he caught Warci barely managing to raise his sickle to deflect a strike he’d missed), already gritting his teeth and forcing himself to stay sane in this sea of carnage and warcries that’d haunted him every night. Elsewhere, another bomb exploded, its bellows rattling the earth itself (where was Margas? Where was Margas?). Fontemai forced himself to ignore it. He’d lock up if he didn’t.
He couldn’t fail again, not now. He’d be as good as dead if he failed again.
He only caught glimpses of the people he was protecting, but he did hear Warci’s voice break through the chaos, just barely. He couldn’t make out all of what the jester was saying, but he got the jist. Warci was checking up on Villehardain, making sure she wasn’t hurt. Fontemai already suspected how Warci ended up taking the brunt of the blast when he easily could’ve evaded it, but this confirmed it. He decided to buy him a gratitude drink when the tavern was back in working order.
Then there were two of them, Warci and Fontemai, fighting side-by-side. Warci’s lute was somehow still intact, and while the notes were a little distorted, they were still enough to ground Fontemai in the present. Warci could’ve just been plucking random strings and it would’ve been enough. It was different from the sounds of battle, so different it couldn’t help but stand out, and that’s all Fontemai needed. Any time he began to feel overwhelmed, began to return to an older time with people he could no longer save, Warci reminded him of who he still could save.
An explosion rocked the air itself, and Warci gave his lute a loud strum that was barely a whisper in comparison. Fontemai was about to call out for Margas (who else would those bombs be aimed at?) when a battle axe came down hard on one of the brigand gunmen. He didn’t need to call for Margas, because Margas had already found them. His armor was dented and cracked, seared and bloodied, but his helmet somehow remained intact enough to hide his face, and he still swung his axe with the strength of ten men.
“About time you showed up,” Warci commented, ducking away from an oncoming attack. “Awful rude of you to go soul-searching while we’re all getting cut to ribbons or blown up!”
“I dropped my axe,” Margas explained, calm and gruff. “Punching everything to death would take too long.” As if to demonstrate his weapon’s effectiveness, he drove it directly into Warci’s attacker, quickly ending the unfortunate soul within seconds.
Just like that, the four-person-army was back together. They made an effective team, Fontemai had to admit. Margas played offense while the rest of them mostly played defense--Villehardain keeping everyone standing, Warci keeping everyone sane, and Fontemai himself keeping everyone safe.
He knew they couldn’t keep this up forever, though. Any structure, no matter how sturdy, would crumble if worn down enough. Men were no different. His joints cried for a rest, threatened to lock and drop him where he stood if he didn’t comply. He could see Margas faltering in his swings. He could hear the shrieks of discordant notes from when Warci’s hands would seize up. He could feel how Villehardain’s revitalizing blessings grew weaker with every instance. There weren’t many brigands--there never had been--but it felt like a thousand, because that’s all they needed to be. They needed to be a distraction, a gauntlet, and if Vvulf fell, they’d scatter. The weary group of mercenaries just needed to get their hands on an opening.
Another bomb came at them, but where Fontemai once saw a vile weapon, he now saw an opportunity. He deflected it with his shield, sending it into the small mass of brigands that’d descended upon them. He couldn’t watch when it detonated (he couldn’t unhear their agonized screams, men sacrificed for glory and honor), but from Vvulf’s outcry, he assumed he got a few of them.
Fontemai met Vvulf’s anger with a raised mace and a shout of his own, glaring down the brigand leader for just a moment. It wasn’t much, just a second, but for that second he saw Vvulf’s confidence falter, and with it faltered the confidence of his underlings and strengthened the confidence of Fontemai’s allies. It was equal parts a challenge to Vvulf and an order for his friends to begin their all-out assault.
Both were heard loud and clear. Margas changed the course of his swings, charging the brigand leader and burying his axe in Vvulf’s massive shield. Vvulf regained his composure quickly and laughed at the futile display. He stopped laughing when Warci rushed him and Margas gave his axe a harsh tug, not to free it, but to pull Vvulf’s shield aside to give the jester an opening. Warci relished in the flurry of slashes he unleashed upon Vvulf, cackling the whole way through.
Vvulf wrenched his shield back, freeing it from the axe and barely missing Warci’s head as he swung it around with an angered howl.
Warci recovered fast, giving a manic grin and strumming a powerful chord on his lute. “That all you got for me, big guy? Pathetic! If I were you, I’d die of shame right here and now after a wussy swing like that!”
