Ash on the Wind

[Xarkly 12853]

ASH ON THE WIND

 

Spoiler

 

 

---

 

Sigismund and Eirik Baruch walked slowly through the outer bailey.

 

Sig was grateful that the stench of smoke masked the smell of death, as each bootstep crunched on charred wood and stirred a cloud of fresh ash. That same ash mired the air like woodland spores, marking the wind with wispy grey trails as it snaked through outer Karosgrad. On a normal day, the road on which Sig and the Palatine now stood would have been thronged with peasants collecting firewood, farmers driving their cattle to market, or the Knight’s Table mounting their patrols.

 

Today, ash and bodies replaced them.

 

Be still, a voice in Sig’s head whispered as he began to twitch a finger. Be stone. He could not afford to falter; despite the ashen haze that hung in the air, he could still make out his people all around him. Head-scarfed clinicians moved in lines, carrying the wounded - and the dead - back to the city, but they were outnumbered by the clusters of Brotherhood soldiers gathering up the corpses of red-coated Orenians to be buried. Some stared at the Orenian corpses with venom, others with sympathy, some regret, while some joined the priests in murmuring prayers for their souls.

 

Despite the death all around him, despite the thick ash that hung over Karosgrad like a veil, the air was electric with optimism. Through the din of coughing and prayers, laughter and bursts of song echoed throughout the bailey. As Sig and Eirik rounded the road leading to the outer gate, a trio of Brotherhood armsmen clearing the body of a fallen horse roared out the lyrics to Trollslayer’s Ballad:

 

“The red walls stood firm, and her men bared their weapons! ‘Take another step forward,’ they called, ‘and be sent to the heavens!’” 

 

That song had been written in honour of those who died defending Karosgrad from the great Rimetroll incursion, and celebrated the city's endurance. The irony of the moment was not lost on Sig.

 

“Forgive me for saying so, Majesty,” Eirik intoned softly as he and Sig continued towards the gate, “but you don’t exactly seem … ah, alight with glee.” 

 

“Hmph.” Sig frowned as he glanced towards the Palatine. Eirik had changed into a fresh cap and beaverskin cloak after the battle, and had even had time to rinse the dirt and blood from his face. Compared to everyone else around him, the grin on the Palatine’s face seemed resplendent. “Is it so obvious?”

 

“Your face looks like a thundercloud,” the Ayrian said wistfully. “What is it? You don't see this as a great victory for the Kongzem?” 

 

A great victory … Sig paused as they reached the foot of the bailey’s gatehouse, and glanced over his shoulder. Through the haze of the ash, black-gold banners snapped above the heads of singing soldiers. Was it? 

 

No one could deny the fact that a host of nearly 6,500 Orenians had marched to Karosgrad, and the combined Accord forces of nearly ten thousand had driven them many leagues from the red walls, all the way to their refuge in Norland. They had fought on the hills, on the roads, and then as far as the frozen lakes of the Rimeveld - not once, but twice - before the fighting had ended, far from the Orenian's target of Karosgrad.

 

Then why do I feel like this? Sig raised his hands, dirt and blood alike thick in the groves, despite the fact that he had fought with gauntlets. His eyes traced up, and fell upon the Orenian corpses strewn on the road to Vidaus beyond the gate. Eyes, filmed with death, stared up in horror at the sky, with lances, arrows, and broken spears plunged deep inside their mail. A red-and-white striped Orenian banner, snapped at the mast, stirred weakly from one of the bodies.

 

“Eirik,” he began slowly. He was vaguely aware that some of the Haeseni soldiers had spotted him through the ash. “I don’t know if I …” He trailed off as he looked into the dead eyes of the fallen Orenians. What … What were their last thoughts? He found himself asking. Was it hate? God? A part of him found that unlikely. Or … home? And family? 

 

His stomach abruptly felt as if his guts had knotted themselves. The sinking thought of his own children - his beloved Klara, Karl, Sergei, Josef, and Maya - being told that their father had fallen in battle hit him like a hammer. Nearly four thousand - Accord and Orenian alike - had fallen on this day, and that number echoed in his mind like a shout in a chasm.

 

How many children orphaned? How many marriages sundered? Despite it being the second consecutive victory for the Accord, it was the second of countless more battles to come. It took him a moment to realise the low grinding sound was his own teeth. 

 

“Eirik … I …” 

 

Before he could whisper another word, the Palatine clamped a hand on his shoulder. “The soldiers,” he intoned quietly for only Sig’s ears. “They’re watching. The whole kingdom is.”

 

It was true, Sig saw. The soldiers that had spotted him had thrown up a cry of ‘KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM’ that had echoed throughout the bailey. Within seconds, a crowd of triumphant Brotherhood soldiers had gathered, cheering, watching. Watching them -- watching him. 

