Chapter Text
WANTED
FOR TREASON AND CONSPIRACY AGAINST THE CROWN
OSMUND PANTOUL
EINARA OMAND
BERLWIN TULLES
MEINHELM DAUNGERS
Not to Be Trusted
Report to Royal Guard Immediately
REWARD
400,000 SHANIX
— — —
“They can never get your nose right,” Berlwin grinned, holding up the poster to Meinhelm’s scowl. “Always too straight.”
“Funny.” Meinhelm grunted. “I suggest you put that back on the tree.”
“Why? It looks much better up here. The lighting, of course. And its handsome subject is right next to it.”
“Its subject will no longer be handsome if some buffoon’s actions caused him to be tracked down by guards, and then cut into tiny little pieces.”
Berlwin frowned as Meinhelm trudged past him, crunching through twigs and bushes underfoot. “You’re no fun, Meinhelm. At least smile before we die.”
“What’s there to smile about?”
That was sort of true. There was nothing around them except forest: sun-dappled ground where the light pierced the canopy, creatures of all sizes either trying to eat them or be eaten by them, and green. So much green. Berlwin could kill for a little yellow. Or orange.
Orange…just like the candied treats in the market…
Berlwin’s stomach grumbled. Damn. I can’t be that desperate, can I?
But it was only fair that he would begin to crave earthly desires after so much time without them.
Hurriedly, he replaced the poster back on its tree, only struggling a little with pushing the nail back into its place in the bark. See? He’d been training. A few months ago, he would never have been able to do this without breaking a sweat.
He wouldn’t because there was no need to then. What would a rising squire be doing in the middle of a deadly forest when he could be safe in the castle?
He followed Meinhelm through the trees, looking up at the occasional bird that flew overhead. It was a strangely nice day, and it was a shame they would have to spend it walking around just like every other day they’d spent in this forest.
The day they finally stormed the castle and took it back from the Liege would be the happiest day of Berlwin’s life, he was sure.
It was humiliating that he was stuck here, honestly. He was destined for a greater future than roaming around in a wood, and his biggest worry should have been preparing for battle rather than fleeing from it. Where could he succeed now? Certainly nowhere that he would have before. The fact that his face was on every poster from here to the edges of civilization around him was a death sentence. He knew too many people for his own good that would be perfectly willing to turn him in to the Royal Guard.
Royal Guard, he remembered Meinhelm scoffing one night. The meager fire they’d built had turned his face into something that Berlwin was not yet quite ready to look at directly. What a mockery of this kingdom.
And yet Berlwin could have called him a hypocrite for that. Meinhelm himself could never have thought that he would be here in this situation with three other people he claimed to hate. He’d hated the very idea of consorting with anybody who “preached the idea of a united Cybertron”.
But here he was, allowing his nose to be drawn too straight because he’d fled the castle after doing something so unlike his past self, no one would have believed it years before.
Or at least that was how Osmund would have put it; Berlwin knew what those two had would never truly die. He couldn’t decide if it were for better or for worse. Meinhelm’s attitude over the past few months hadn’t exactly been raring to be with his fellow escapees.
Berlwin, despite whatever Osmund said or thought, would have said—and still would say—that Meinhelm’s behavior had never changed. Why would one night, no matter how big an effect it had, be the single requirement for forgiveness? It had taken all the months later, every moment leading up to now, for Berlwin to get where he was with Meinhelm. There certainly was no easy way to trust for them.
He still had to trail behind Meinhelm, even now. He didn’t particularly think that the latter would kill him, but he preferred to keep an eye one the two great swords that were slung across the hulking back in front of him. Berlwin knew what those swords had done and could do, thanks to their many victims and their families who were the only ones who could speak of their true devastation, having to bury their parents, siblings, or children.
At least there’s his poster to laugh at, Berlwin thought, then immediately felt a little guilty.
He hopped over a fallen log, red and white mushrooms peeking through holes in the wood. Perfect! He and Meinhelm had been supposed to be looking for food anyway.
