Do not be afraid of light

[hasapoint]

They smelled the battlefield long before they saw it. The apprentices and little Sisters who hadn't been on this kind of excursion before covered their noses and exclaimed. Vena didn't. As the child of a camp follower she would know to expect this, but her tread slowed and she looked repeatedly at Sister Lashan, especially as the sound of incredible numbers of crows cawing grew louder.

"Nasty, isn't it? Decay is part of death which is part of life," Lashan said firmly, if not totally without sympathy. How young had she been, the last time she was upset by the aftermath of battle? "There's armies that immediately turn around and sort the living from the dying from the dead and take care of that then and there. Not here, they're leaving it for the locals to handle or not and we're local enough. If you fight, you may well fight for people who'll leave you if you fall and move on. Make sure you at least have friends who'll look for you." They pressed on with their wagon. The donkey put its ears back but did not balk.

It wasn't as bad as it would get over the next few days. The bodies - it was now academic who had belonged to which side of whichever meaningless conflict this was - were not much bloated and decayed yet. Flies were not yet overwhelming. Right now the field of bodies was mostly attended by carrion birds, and various other birds that were willing to take advantage of the bounty before them. Finches among them, tiny beaks dipped red. A few other people could be seen picking their way across what had been a perfectly useable pasture. They kept clear. Lashan tasked girls to keep watch for them anyway, pretended not to see the ones who were being sick, and oversaw as dead men were loaded onto the donkeycart. They'd take them away a distance, say the rites, strip them of useful things, get them buried, and come back.

She paused. Something... like a sound. Not a sound. Lashan was hearing something with her mind, closer than the pickers. A threat? She stood like a sentinel and paid attention.

Comments

[garmr]

He'd lost track of how long he'd been lying still. Had they won, or had they lost? It was difficult to tell. Always a single moving piece in the larger picture, once the boy enters the fray of battle, he falls back on that nascent urge to kill that had kept him alive so many times before.

Upon opening his eyes, the first thing that he registers is the circling of buzzards over a strangely beautiful sky. The creaking of the wagon's wheels comes next, accompanied by the sound of footsteps close enough to his body to make his limbs tense up like springs. If his side had lost, that means he was a prisoner for the taking. He tilts his head to look, but doesn't spot any soldiers he could recognize. Regardless of who they were, he had to get to his feet before he was found.

Stubborn as ever, his hand had remained wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. He was tired, and a radiating pain wracked his shoulder, but it wasnt enough to hinder him completely. Disturbing the birds around him, he starts to rise up, emerging from the carnage like a blood-soaked, reanimated corpse. An arrow had struck the gap between pauldron and breastplate near his left shoulder. In his right hand was the great sword that looked far too big for a boy his age.

Time skip 2 infirmary

[garmr]

For the second time in so many days, Guts finds himself stirring from a deep, dark unconsciousness. The world slowly spins to a stop as his eyes flutter open. Where the hell was he?

He lies down flat on his back, listening to the rhythmic noises of looms and thread being strung together. Footsteps and female voices were just outside. The memories of the fight come back to him in dull waves. Wrestling with the old warrior woman, being poked and prodded at by a bunch of girls. Then everything went black. Had he lost to some old bag and her little parade of kids? There’s a sting to his pride at that.

He reaches up to touch the wound on his shoulder, but first finds his wrists bound together, and scowls. He’s still able to examine himself somewhat, at least.

His armor was gone. His shirt, too, to bandage up and have easy access to his wounds. Whatever treatment they’d done had dulled the pain from the agonizing ordeal it could have been. Even then, dull radiating aches and the sharp burn of the deepened stab wound still plagued him.

Despite his miserable condition, he manages to sit up. He didn’t look quite so menacing after being pried out of the steel plate and rinsed of the grime.

[hasapoint]

Sister Lashan woke up dreadfully sore the next morning and is in no state to have a serious conversation yet. She's going to soak in the hottest tub for a while and stump around after to loosen up, she tells Vena. Go see if Guts has run off in the night and stay with him enough that people don't freak out.

