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No matter how many times Artur saw someone injured, his heart crumpled of its own accord. It was always terrible to see a soldier in dire straits, coated with blood and dirt in equal measure.
Seeing Cormag like that, however, wasn't an unusual sight in the slightest. For how often he ended up battered and bruised (or worse), Artur should have grown accustomed to it. Even so, it left a bad taste in his mouth. He had to wonder whether Cormag had a death wish, what with the way he flew straight into danger unflinchingly.
He would dispatch Grado's soldiers and demonic beasts with grand sweeps of his lance. His majestic wyvern's wings sent out gusts strong enough to make any nearby ground troops lose their footing, friend or foe alike. He was a powerhouse. He was a sight to behold.
He was truly, utterly careless. Scarred and scraped up from the tiniest nicks to near-fatal wounds. Artur could barely understand it. Barely. That look in his eye… It reminded him of the last embers of a fire, starving for oxygen, slowly dying out. There was only the tiniest amount of light remaining.
Off of the battlefield, his shoulders were always hunched. He looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's rest in who knows how long. Cormag seemed to be carrying a heavy burden; However, what that burden was, Artur couldn't be sure.
The only time he wasn't weighed down was when he was near that wyvern of his, petting its snout and feeding it treats. Artur had seen it from afar several times, watching in silence with a smile. To think someone capable of such precise brutality had a soft spot… It was jarring, but after some thought, it did make sense.
Everyone in their ranks had something that helped them get through the atrocities they had witnessed, or for some, committed. Whether it was drink, gambling, or a night's company, they had all figured out some small means of coping with their increasingly slim odds of surviving this campaign of theirs. Perhaps that was Cormag's.
As for Artur, he didn't have a preferred vice. As a member of the cloth, he was not predisposed to any of the former. He found a lot of meaning through his work – slaying foul monsters beyond imagining and helping those who had been hurt. He had sworn a vow that he would be virtuous, only using his power to aid those in need. The lines had blurred somewhat in the midst of war, but his values were the same. After all, he trusted Lady Eirika's judgement.
And yet, even though he was of sound mind and body despite the army's circumstances, he felt as though he were missing something. His duty was fulfilling, sure, but he was somewhat lonely among the others. The only people he talked to regularly were Lady Eirika herself (to discuss strategy and their supply levels) and Lute, who he felt a particular kinship with. They had grown up in the same parts. Though they were quite different, in both magic and manner, she reminded him of home.
Perhaps, he thought, as he laid awake in his bedroll one night, I should make more friends.
As it turned out, making friends wasn't as easy as he had envisioned. Making small talk wasn't the same thing as creating a lasting connection. Different people enjoyed talking about different things. Artur struggled to determine which topics of conversation to lean into or avoid. Things were much easier when he was casting healing magic; He would offer the same platitudes each time, warning of the sting and offering his hand if the pain was too much.
It was after a particularly awkward conversation with Priscilla that he found himself at the stables. Priscilla's snow white mare had watched the whole time, blowing air out of her snout. Out of curiosity, he took a stroll through the building. The scent of animal waste was stronger than he was used to, so when it got to be too much, he slipped out the side door for a taste of fresh air.
Seeing all the mounts together made Artur realize just how many there were. Horses, pegasi, and of course, wyverns. There, at the end of the room, was Cormag's wyvern. It was a beautiful beast, sleek and scaly. Before he had joined up, he had never seen one in real life. The creature's yellow eyes peered at him warily. Artur approached slowly, one hand out in offering.
Hesitantly, it smelled his palm. Artur didn't dare move a muscle, for he feared scaring the wyvern. If he did, who was to say it wouldn't bite his hand clean off with one snap of that powerful jaw? To his delight, though, it began to nuzzle into his palm. He couldn't hide his chuckle. It even nudged his hand with the top of its head, as if asking for him to pet it.
"Strange," he murmured to himself. "I never knew wyverns could be so gentle."
"They'll surprise you. Brutal one moment, sweet as a kitten the next."
Artur nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, trying to look innocent. The wyvern, however, did not care, still butting him with his snout to try and receive affection. Standing there was Cormag.
"Oh, Sir Cormag… my deepest apologies. I should be going–"
"No need to apologize."
Artur blinked in surprise, excuses faltering on his tongue. He closed his mouth, needing a moment to reorient himself. That had not been the reply he had been expecting in the slightest. "Ah… Alright, then."
Cormag looked at him dubiously, as if he had grown a second head. "Anyways. Genarog here is a real sweetheart. As long as you treat him nice, he'll treat you nice right back."
"You care about him a lot, hm? It's sweet." He smiled warmly.
Something in Cormag's expression faltered. "…He's my closest friend."
The change didn't escape Artur's notice, but he was unsure how to address it. The conversation fizzled out suddenly. It reminded him of the way a spell sputtered out when a mage's book was slammed shut. All Artur could manage was to extricate himself from the stable, giving a parting stroke to Genarog's snout.
Artur kept finding himself in the stables. Slowly, he grew accustomed to the scent of animals and hay. At first, he didn't go there on purpose; It was a nice quiet place to clear his mind. After all, he was closely acquainted with the horrors their party faced on a regular basis. Whenever he began to see grisly wounds when he shut his eyes, he ventured there. All that greeted him were the snuffles of the mounts, the munching of sweetgrass, and the fading sunlight through the windows.
