lukeoutbelow | Do not be afraid of light

Do not be afraid of light

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.

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Guts listens quietly to their conversation, though it may as well as be gibberish to him. He’s had very little exposure to mages and magic, having an incredulous look on his face as the old woman goes on to speak of it as a mundane, daily occurrence.

When Lashan makes her leave, he decides to proceed with his initial plan for the evening: lie down on his cot and fail at trying to sleep.

He curls up on his side to best make use of the bed, barely able to fit on it as is. Vena’s staring goes ignored for the first couple of minutes. But when it doesn’t let up, he makes eye contact and frowns.

“What?”

Vena's crept further into the infirmary by then, as if to pick up the tray, but takes this chance to inspect the big guest closely. His muscles are more sharply defined than Lashan's, or the other bayot Sisters in the enclave. And he breathes more loudly. She's looking at his throat and seeing if he's got a bump in there by the time he finally acknowledges her presence. Frowning right back, she asks, "Why aren't you sleeping?"

She might be ten, or a bit older and runty. There are a few suggestions of old scars visible on her, though nothing clear and distinct other than a few pox marks. Traces of blackberry stain are much more obvious and she's gone some time without missing a meal. Vena's lightly patched clothing has panels of embroidery much like Lashan's but less colorful and elaborate and her long, clean hair is half bound in a square knot.

To Guts, Vena just looked like some little kid. Barring the grumpy look to his face, he seems to loosen up a bit when he realizes it’s just the two of them together.

“You ever tried fallin’ asleep with someone starin’ right at you?” he asks, half sitting up.

“Kinda creepy.”

The deflection comes easy, because there is no way in hell he was explaining to this kid that he was too anxious to sleep.

“I was just looking,” Vena says instantly, fully deflected. “Looking’s fine.”

He doesn’t look like he’s going to murder everyone in their beds, which was something she’d heard a few times. Most of the sisters muttering it were also saying the Sister Swordsmith was crazy, of course, so she wasn’t too inclined to believe it. But you never know. He looked very different yesterday.

Speaking of. Vena informs him, “You shouldn’t fight my teacher again. The healers said she’s not allowed to brawl, ‘cause she’s not fifty anymore.” There had been a number of raised voices, among them Lashan’s in an incredulous oh, so I should’ve hid behind a child? Spellcasting takes time!

Edited 2022-06-20 08:28 (UTC)

She sure as hell didn't brawl like some old woman... he muses to himself. He looks mostly tired, now that he didn't feel the need to be so cagey and defensive.

"Won't have a reason to fight her again if your friends don't prod at me with spears. Sound good?"

That may not have been how they saw it, but he woke up out of an injured daze to a bunch of battlefield scavengers with weapons drawn and at the ready. In his experience, there was very little chance that being left alone is what they had in mind, even if he stood down.

Or perhaps withdrawing his sword had become more difficult than simply going down swinging.

Edited 2022-06-21 04:33 (UTC)

She squints suspiciously at him. Lashan would know what he was thinking, but Lashan knows all about mind-gifts and is a little bit open to people around her all the time. To Vena other peoples' thoughts and feelings are still an overwhelming chaos that she usually shields against most of the way, unless she stops to listen. It's hard to talk or act when that wall of not-noise is pressing in around her.

Guts doesn't seem very different from the soldiers she'd known before Lashan met her, though her auntie had always warned Vena not to get too close to the men. Mostly those had been louder, scruffier people and her latent ability had given her an idea which ones were safer than others. Vena tries lowering her shield a bit, making a frown line appear between her eyebrows.

"I guess," she says, although it's been a distinct pause. "Is that why you attacked her?" With her attention split - this is hard! - her voice comes out fainter than it might have otherwise. It had been really frightening, yesterday. She'd known soldiers in some of their pursuits, but not in battle.

The wood frame of the bed creaks as he adjusts his position, sitting up proper. Guts picks up on the awkwardness, but chalks it up to her being a kid over any magic powers. He'd seen plenty of frightened villagers holed up in their lords' castles, including children. From atop a horse and donned in armor, he didn't seem any different from the other soldiers riding around the place. He could understand her feeling fearful.

"The battlefield ain't some training ground in a cushy village. If you don't win, the otherside'll kill you or put you to work until you die. People lie and stab you in the back to save their own hides."

He's blunt about it, in a way that came from simple lived experience. He was about her age when he'd killed his first man.

"If I had a choice, I'd rather take some of my enemy down with me rather than give 'em a chance to catch me."

