Chapter Text
Prologue
“Do you think he’ll be able to recover from this?”
Lukas stands in the medical tent, watching as Silque examines Forsyth’s unconscious body. Lukas himself is still weary and aching from the arduous battle, but Forsyth is far worse off. His right arm, his lance arm, is mangled and bloodied. Lukas has seen worse, but not often—not on those who survive.
Silque nods. “He will recover. But…”
“But?”
“But it’s beyond the scope of my magic. He needs time to heal, not just Mila’s blessing. You need to keep him out of combat for a while.”
Lukas chuckles grimly. “Oh, he’s not going to be happy about that.”
Not happy is an understatement. Forsyth wakes up with his arm bandaged and splinted, and still, the first thing on his mind is returning to battle.
“I don’t understand!” he shouts. “Why should I be forbidden from fighting? Plenty of others here have been injured—I’ve been injured and been back in combat the next day!”
“Forsyth,” Silque coaxes, “your bone is fractured. You’re not going to be able to fight at your full strength, and attempting to do so will certainly worsen your injury.”
“I know. I’m prepared for the consequences. I want to fight for Zofia.”
Silque sighs, and Lukas steps in to relieve her. “Rest first, then rejoin us. Restoring yourself to full health is a service to your country.”
Forsyth thinks this one over. “Well, yes, but… what if someone else is injured in my absence? One of the leadership, or one of the kids from that village. Shouldn’t I be there to protect them?”
Now it’s Lukas’ turn to sigh with exasperation. “Is there truly nothing that would persuade you to step down from combat?”
“No. Not while I draw breath.”
“Hm.” Lukas feels a flicker of disappointment, but it doesn’t reach his face—same as always. “In that case, I suppose I can talk to Clive about some sort of… compromise.”
Three days later, Forsyth is assigned to a new post.
“We need someone to guard this outpost,” Clive explains. “Without a Deliverance presence in the area, the local bandits may return and continue terrorizing the surrounding villages. All you need to do is protect your post—no questing around, no odd jobs. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Unfortunately, due to our lack of forces, you’ll have to hold the outpost on your own. If you ever find yourself outmanned, leave and send for reinforcements immediately. I’ll take you and your gear over there first thing tomorrow. You should start packing.”
“Yes, sir!”
Forsyth makes his way back to his tent. Really, despite what people say, he’s not clueless; not enough so to believe that Clive has assigned him a genuine post. But his arm hurts, and his heart aches, and he resigns himself to taking it as a mercy: that at least he will not be forced to watch as the army carries on without him.
Packing is a struggle with only one good arm, but he keeps at it. Eventually, Lukas appears unprompted and helps him get the rest done.
Day 1
“Here it is.” Clive motions at the… outpost. Which is really more of a house with a low wall around it. “Want me to help you get your things inside?”
Forsyth frowns. He despises being thought of as unprepared or incapable. Even—perhaps especially—when there is reason to think so. “I’m sure you are needed back at camp, Sir Clive. My injury may slow me down, but I can handle myself nevertheless.”
“Well, if you’re certain.” Clive heaves Forsyth’s bags off his horse and drops them on the ground in front of the brick wall. “I’ll be on my way. Lukas has already promised to write you updates of our progress—I’m sure you’ll be looking forward to those.”
“Quite, sir!”
“Farewell, Forsyth.”
Forsyth salutes him a goodbye and begins dragging his things toward the house.
With only one good arm, he decides it’s safest to take multiple trips. He starts with the lightest item: a small pack containing his clothes and keepsakes.
Truly, it’s not much of an outpost. It’s a run-down house in the middle of the woods, defended only by a brick wall that falls about waist-high. In front of him, the bricks are interrupted by a feeble wooden gate, which—a quick push reveals—isn’t even locked.
Stepping through the gate, Forsyth gets a better view of the area. There’s a small cobbled walkway up to the front door of the house, which occupies the left side of this quaint little plot. The other half hosts the remnants of a garden, the plants withered and decayed beyond recognition. It’s living (or rather dying) proof that the site has long since been abandoned.