Vena's pretty sure he hasn't run off but she doesn't know! She'd slipped away after Lashan checked in last night. She might trust Guts more than most of her Sisters but it's not 'fall asleep in the same room' trust.

It's still fairly early when she comes and bangs on the infirmary door. It's cool outside and the sun's not visible over the great pine forest yet, so the light has a pale, grayish cast. Of course, scattered roosters have started crowing and setting each other off. "Are you awake? Are you there? It's time for breakfast! I'm gonna come in."

HORSE

[garmr]

A week passes with little incident, and the boy rebounds quickly as afforded by youth and diligent care. He never quite sensed the magic in the sword, though he recognized benefiting from the apothecary’s steady supply of good herbs and wrappings.

The ugly purple up his arm would fade to a discolored yellow, and the bleeding would cease from the spear wound as it closed up beneath the stitches. Little by little he would test his agility and his acumen with a sword, as if any lapse in skill might blunt his edge and be the end of him.

He resumed his usual exercises utilizing a wooden staff when lacking a blade, making obstacle courses of the trees and the training grounds. Most of his time was spent away from people, drenched in sweat from the summer heat. He was mostly undisturbed, until beckoned to do some village task or another.

This one seemed no different, at first.

‘Come on, try exercising something else for once.’

The Sister sounds bemused by his obsession with swinging a stick in perfect form. She was around his age, dark-eyed and with pinned-up auburn hair that caught a few stray strings of hay. Her elbows and hands were dirty from working outside. He follows her to the stables and the unusual task of the day.

‘Outside the gates?’ he asks, surprised.

‘It’s getting dark, and one of our hunters hasn’t returned yet.’

She strokes the nose of a mare, a mix of black and soft sandy brown, with a bright wildflower woven in near her ear.

‘This is Safflower, you’ll be riding with her today. You treat her right, you hear me?’ the Sister has a fierce look on her face, as if she’d exact bloody vengeance personally if he betrayed that promise.

‘…I will.’ is all he thinks to say.

He offers his hand to Safflower to give the horse his scent as the Sister prepares her tack. He is unfamiliar with the stout plains horses beyond having watched them in the compound, but figures he shouldn’t expect much compared to the warhorses he was used to.

Safflower buries her nose in his short hair, as if having found a delectable new grazing spot. He makes a noise of protest.

‘Hey…!’

‘Well!’ remarks the Sister with a laugh. ‘Guess you can’t be that bad, if she doesn’t mind you.’

She leads the horse with a gentle tug of the reigns, hesitant to hand them to him right away.

‘Let’s go. They’ll be waiting for you.’

[hasapoint]

It's still raining the next day, the storm calming into a drenching downpour troubled by some steady gusts of wind. The world is gray, blurred, and very wet, with windchimes sounding odd notes. Most of the Sisters going out wear an eccentric collection of clothing to hopefully keep them from being drenched, mostly oilskin cloaks or fringed straw capes and a lot of big conical straw hats. Old ladies have emerged with younger Sisters holding makeshift umbrellas over them. The infirmary sees more use as the Sister Apothecary gets to a whole lot of brewing, some of it rather more unpleasant smelling than the red tea last night.

Once Guts finally wakes up she suggests, busy with patients, that since he can get by without her services he might be happier in a guest house, at least unless he plans to get injured a third time. Lashan is not in evidence, having woke before him and gone out already. She's left another loaner shirt, this one dyed dark enough to almost completely hide old bloodstains. Vena is also not present, although apparently she did sneak inside, half-drowned, at dawn, and was told not to wake him up.

A Sister doubtless asks Guts what he wants done with the bear paw, now stiff and starting to smell. The claws could be pierced and strung on a cord, the bones could be removed and cleaned, she gets really excited thinking about the skin being tanned and turned into a pouch! before checking herself. Without piercing the collection of claws can be handed over quickly. The rest is going to take quite a lot longer.