Vena realizes he's sitting up and casts around distractedly before getting into the chair at the Sister Apothecary's desk. She can see the man isn't talking down to her. Some people do, here, some don't. There are a lot of different backgrounds represented in the Sisterhood and different views on the young come with it. Usually it's good to be told how it really is but it's nice sometimes to pretend to be safe and like things will all be okay, too. Vena is well aware of how little power she has out there.

"My teacher says the only rules in battle are in peoples' heads and you can break them anyway." Variations on 'Lashan says' make up a fair amount of what Vena has to say. "Did you think we were your enemy 'cause we had weapons?"

She frowns more deeply. "But we have to have weapons. People will attack us if we don't, too." Usually being armed and having tall, imposing Lashan up front scares off people who think they're easy prey.

“She’s right. The only rule out there is that you take what you can by the edge of your sword.”

The one iron rule. That’s all that mattered, in the end. There was no room for kindness or friendship or trust in that world.

“If some stranger draws a blade at you, you meet ‘em sword for sword. That’s how it goes for us mercenaries.”

He matched Lashan’s steel with his own, the closest thing to a ‘rule’ that there could be. Whether it be taking life, or securing his own freedom, it was through the strength of his arm and edge of his blade. And by now, he’d found he had quite a penchant for getting what he wanted with it.

It seems pretty horrible to her. Lashan, Vena knows, thinks of battle as something like a series of connections and intersections with other people and the world around them. A lot of those connections are stabbing, of course. She always, whenever Vena's sensed the idea in her, is in some way thinking of protecting someone else, or avenging them. Lashan's own survival is not as important. It's not lonely in the same way, but there's still a sickening exhilaration and chaos to it, and a kind of pride too.

Slowly she says, "But you like it, kind of." Not a kind of liking that Vena quite understands but she can't think of another word. "She likes it too, but... different."

He could replace her, she thinks with a sudden panic, eyes widening. Lashan thinks this man is like her - noticing they have almost the same scar had tipped her over into taking him home with them - and so, what if she ends up liking him better than Vena? Where will she be? "But she's like me."

"What.. that old bag of bones?"

He laughs, having most definitely picked up on the kid's train of thought after watching her expression. It doesn't take too much to figure out she was worried about Lashan's approval. She seemed to be the only proper warrior that he could see out in this village, and it was hard to explain that life to others. Is that why she'd taken pity on him?

"I owe her one, but you can keep her. No one ties me down."

He assumes the picture of a very Aloof and Cool teenager who is used to living on his own. He doesn't need the approval of some old lady and her nursery.

Vena scowls at him and a defense of the old woman is on the tip of her tongue if she can just unscramble enough to think of what to start with. Then she thinks, if he doesn't like it here and he doesn't like Sister Lashan, even if that's objectively wrong, he won't stay anyway.

"When are you leaving then?" Her eyes stray to his shoulder. Some of the bandaging is visible through the deep V-neck of his borrowed shirt. "It's when you heal and can use your arm more, right? Or do you want my teacher to fix your... your sword wife thing?"

Healing goes better here than with that army encampment where she was born. Faster, and cleaner, and the wounds don't go bad. That's about the extent of her knowledge on that subject, except that she's also heard that sleeping helps.

“Once my sword and my arm are good, I go.“

Same as it’s always been. He prods restlessly at the layers of linens protecting the dressing he applied to himself. The sharp pain had numbed, but it still had quite a bit of healing to do - by ordinary means, anyway.

“A place like this’s too quiet for me.”

He gets up to his feet and takes a look outside. The warmth of the fire was making his wounds burn.

"We don't have a drum to follow here," Vena says. This is what she'd maintained before Lashan decided to bring him home. He won't want to make things or train the girls to fight, he can't learn magic, so he'll get bored and want money and go.

She gets up herself to see what he's looking at, keeping a good arm's length between them. There's still light in the sky but it's darker in general now. A stockade made from rough wood is visible encircling the compound, and a guard tower with a sentry watching the world outside of it. Within, a small procession is making its way around the wall, singing or chanting in rhythm. Lashan watches them at it, easily identifiable even from a distance with her back turned. A few girls have gathered to take very similar poses as if imitating her.

"They're keeping evil things away. My teacher says most people don't need it but sometimes, girls are cursed, or... something." The Sisterhood takes in a lot of strange outcasts, ghostbait included. Vena is vaguely aware that since she has magic she would be ghostbait out there unprotected. She's not sure she ever saw a ghost even before Lashan found her. Strange, creepy things had happened in the camp in those last few months, right?

All she can really remember is a soldier with a whetstone, sharpening his sword before he could go to bed. The sound had carried in a way she hadn't liked, and... wait. Vena turns to look up at the man. "If you've got a sword to sharpen, will you sleep more?"