When the shadows grew long and nightfall approached, Cormag would show himself. As quiet as a ghost, he would slip inside, briefly greeting the pegasi and horses on the way to his steed. Cormag knew he was there, the same way Artur could sense his comings and goings, subtle as they were. Even when they never spoke, he was aware of Cormag's presence.
It was oddly calming with just the two of them and the animals. Artur was slowly becoming a friend to Genarog, and although he wasn't a human, it was a start. It was nice, gaining companionship. Cormag, though… he was difficult for Artur to get a read on. He had a difficult time handling the man when he was whole and hale.
He wanted to learn, though. How to read him, his stiff body language, that faraway look in his eyes. Artur wished to reach out, to offer an olive branch, to find some commonality between them.
The only commonality in war was pain, was suffering, was loss. That was no light subject. It was ground he – and likely Cormag – wished not to tread upon.
Instead of doing so, he approached Cormag, who was offering Genarog a treat.
Cormag frowned at him. "It's a good thing you're not in the cavalry."
"Why is that?"
"You should never approach a horse from behind."
Oh. Artur flushed. He had snuck up behind him, hadn't he?
"I learned that lesson pretty quick. Horses kick hard. Thankfully, I wasn't hurt too bad. Taught me a valuable lesson, though."
He swallowed, nodding. Artur was suddenly very thankful that he had been wary of Genarog. If horses kicked, what exactly did wyverns do…?
Genarog, despite his sharp teeth, did not look intimidating at all in the moment. He was happily eating a cut of meat from the palm of his rider's hand. Likely venison, as Neimi and Innes had bagged several deer earlier in the day.
"He likes you," Cormag murmured. "It took a lot of time for him to warm up to me. He's pretty tempermental when he wants to be, and I was an inpatient new recruit, trying to prove myself. It was only when I showed him the care and respect he deserved that we began to truly work together."
"Have you been together for a long time?"
"Yes. It was back when Glen–" Cormag stopped suddenly, a pained look on his face.
Artur flinched, suddenly feeling the urge to check Cormag for lingering wounds. His hands fluttered at his sides, but he gave Cormag some distance. "…Are you alright?"
He took a long breath, exhaling deeply. Those tired eyes fell shut. "Yes. Someone I lost. My…" Cormag's voice was undeniably thick with grief. "My brother."
"I'm sorry to hear of your loss, Sir Cormag."
"Does… Does it ever get easier to bear?"
Artur's thoughts went back to his childhood home. The holy women and men who had taken him in, taught him much about faith and love and understanding. He had been much younger than them; The closest in age to him was a priest of about 40. As the years passed on, so did many of his elders. Everyone would crowd around the beds of the dying, sharing in each other's company.
For those who were ill or wracked with pain, the healers among them would hold their stave above them. As a boy, it had reminded Artur of knighting ceremonies, those nostalgic illustrations in his childhood books. Knights on horseback, in metal armor, wearing honor with pride. He had met many such knights in his time with Eirika's army. But at the same time, the honor the churchfolk had granted was a different kind indeed.
They shared in their love for the person. Their preemptive grief. Even on the deathbed, they exchanged stories. Jokes. Laughter. Light.
Even before the war, Artur had seen death. Sometimes the only thing you could do was reduce their suffering, so that their passing was peaceful.
Cormag looked like a dead man. That was his weight, his cross to bear.
"Was it sudden?" Artur managed.
All Cormag could do was nod.
"He wasn't sick." It wasn't a question. Artur had gleaned enough about Cormag's prior life from his odd recruitment and the rumors that spread around the camp like a disease.
Cormag wasn't just from Grado. He had been a loyal military man, convinced Eirika had committed some wrongdoing against him, and had set out on the warpath.
"He wasn't." Cormag's head was low. His hands were in fists. He looked so small without his chestplate, his pauldrons. He was no soldier. He was a man.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
"Sir Cormag." Artur took a few hesitant steps closer. "If I may?"
He nodded.
Artur continued: "If I say anything foolish, please forgive me."
Another nod. It was weak.
"That feeling of loss… It doesn't go away entirely. No matter how long. It only gets more distant from you, or more manageable, or something that doesn't hurt to even acknowledge. Death comes to all of us.
"But just because we all will die, because it is in our nature as humans, that does not mean you should throw your life away."
Cormag's head lifted slightly. Through the straw of his matted hair, his eyes were wide, his pupils trembling.
"Live with that feeling. Let yourself experience it. But it can get the better of anyone so easily. Just… take care. Genarog wants to see you healthy and safe just as much as I do."
Artur did not realize until after the words left his mouth how earnestly he meant them. How many times had he healed Cormag? He had cauterized his burnt flesh with light. He had cleaned deep wounds of dirt and debris and lancetips.
Cormag had many scars. It seemed not all of them were visible.
Cormag did not speak. Perhaps he couldn't bare to, or perhaps speaking would break his composure. Artur did not want to intrude. "Would you like me to leave you?"
He shook his head. Quickly. Artur's eyes could barely follow it. "No. Could you stay for a while?" He thought he heard Cormag sniffle as his head turned away. "...Genarog would miss you too much."