Warci’s taunts were met with the launch of another bomb, but Fontemai was right there to deflect it. Margas was the one with the opening now, but was unable to take it when one of the brigands intercepted and buried their dagger into his shoulder. The wound glowed with a heavenly light as Margas retaliated, Villehardain murmuring blessings from her verse book.
Then Warci was at Vvulf again, and then so was Margas. One distracted, the other attacked with a storm of cuts or one bone-deep gouge. Villehardain kept herself at a distance. She hovered nervously, but the second she saw blood that wasn’t from the foe, she put her all into her healing prayers. This time, Fontemai stayed back with her, carefully watching Vvulf and the brigands. He threw himself into the gauntlet whenever necessary, keeping Vvulf’s minions from interfering. He put himself in the line of fire of each and every bomb, the one thing he’d hated himself for not doing all those years ago. Now, he’d never felt more alive, more free. There was no glory in defeating Vvulf--no catharsis from revenge, no entitlement to prestige to be satisfied. All there was for Fontemai was the overwhelming relief of knowing they might all make it out this time. That they would all make it out this time.
Vvulf toppled with all the force of a mountain, worn down and bled dry. Just as Fontemai suspected, the brigands scattered without their leader, retreating like rats to their holes, tails between their legs.
A variety of reactions came over the battered group of four. Margas huffed, examining his blood-soaked axe (just another day on the job for him). Villehardain breathed a sigh of relief, one hand resting over her chest. Warci made more than enough noise for the both of them, laughing and putting on an impromptu performance with his lute and wit. Fontemai stayed quiet and still, staring at the corpse of the man who was, ultimately, the reason he was there in the Hamlet at all. There was karmic justice in that. Fontemai knew he should’ve been expressing relief like Villehardain, or joy like Warci, but something about the circumstances of this stopped him.
Something was different now. Something was finally right. No more would the wolves hound his psyche with the warped, charred faces of his brothers-in-arms. No more would their howls sound so much like the screams of the men he’d forsaken. Now there was just silence and song. Contemplation and celebration. Peace.
Putting the wolves down didn’t bring back his men, but it put them to rest, and put his mind at ease. Now he could move on, but to what, he wasn’t sure.
A yelp interrupted Warci’s merry fuss, the music and song and quips coming to an abrupt stop as he tripped over himself and collapsed. Villehardain was at his side in a second, checking him over for any injuries she’d missed. Fontemai soon joined her.
“You alright, lad?” He asked, kneeling down beside where Villehardain was sitting on her knees.
“Never better! Did you see what we just pulled off?” Warci chirped, flashing Fontemai a prideful smile even as his body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. “That was incredible! Rivals the good ol’ days for me, personally, but I think this was my--our best kill yet!”
Fontemai looked to Villehardain.
“I don’t see any other injuries...it’s probably just shock,” Villehardain answered, finishing up and folding her hands in her lap.
Fontemai nodded, turning his attention back to Warci. “Can you stand?”
“Last I checked I still had legs, yeah, but as for if they feel like carrying me? Well…” Warci glanced down at his legs for a moment. “I might have to get back to you on that one.”
“I’ll help you,” Villehardain offered before Fontemai could. She looked Warci over again, taking in his burned and bloodied appearance, eyes soft and heavy with shame. “You nearly died because of me, it’s the least I can do.”
Warci snapped his fingers in Villehardain’s face. “Hey, eyes up here, Ville. Look at me.” He waited for Villehardain to reluctantly meet his eyes before continuing. “I don’t wanna hear any of that. I got all these scrapes and burns by choice, and I’d rather you not take credit for it. This wasn’t your fault, not in any way, shape, or form. Do you understand me?”
Villehardain blinked, at a loss, but she eventually found it in herself to nod at least. Warci never used this tone before. It vaguely reminded Fontemai of a parent scolding their child. It only drove home just how badly Fontemai had messed up during the initial stages of the fight. Yes, Warci did what he did by choice, but he shouldn’t have had to make that choice in the first place. This shouldn’t have ever happened to him, or to Margas for that matter.