"A sword and a bit of cold breeze, yeah."

Guts speaks his wishes absently, figuring nothing will come of it. Lashan already made the sentiments of the village clear on giving him a weapon. He approaches the infirmary's entry, getting a good look at the procession at the gate. Their ritual looked and sounded strange, but no less so than the parades of the church where he came from.

He guesses they were just as good at warding off evil as all those priests with their dumb robes and hats.

"I'm gonna go get some fresh air."

He begins to step outside, moving away from the bustle of girls (and definitely away from the bathhouse) to hopefully find a spot that was more isolated. He was never good at staying still for too long.

Edited 2022-06-23 04:14 (UTC)

“Hm,” Vena says, trying to sound like Lashan when she’s acknowledging something but won’t commit yet. As he steps out she re-shields again - the minds of others are starting to press in on her - and picks up the tray with the used dishware. It’s awkward but not too heavy, she spends a moment rearranging things so carrying it will be easier.

It’s as she goes through the doorway that she remembers Lashan told her to show him around and keep people from poking him. Vena does not think to put the tray down, she holds it closer to her chest and runs clattering after Guts.

“Wait! Waaait, I’m supposed to watch you!”

He is very definitely being either watched or conspicuously not watched by everyone around him. They’ll relax a bit if the apprentice is there.

"Why'd you bring the dishes with you?"

Great. Now when her arms get tired, who's going to have to carry it back?

Once she catches up, he continues onward towards the opposite end of the compound. The discreet staring doesn't seem to rustle him much, as long as they kept their distance. He is used to fending off a rougher looking crowd.

The terrain was rather flat, he notices. No high spot to look overhead until the moon rose proper. He is drawn to the corrals for the horses, noticing the creatures were rather squat and stout-looking. He had no immediate plans to flee in the dark, but it was good to know where his escape options were.

Circling around the wooden fencing, he stops at the stables, attempting to guess the height of the walls. Not exactly a hill, but maybe a sloping roof will do, if he can find a good handhold.

Edited 2022-06-23 16:13 (UTC)

Vena scowls up at him. “I’ve gotta take them back to the refectory! You don’t have to wash your own, but not ‘cause you’re a boy, ‘cause you’re a guest and shot up.” It is very annoying to her to think that there’s ‘woman’s work’ here as soon as there’s a man, but camp life is coming back to her and she remembers that none of the men would cook or clean up after themselves or help at all, even when they had weeks of no battle.

She follows him. Here in the cooling late afternoon, not long before evening service, people are out taking a bit of leisure. Children chase around balls and inflated animal bladders. Women chat, massage each others’ sore hands and arms, and relax in various ways. All activity seems to slow and hush as Guts approaches and picks up again as he passes, voices louder. Various people adjust their plunging necklines.

There are one or two taller geldings about. Rangy and past their prime, not that they were ever powerful. The most dangerous animal present is the enormous ox saddled under the girl Ilse, walking placid circuits while chewing cud. When she glares at Guts the ox she’s riding snorts and rolls its head on its thick neck, showing off its horns, but they don’t leave the paddock.

The stockade walls are maybe twelve feet high or so, the large logs that make them up hacked into rough points. Past them, past some amount of cleared ground, pine forest is visible.

“What are you looking for?” Vena asks.

The picturesque image of a perfectly droll village. Women, kids, and mangy looking farm animals. It smelled like a farm, too. He can't wait to get the hell out of here and back onto the trails.

The ox girl's stink-eye gets a fleeting and bored expression, figuring that'd be more infuriating than properly glaring back. Guts can worry about what she has to think when she gets the nerve to confront him directly.

At the stable, he looks up and down, circling the wooden building. Pretty tall, but nothing he can't handle, he thinks. He answers Vena's question by grabbing onto a jutting wooden lintel with his good arm and climbing up to the sloped roof.

It's not as smooth as he'd like, wincing when he pulled more weight on his left shoulder than he should. He manages to get to the top with some extra support from his legs, putting more force into his jump. Once comfortably on the top, he remains crouched on all fours.

"Hey," Vena protests from the ground. There's a clink as she puts the dishes down.

It's not the best footing up there. The thatched roof is shaggy and shows the signs of weathering in rain and sun, the top layer disintegrating to the touch. Bits of straw compost slide off the roof with his every movement. A small chicken that has flown up here gives him an unreadable bird look, its comb flopping with the motion of its little head, and refuses to budge from its place on the roof's point.