If Guts wants to find the old and young Sister, they're at the forge, which rings with heat and activity even in the rain. Regular hammer blows and the breath of the bellows sound, and women singing in deep, guttural voices.

[garmr]

Once the action had died down early on, it became surprisingly easy to fall into a routine in the compound. Guts eventually found himself in the guest hut to keep him separate (and he was fine with that - he preferred the solitude to the communal beds). His bruises would heal over first, and then the stab wound would fade into a dark line on his shoulder, nastier than the small star made by a deflected arrow or glancing cuts of a blade. The healing sword’s magic and the Apothecary’s medicine eased him along more quickly, leaving him free to help along in the forge or in other parts of the village.

But these things wouldn’t save him from aches of a more natural cause, and one night, he’d jolt up in the night with a pain so intense he almost wanted to scream. Cursing colorfully under his breath, Guts lights the small lantern next to his cot to see his shins still attached to his body. With the persistent and painful throbbing, however, he knew he wouldn’t be getting sleep anytime soon.

Picking up the lantern, he stumbles to his feet and makes his way outside. Maybe that old bag in the infirmary might have something to cool the pain. Looking up, he notes that the moon had thinned into a little slivered crescent again for the fourth or fifth time since he’d started keeping count. Many weeks had passed to the point where he’d started to lose count if he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Lousy clothes…” he complains to himself, feeling the draft of cold where the hand-me-down’s shirt seam had torn at the shoulder. His shuffling walk to the infirmary is interrupted by spotting a few lingering embers, catching his attention. People were still out and about, but the fires tended to dwindle at this hour to note the sleep of all the bustling blacksmiths. Eager and curious to see the progress on his sword, he pokes his head inside.

“Hey, anyone in here?”

Slowly it’d been revived, from the beaten hunk of steel to the massive blade he had so much fondness for. He expects to see a long tang sticking out of a furnace somewhere, red-hot with heat.

SNEAKS

[garmr]

And so the day came and went where his sword was repaired and returned to him, and there was nothing left for Guts to do in the village but to depart. This realization left him quieter and a little more sullen once all his belongings were piled together in the guest hut. Preparations. It troubled him that he'd developed so much apprehension in such a short amount of time.

Can't have himself banking on false hopes, he reminds himself. This was not his home. He had simply been a guest to some overly generous hosts. And he was getting too used to the comforts of village life. In the month or so he'd been idling in the village, his greatsword had grown a little heavier. The edge was fine, the balance too - he was simply out of practice enough to notice his connection with the sword was off, even if he was leaving the village taller and better fed. This left him even more driven, perhaps fearful that he'd grow too soft if he didn't course-correct immediately.

And so, under a barely brightened sky, while the sun was hidden behind the horizon and the village still seemed asleep, he decided it was time to leave. He didn't want teary goodbyes. Didn't want to think too hard about Lashan, about the old warrior's gentle looks at him, or of Vena's disappointment. He never did get the knife of hers... But that was fine. He already had one, and the little girl could have her first one as a pleasant keepsake. The apothecary would probably breathe an enormous sigh of relief once she wakes up, he imagines.

His mostly solitary exit plans are interrupted, briefly, when he tries to get a small portion of food for the road. Apparently a handful of the girls woke up even earlier than this regularly, which shocked him, and it was certainly an embarassing moment to be caught at the kitchen like a rat using the cover of darkness. He couldn't leave a note, so he asks the two older girls to pass on his goodbyes for him after suffering a light teasing from them.

Easier than confronting his hosts any more, he finds wandering into the stables a simpler task - perhaps considering borrowing a horse - but in the end, simply giving Safflower one final scratch to the side of the neck before he goes. He doubts the animal will remember him if they cross paths again, but some part of him likes to imagine she will.

And from there, tracing the imprints of hooves in the mud towards the gate. The final steps into the forest beyond.

[hasapoint]

PSL ART: All by Maggie Gaunt!