But just as he was about to cut the white mushrooms that fanned out over each other, Meinhelm grabbed his wrist in nothing short of a vice grip.
“Pick them,” he muttered. If that was his impression of trying to be apologetic for the strength of his hand, it wasn’t good. “They could find us because they see that someone’s cut the stems instead of taking it whole.”
Berlwin huffed, but sheathed his dagger. “It would be nice to have a warning next time.”
“You don’t get warnings here. The most you’ll get is an arrow through your unarmored head.”
He let go of Berlwin’s wrist, who shook it out with a glare. Indeed, Meinhelm’s helmet was always on, shining through whatever gaps in his messy hair allowed it, like it was proud to be protecting its bearer. But if Berlwin had survived this forest as long as Meinhelm had without metal around his head, then he considered this quite important information to take into consideration whenever Meinhelm complained about it.
“I don’t see you helping to prevent us from dying of starvation,” Berlwin said under his breath as Meinhelm stomped away. Seriously, for all his talk about being tracked down by royal soldiers, he was making too much noise with his grouchy way of walking.
Berlwin did not see whatever Osmund did in their new teammate. Of course, he didn’t share the history that those two had, and he didn’t think he would want to anytime soon. He hoped they could get back to Einara soon. She was more sufferable about this whole thing, even if she had been involved with Osmund and Meinhelm in their past.
And she was the only one who could really put Meinhelm in his place without his arguing back. If that didn’t warrant Berlwin’s respect, he didn’t know what would.
He picked the rest of the mushrooms by hand, dusted off the dirt on their stems, then hurried to catch up with Meinhelm. He never understood why the latter was always in such a hurry to get back to camp. Sure, there was the whole Royal Guard trying to track them down and put their heads on pikes, but they weren’t here. It wouldn’t hurt to relax once in a while, right? All four of them had been keeping their guard up for what felt like ages, and Berlwin wasn’t sure they would ever truly unlearn how to.
But if there was one thing he was sure he knew, it was that the Royal Guard kind of sucked.
They didn’t just suck morally, considering all the things they’d done to not-so-legitimately gain their place; they also sucked in their ability to organize themselves before attack. Berlwin had a theory that was the reason no threat had ever really come to him or his group while they were deep in the forest. And a particular soldier he knew before all this happened—knew possibly too well, perhaps—was one example of said lack of organization.
But, with an emphasis of kind of in his thought that they kind of sucked, the minute the Guard got their head on straight was probably the minute all four of them in the forest would meet their end. The combined abilities of each soldier in the mid-to-high ranks would probably vaporize this whole wood if they put their minds to it.
Good thing they’re all just daft.
Their king wasn’t.
Wait—king wasn’t the right word. A king wouldn’t have needed to hide in the shadows before making his first move. A king wouldn’t claim the power vacuum of an empty throne without so much disdain for it. And he certainly wouldn’t have thrown out almost the entirety of the former Guard to make space for his goons.
If he was truly anything, it was cunning. He’d timed the acquisition of the throne, no matter how wrongful the process, extremely well. Back then, with most of the Royal Guard away making reparations to their most deadly conflict, there was virtually no force to stop anybody who wanted to seize power.
Leave it to the Guard to believe in the strength of the honor system in the midst of a full-blown war.
The kingdom was no longer theirs, what remained of the loyal Guard was scattered, and those who survived were slowly dying. What a way to go. Berlwin sighed about it almost every day. He was exhausted, and not just of trees and dirt and grass.
He just hoped that by the end, he would go quickly if not heroically. Sue him for wanting a moment of glory after years of living in the dirt.
He saw the fire of their camp up ahead, the trees thick and close together around the clearing. Meinhelm sped up his pace, clearly about to yell at someone for lighting a fire so bright it would “attract the bugs and the Guard”. The sun was setting, gold streaks thrown across the clouds like spilled mead.
Mead.
Baius had always been a heavy drinker, Berlwin thought. I wonder if anybody else can drink as much as he can without passing out still.