Gods, it could’ve happened to Villehardain…
Fontemai remembered how she was at the start, when he’d taken her under his wing, showed her the ropes and helped her ease into her new normal. He remembered why he’d done that in the first place. It was a habitual reaction, one he used to take for the fresh-eyed greenhorns sent to serve under his command. Her face was too similar to theirs. Even now, she reminded him of how young some of his men were, too young to be fighting in his opinion.
Too young for war. Too young to die.
But it was too late to do anything now, not for them.
Fontemai rested his hand on Villehardain’s shoulder. “He’s right, Villehardain. You can’t go blamin’ yourself fer what others do fer you.”
“But I could’ve moved out of the way on my own,” Villehardain muttered. “I could’ve if I tried hard enough, I know it, but my feet just...wouldn’t work.”
Fontemai squeezed her shoulder. “No. That there absolves you of responsibility. If yer lookin’ fer anyone to go blamin’, blame me. I led the charge, but I froze up myself. Margas and Warci took hits ‘cause of that.”
“Blame is pointless,” Margas spoke up, having joined them at some point, standing over them with arms crossed. “Job’s done. Let’s go back.”
“Thank you, Margas! Finally, someone with some sense around here,” Warci scoffed. “Buckethead here and I were the ones who got blown up, so let us do the crying about it. Let’s just head back to base and have a good time doing it, how does that sound? Good? Good!”
Warci tried to get up on his own, but his legs started buckling under him halfway up. Villehardain jumped to her feet and helped him up the rest of the way. Fontemai let a smile creep onto his face as he stood up, slowly to avoid aggravating his already-aching old bones. Going back to the barracks was definitely appealing by now. All the smoke and dust was beginning to lose its luster. It was just what it was now--smoke and dust. No ghosts waiting in the wings.
But that still left what came next. Since Warci was preoccupied with Villehardain’s fussing, Fontemai turned his attention to Margas.
“And you, then? How’re you on yer feet?”
Margas barely turned his head. “I’m on them.”
He looked steady enough, especially when considering that he took a bomb blast at close range. Even Fontemai’s old eye could see him sway, though. His stance was strained, like it took all his effort to keep upright.
“Adrenaline’s wearin’ off, Margas,'' Fontemai warned. “I don’t want you topplin’ over.”
“I don’t want help,” Margas stated. “I can walk on my own.”
His tone had such finality to it, so Fontemai left it at that. “Right then. The offer’ll keep open, if you find yourself needin’ it.” He looked over his shoulder, at where Villehardain stood with Warci leaning against her, arm thrown over her shoulders. “Come, soldiers. We return victorious!”
Warci gave one more cheer with a raised fist, Villehardain smiled, and Margas uncrossed his arms. They left the ring of rubble and ruin, left the hulking corpse behind them and all he was, left the what-ifs and the guilt, left it all behind them.
The streets they walked were still in shambles, but the bombs and screams had been silenced, and the fires were burning themselves out. The heavy layer of smoke that had hung above them earlier had dissipated enough to let the blue sky through, and Fontemai could smell fresh air as the world peered curiously into the town to see what had become of it. It was still far from a pretty sight, that was certain, but it never had been pretty, just functional. It could be built back, probably better. The Heiress actually cared about this worn-out place, these traumatized buildings and miserable paths. She’d take care of it.
Fontemai looked to his companions again. Warci was talking again about something or other, likely just to fill the air. From how Villehardain was actually listening to him, it was clear that she appreciated this distraction, no matter what it was (then again, she wouldn’t have any choice but to listen since she was half-dragging him along). Margas was closer to Fontemai himself than to them, keeping his eyes ahead and keeping quiet.
While the Heiress took care of the estate, Fontemai would take care of its troops. He wasn’t the only one either, he recalled--Reynauld and Dismas, being the original duo of the Heiress’s ragtag mercenary band she called an army, had definitely become mentors to the newer recruits (unwillingly, in Dismas’s case). One of the hellions had adopted a similar role, keeping an eye on the “cubs'' and helping them train.
An estate, an Heiress, a general, none of them were what they were without an army at their backs. With what this one needed to face with such little proper drilling, it deserved all the honor and support it could get.
Fontemai felt a pressure against his back. He looked over again, tilting his field of view enough to see that Margas had come closer, walking almost right beside him, right in step. He smiled knowingly, and turned his face forward again. No need drawing any attention to it--he was just happy the bounty hunter was coming around.
“He’s louder without his mask,” Margas spoke up, voice an annoyed growl. “I want to punch him. Got a clear shot, even.”