Forsyth shivers. This place puts him on edge. It’s eerily quiet, like that horrible dungeon the Deliverance claimed for their hideout, and he’s miles away from anyone who can help him if danger strikes. Still, he pushes onward. Genuine or not, Sir Clive assigned him this post, and by Mila, he’s going to guard it. He pushes through the front door… and stops cold.
There is a dead body in this house.
Forsyth stares, transfixed. His pack falls to the ground beside him. He’s seen plenty of death before, in battle, even at home, but this… this person has been dead for a long time. They’re slumped against a wall, with remnants of skin sloughing off their bones and clothes encrusted with dark stains.
He can’t help but think how long they must have sat here without a proper burial. Whoever this was… does anyone even know they’re gone? And if something happened to him out here, would he suffer the same fate?
The thought ties a knot in his stomach, so he shoves it away. It doesn’t matter now. He’s here, and nothing bad is going to happen, and he’s going to give this person a burial. The sooner he can do that, the better.
He’s still worried about his provisions and equipment, so he sets to bringing the rest into the safety of the walled garden. Unpacking into the house itself can wait; he doesn’t particularly want to be inside right now, as it is.
After moving his things, Forsyth returns to the problem of the body, and he gets all the way to picking out a plot in the garden before realizing he doesn’t have anything to dig with. He glances back toward the house. With a garden this size, they must have tools somewhere, but if they’re not outside… well. He’ll have to go in there eventually. Might as well be now, right?
Cautiously, he steps into the house once more.
He considered wearing his armor for this, but decided against it. The plate mail is too heavy, too loud, and too difficult to make an escape in. Not that he plans on doing that.
Another step takes him further toward the corpse, which sits directly across from the front door. Another step, and the front door slams behind him. He looks—nothing there. Must have been the wind.
At last, he reaches the nearest door and pushes it open, checking nervously for any more deceased. It opens to an empty kitchen with some wooden countertops, a few pots and pans, and, tossed away in a corner, a collection of gardening tools. He surveys them quickly and picks up a large spade. That ought to do…
He’s interrupted by a loud clattering from behind him. “Who goes there?” he shouts, spinning to face the noise. He grabs the spade, too, wielding it thoughtlessly as if it were his lance, and nearly dropping it as his splinted arm refuses to move.
The room is empty. One of the pots is now on the floor.
“Show yourself!”
Nothing.
Forsyth takes a deep breath. This is ridiculous. He’s alone in the woods—there’s no reason for anyone else to be here. He can handle himself, just like he told Sir Clive. And he is not afraid.
When the kitchen door slams behind him on his way out, he doesn’t glance back.
The shallow grave takes him a few hours to dig, but he gets it done. The soil in the garden is still loose and easy to work, and he’s able to manage the spade without too much pain.
The worst part is moving the body.
After staring helplessly at it for longer than he’d like to admit, Forsyth settles on carrying the remains as he would an unconscious person. He takes off his sling, allowing a little more motion, and takes the opportunity to roll out his stiff shoulder. Then, kneeling beside the body, he slides his splinted arm between their back and the wall and moves his left arm as if to hook under their legs. For a second, he can almost imagine that he is carrying a living person; only, they’re disconcertingly light and dusty and—oh gods, the bones are coming out.
Forsyth moves as fast as he can without jostling the bones more, fighting his nerves every step of the way. The bones click and rattle, and the touch of the dusty remains makes his skin crawl. This was a person once. The relief of placing them at last into the grave is dizzying, though the memory of it still sends a cold shiver down his spine.
He makes several more trips into the house after that. With the remains gone, he notices some new things in the room: an abandoned longbow in the corner, some loose arrows scattered about, and a dark brown stain right below where he’d found the body. That makes him shudder, but all he can really do is kick some dirt over it and move on.
When he finally returns to the front gate to retrieve his things, he feels a new sense of peace. The dead have been laid to rest, and he can focus on doing his job. Everything as it’s meant to be.
He scouts out the rest of the house: in addition to the entrance room and kitchen, there are two bedrooms. The one at the far side of the house is littered with childrens’ toys and clothes. (He can’t help but wonder if those children even lived to see adulthood.) He takes the other as his sleeping quarters—a much emptier room with a straw bed and scarce furniture.
He sleeps well that night. And if there is a sad whistle on the wind, he doesn’t hear it.