The view is good, though. The woman in the closest watch tower is a bit higher up and gives Guts a startled, concerned look before turning her attention outwards again. The watch towers are each not much more advanced than the palisade, basically a platform on stilts, half enclosed by boards and with a flat roof for shade and a ladder for easier access.

The layout inside is much neater and more organized than the usual sprawl of a village, reflecting that the enclave had been planned out instead of arising organically. Several of the buildings, which tend towards a relatively uniform style and quality, are fairly large. Many have functions difficult to discern at a glance. One really tall pine, its trunk wider across than that saddled ox is long, stands looming besides the building that sports the most elaborate carvings on its walls.

Outside there are a few outbuildings, cultivated fields, pasture sort of fields, and a bit of transitional scrub before it becomes evident that the pine left alive besides the temple is actually quite average for the area. One unpaved road and a few less distinct trails lead out into the woods. Things... move near them, now and again, well hidden. Probably just deer.

Red-faced, making angry little noises of effort, Vena hauls herself up onto the roof, clinging to the thatch with both hands. Having worked herself into a tiny rage thinking about this specific thing, she says, "If you can climb you can wash your own dishes."

He watches Vena struggle up to the ceiling up with some amusement. Her stubbornness to follow him is admirable, if nothing else. Once she gets within arm's reach, he grips her by the back of the shirt to drag her bodily to a more secure spot.

"Climb near the wood beams, not the thatching. The old lady'll get pissed at me if you fall and break something."

Who was babysitting who, exactly? Guess he was looking after this dumb kid now. He gets up to his feet, testing the strength of the diagonal beams by leaning onto it with his boot. He might be a bit denser than whoever typically came up to do work here, but not by that much.

And so, with the hard part out of the way, he strides up to the top point of the roof to join that chicken. The view and the light breeze was nicer up there.

"Hey," she says again, more feebly but still indignant, as he pulls her into a different position like a scruffed kitten. "She'll be mad at me if I let you wander off!" That's not quite right. Lashan's never been angry at her. She would be understanding, and blame herself, and Vena would feel small and very stupid. She really wants instead to have that approving touch to her back, or even better, to impress her.

Errrrrk, is the chicken's only comment. By now the sun is out of sight behind tall pines. The sky is light yet, though shading darker, and the moon is just rising, indistinct in the still-blue sky. Other than the noise of the enclave, it's fairly quiet. Birds are getting in a last round of singing, and the pines sigh in the wind.

"What are you looking for?" Vena asks again, having got up higher rather more slowly. She is not going to unshield and listen for thoughts, this takes concentration and the idea of falling off and proving Guts right on any level is mortifying.

"Told you already, I wanted get some fresh air. Heat was making my wounds burn."

Satisfied with his perching spot, Guts gets comfy there on the rooftop. No matter how gruesome things got after a war, it was always peaceful to watch the dusk fade and see the stars.

So, for a while, he drinks in the sight of the trees beyond the barricades, the dirt roads and the structure of the town. Fires begin to get lit with the coming of the night, bathing small areas with warmth. He catches the moon, barely visible in its waning stages. Despite lacking a weapon, it was easier to relax away from all the village inhabitants.

Vena gets herself to the spine of the roof and lays down with her legs and body on one side, her arms held out straight and chin propped on the other, like she was draped over it. Because she's young, this is comfortable, despite straw bits immediately sticking to her. The square knot in her hair is coming messily undone.

"That's the temple to the Twins," she says, propping herself up and pointing. "And the bathhouse. The refectory. There's the glassworker's forge, and master's forge, and there's the armory and the salle." Vena points out a few more buildings and then hooks her chin over the roof's spine again and lapses back into silence, kicking her feet in the air now and then in a fidget. There are some things she'd like to be doing more but this isn't bad.

As the sky goes to indigo a chiming rings out from the temple, and many of the people below start to move towards it. The sentries in their towers stay where they are.

"That's evening service. I'm not goin' this time. It's not required." Vena doesn't mind the services, even if she doesn't really feel the presence of the four gods called the Twins. They do tend to go a little longer than she likes, though. She looks down at the slowly clearing enclave and, speculatively, at Guts.

"Service?" he makes a face.

"Never bothered with 'em. I don't think God cares about people like me, anyway."

Or whatever form 'God' took in this little backwoods town out in the middle of nowhere. Mercenaries were not typically a religious sort, though superstitions were rife among soldiers. Bad omens, good signs, Death itself waiting over your shoulder. A priest of the Holy See would condemn such things.

None of it felt as real as his sword or the ground or a panting horse under him. He keeps watching the moon, the silvery crescent becoming more visible as the night darkened.

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