 

“I don’t know if I …” He did not finish the sentence, for there were multiple endings. In the face of war on his own home, he did not know if he had the strength to cause so much death. He did not know if he had the strength to orphan so many, to snuff out so many lives, or worse, to face the possibility that he might let his beloved children lose their father. 

 

Why did it have to fall to me? Why could I not have had the time of my father and grandfather? The sound of the victorious calls behind him seemed to fade into silence in his mind, replaced by the lonely whistle of the ash-clogged wind as it wound down the road. Why do I have to be the one who has to fight? He pressed a bloodied hand to his temple as he winced. All I wanted to do was live in peace in my walls. 

 

His shoulders shook with a hollow laugh. As well as wish that the sky was red; no matter how much he wished it were not the case, this war had fallen upon his time, and no matter if he had broken his word to the Dwarves and secluded himself in Haense, it would have come all the same. “I never asked for this,” he snarled under his breath, and he glared through his fingers up at the ashen sky. “I never asked to be your Fidei Defensor.” 

 

“I know,” came Eirik’s response, solemn and sympathetic. “But you have no choice. We do not choose our role in history ... but it is your duty to play the one given to you."

 

The mirthless laughter continued, and Sig felt tears shroud his eyes. He knew. He had always known. It was just mere days ago, at the Battle of the Bards, that he had spoken the same paradox to a Qalasheen visitor: those who have the most power have the least. 

 

He had no choice now. 

 

He doubted that he ever did.

 

But why? Why should I be the one forced to take up this mantel? Why should this fight be mine? Even Eirik seemed to have vanished in Sig's mind, now. It were as if he stood alone on that ash-strewn road. I could just ... I could break my word ... shelter inside Haense's walls and enjoy my paradise for just a few more years before they come for us ... Surely I ... I could ...

 

No. He closed his fists. He knew he could not. He had built Haense into his own paradise, a place where the streets were thronged with playing children and leal subjects, of chivalrous knights and true friends. He had committed a cardinal sin as a monarch, and come to love his own family to the point of distraction from his duties. But he knew that he could not selfishly retreat to that paradise, and leave the rest of the world to fight without him, for the very same reason that it had become his paradise in the first place. 

 

So many had died to bring Haense so far. Even in Sig's own lifetime, he had lost so much: Eleanora, his first love; Marus, his younger brother whose laugh still haunted him; Igor, his first tutor; Cedric, his first protector; Ailred, who had taught him to fight, and how to lead; Henrietta, his first friend; Fionn, who had died in his service; Annika, the woman who had been his true mother ... and Petra, the one person whom Sig had cherished above all others. They had all lived and died for the land that was not just their birthplace, but had been a place they believed in. A good place. Before them, the dead that had given their souls to this land were beyond count.

 

At that moment, Sig could feel them. They were there, and they were watching.

 

They were watching to see what had become of the land they had loved, and the lives they gave.

 

Would it break its honour, and cower behind walls until their enemies came for them?

 

Or would they stand as they did today in the face of an army that claimed itself greater, and perhaps, just maybe, win?

 

As he reached for the sword sheathed at his side - his first blade, a gift from the late Ser Ailred - Sig looked one last time at the snapped Orenian banner on the road, and the bodies strewn around it. I'm sorry. I don't hate you. But I have my duty ... and you have yours. 

 

With a hiss, the sword left its sheath as Sig turned around to the soldiers, and he held it high. A sudden silence washed over them.

 

“LET THIS BE A MESSAGE,” he bellowed, then, his face contorted into a glare. Not an ounce of hesitation remained. “WE HAVE WON HERE TODAY! KAROSGRAD STANDS!” 

 

"KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM!" The crowd roared back without hesitation.

 

"KAROSGRAD STANDS!"

 

"KRAWN AG KONGZEM!"

 

"KAROSGRAD STANDS!"

 

The cry formed on the lips of the onlookers, curled into brazen grins, as they began to chant ‘KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM’, but Sig did not smile. 

 

Whether he was righteous - sane, even - or whether he would be condemned in history or cut down in the first proper battle, he did not know. He only knew he could not be the monster they needed to lead them in this war. In his heart, he knew that ultimate truth.

 

But he would pretend he was until the very end, even if it cost him his soul.

[Capt_Chief26 1205]

Ser Reinhardt Barclay lifted the visor of his helmet as he surveyed the carnage of the battlefield, he let out a slow exhale, catching his breath “ich live to fight another day, ich guess…” he shrugged, kicking some charred imperial helmet aside from his path. “At least the city ist safe, und those bastards didn’t breach the walls..” he huffed still trying to get more air in his lungs after being stuffed inside the claustrophobic space of his battle plate. He turned his attention to the walls to see his Majesty, Sigismund III standing there taking in their victory. The knight wondered what the Koeng was thinking.. “Krusae Zwy Koengzem..” he muttered to himself amongst the sea of his cheering battle brothers 

Edited January 31, 2022 by Capt_Chief26

[sarahbarah 5030]

The late Princess Petra Emma watched over her brother Sigismund with great pride, smiling down at him from the Skies above.