“Yer restraint is admirable,” Fontemai replied, suppressing the chuckle in his voice.
“Only because he’s the Heiress’s golden boy.” And because he needed to hold onto Fontemai to keep himself steady.
“But the two of ye worked well together regardless.”
“His yapping and punchable face makes him good bait.”
“Hey, my face is not punchable!” Warci interjected. “It’s quite beautiful, for your information. I have to wear this mask all the time to keep the ladies from throwing themselves at me.”
“It looks like you were dragged behind a stage coach for a few towns,” Margas argued.
“You lost yer mask back there, Warci,” Fontemai pointed out before Warci could object again.
Warci’s reaction made it clear that he hadn’t noticed until now (there’d been bigger things for all of them to worry about at the time). He cautiously touched his face, checking for himself, and his eyes went wide when he realized that his fingers were brushing against skin. He felt at his features, more frantically now, wincing when he touched his still-raw burns.
Villehardain eyed him worriedly, squeezing his wrist. “Warci? Are you okay?”
“Easy on, lad,” Fontemai, averting his own gaze out of respect. “Easy on.”
“...Hm,” Margas hummed. “Nothing special. Just a man.”
“Just a man who syphoned all of Vvulf’s blood out of his body,” Warci corrected. “But you thought I was more than that? A god, maybe? I knew you always liked me!”
“No. Thought you were an imp.”
Warci was ready to snap back, but faltered when he started giving that some thought. “...Y’know what, alright, I’ll take it.”
“Being called an imp isn’t a compliment,” Villehardain mentioned, more than a little confused at this entire conversation.
“Oh my sweet, precious little Villehardain,” Warci cooed, and immediately Fontemai knew they had him back. “You need to do more studying if even I know more about what’s in your versebook than you! Imps are comedic geniuses, you see.”
“Imps aren’t in the versebook!” Villehardain squeaked, blood rushing to her face and ears.
“Imps are pests,” Margas added. “You’re a pest.”
“A funny pest!” Warci giggled. “You said it yourself. No take-backs.”
“Break t’up, all of ye,” Fontemai interrupted, though his tone carried the same teasing air as the others’. “Ye’ve been through enough without all this raggin’.”
“Fontemai, I had no part in this,” Villehardain said.
“But ragging’s all I do!” Warci complained.
“He had it coming.” Margas’s eye roll was almost audible.
“Leave th’excuses at the door,” Fontemai said. “Today, we’re a team.”
And a team they were, not just out of necessity. Fontemai recognized the bonds between them all: Villehardain’s care and concern, the desire to keep everyone safe, the will to carry the wounded home. Warci’s teasing and selflessness, the eagerness to lift everyone’s spirits, the readiness to die for his companions. Margas was the outlier, but Fontemai knew how strange it was for him to be the one to spur Warci back into bantering when he’d just complained about how irritating he was.
Then there was Fontemai himself, who’d already known Villehardain and Warci, and who wanted to know Margas more. Fontemai, who’d defended and guided Villehardain from that first week onward. Fontemai, who’d fought the Collector alongside Warci, and who’d helped Warci develop some of the fleet-footed moves that allowed him to duck around Vvulf’s shield to hack away at him. Fontemai, who’d realized that Margas was far more than he seemed, and who felt bad for doubting him.
They were all more than they seemed, though. Fontemai knew that. He’d never told the others about his past with the brigands, with Vvulf.
He didn’t know why Margas was so distant and pushed everyone away (but would help them with the wrong words at the wrong time).
He didn’t know why Warci was so terrified of the rest of them seeing his face (along the trail back, he asked the rest of them not to tell anyone about this, about what he looked like).
He didn’t know why Villehardain was here at her age, or why her shoulders carried the slump of a thousand sins (she was the best of all of them at avoiding suspicion and questions, and that worried him the most).
But still, here they were. In the same place, under the same flag, sharing the same laughs and fights and tears. Battle could bring people together like nothing else, as regrettable as it often was. There was nothing to be done about it except for making the best of it. Fontemai knew how to do that. He’d done it before, and now, he knew he could trust himself to do it again.
“Never again,” he’d said, once. It meant many things, applied to many things, all of which he’d barred himself from. It was restricting, terrifying, a guilt-ridden statement, a self-imposed prison to the past.
Now, it was a claim of freedom, for never again would there be wolves at the door.