Berlwin once had. That night had led to unwise choices that hadn’t seemed unwise in the moment.
Fighting down a blush that threatened to betray that he was again thinking of Baius, he followed Meinhelm and almost tripped over a root sticking up from the dark soil.
Anything was better than letting Einara see that he still wasn’t over that son of a bitch. She’d flay him so badly he’d probably end up like one of the potatoes she was always skinning for their stew.
Please let Osmund be the one on cooking duty tonight, Berlwin prayed silently, watching as Meinhelm sped in front of him, Nobody can cook for shit except him.
They’d all tried to put Osmund on permanent cooking duty before. It didn’t work, namely because Osmund also couldn’t really cook for shit, but he cooked better than the three other losers he was with. But he couldn’t really blame them for trying to make their culinary experience in these hellish conditions just a bit brighter.
And indeed, it was Osmund next to the fire, a pot of stew already bubbling over the flames. Berlwin, heaving a sigh of relief, saw the potatoes—expertly skinned, questionably cooked—already floating happily in their broth bath.
But despite what Berlwin thought, Meinhelm did not admonish Osmund for the strength of the fire.
“Oh!” Osmund looked up from stirring the stew, “You’ve returned.”
Meinhelm spared him no glance, making a beeline to his tent where a wooden board, hastily carved, hung in the front. Four colored tassels, supposed to represent their group, were pinned to the wood using nails sourced from questionable means. If Berlwin had to guess, he would have said that they had come from the ones used to hang the wanted posters around the outskirts of the wood.
And Meinhelm had scolded him for just taking one off its tree today. Unbelievable.
Meinhelm scrutinized the board for a moment, then turned to Berlwin. “You lied.”
Berlwin began to think through his dwindling options. “Well—you see. I just. Would have liked to spend my day with you, Meinhelm! It is…truly. Invigorating…”
He trailed off as Meinhelm approached.
“Really?” The latter pressed. “So invigorating that you would disrupt the order of the chore cycle?”
Berlwin gave up. He threw his hands in the air, letting irritation drip all over his words. “What would you have liked me to say? That you’ve complained about the holes in the fish from my spear every time I try to catch them at the river? You know Einara is better at that. I was just doing us a favor by swapping with her! Now you don’t have to pick bones out of your teeth!”
“There is a system for a reason!”
“The system can eat my ass!”
A different voice cut in. “Both of you can eat nothing until you stop fighting!”
Einara appeared from the growing dark, picking her way through the brush with a pike speared almost halfway down with fish. She looked exhausted, but not tired enough to not yell at whoever needed it.
“Don’t bother,” she said to Osmund’s visibly forming question, his mouth almost finding the words, “I’ve already gutted them.”
“Like how you gutted the potatoes,” Berlwin muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I yawned.”
Einara looked at him weird, but he could handle that.
“Got anything?” She asked, fighting a vine that had thrown itself around her boot.
Berlwin produced the mushrooms from his satchel, trying not to look to proud of himself. Mushrooms were Osmund’s favorite.
“Hey, look at that,” Einara grinned, coming over to throw an arm over Meinhelm’s much taller shoulders, “Seems like switching the chore cycle worked.”
Meinhelm grumbled. “The reason the system is the way it is is to protect us.”
“If you mean protecting us from getting more food, then yes.”
She walked over to the stew and Osmund, taking the knife at his belt and pressed a kiss to his cheek that got her a giggle from the man.
Berlwin groaned. “Must you? Right over our stew?”
“Guess who’s not getting fish in their bowl.”
He frowned.
Meinhelm wasn’t any better. He looked grumpier than usual, which was a feat in itself. Berlwin didn’t know if it was because of the kiss or his stupid chore cycle system, but the lines on his face seemed to deepen in the firelight. It had always unnerved Berlwin how intimidating Meinhelm could suddenly appear to be, true to his nature in the stories people spread about him. He knew he was safe. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that crawled up his spine entirely?
He ignored it now, for the most part, and went to give Osmund the mushrooms.