 

"Krusae zwy Kongzem, little brother. Some day, we will meet again."

[GMRO 5285]

The eyes of a young boy drilled heavily into the figure of his father as he stood among the debris of the battlefield. Whilst his father had been by no means the tallest among the group assembled, especially on account of Orcs among those ranks, he did seem to stand above the rest.

[UnusualBrit 2064]

4 minutes ago, sarahbarah said:

The late Princess Petra Emma watched over her brother Sigismund with great pride, smiling down at him from the Skies above.

 

"Krusae zwy Kongzem, little brother. Some day, we will meet again."

Spoiler

But not yet... not yet.

 

[erictafoya 2309]

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[__Stal27 269]

A young page would listen to those bellowing around him, taking a moment to himself as he remained in his thoughts after the battle, he knew how much his mother disliked the idea of the young boy participating within conflicts and skirmishes at his age, yet he had continued to participate, he had much more to learn, yet he seemed deeply experienced in the warfare that he had been birthed into. He did not know what it was that pushed him to do so, his goal of wanting to become a knight, whether it was simply patriotism or commitment. In the end his reasoning mattered little to what was occurring around him, knowing that this was a new era and time, Adhemar Dusek Morovar, the knight in making would sheath his blade, pointing it up to the sky as blood ran down his face would finally exclaim, "KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM! KAROSGRAD STANDS!"

Edited January 31, 2022 by Armod

[Juli 1341]

Isabel of Valwyck sat reclined within the seven skies, drawing a freshly poured cup of Carrion to her lips as she observed her grandson below before sparing a glance to her husband, Josef. A short smile crept onto her lips upon recalling her own promise she made with Josef as a child to pretend until they were confident enough to fulfill their roles. "I do nie think I ever stopped pretending..." She'd idly comment before lowering her gaze back to her grandson. 

[zuziee 3236]

The evening after the battle, the kings youngest took to learning her first prayer. Her most beloved teacher lit a candle in a chapel, whispering cold words into the holy air for Maya to breath warmth into. Repeating the phrase and signing her Lorraine. 

[garentoft 8354]

“I know,” came Eirik’s response, solemn and sympathetic. “But you have no choice. We do not choose our role in history ... but it is your duty to play the one given to you."

 

Duty this, duty that. He scoffed at his own words, unwilling to go down the train of thought that steamed through his mind when it came to the concept. Duty; an obligation. He had sworn himself to it twenty years ago, face to face with one of Lichtestadt’s balconies and the drop that could have killed himself in an instant. He could have refused to play his role then, given all of it up for what–-a brief sense of relief? He refused to think about it more than that, I have a duty. His mind repeated, never bothering to answer the questions that arose: To whom do I have a duty? Why do I have a duty?

 

His eyes trailed from Sigismund, who he thought was much too lost in his own thoughts to even register Eirik if he had blown a trumpet in his ear. The ashes howled with the wind, and in his mind he envisioned his five little girls: Isabel, Saoirse, Margrait, Eileen, and Freya, running across the plains surrounding Lichtestadt upon a summer day. But his two looming shadows remained ever behind him, the one that had left him to his own devices, leaving him to lead his family with no clue how to do so, and the one that had abandoned him when he needed her the most.

 

 “I’m not doing this for you,” he rasped, for the thought of them always filled him with sudden anger, “I’m doing this to give them everything you never gave me.” his finger drifted upwards to the apparition he had envisioned earlier, which was now nothing but ashes being blown around in circles by the icy wind.

 

The hiss of Sigismund unsheathing his blade brought Eirik’s attention back to the bodies around them, the Orenians and Haeseni alike that had given their lives for the sake of this war and their respective nations. He wished that he could hold any ill will towards those who fought against him, but his heart shattered every time he realised that they, too, were simply performing their duties, and left nothing but the words his wife echoing through his ears: “You could not be corrupted Eirik - you’ve always been so … Good.”

As Sigismund concluded, and the cheers of soldiers and militia alike echoed over the ashen battlefield, he muttered a sombre “Krusae zwy Kongzem.”

 

He only wondered how much longer he could pretend.

[MissToni 3487]

Erika Barclay wandered around the road after the battle. Her gaze landing on some of the dead bodies. It could have been her, her armour and sword had after all broken during the end of the battle. She looked to her father and the other Barclays. She watched them cheer for their victory, and so she did too. But she did not enjoy it, taking the life of others. There was once a time she thought it would be like taking the life of an animal for food, or that of a monster attacking her. But it was not, it did not feel right fighting others that had lives much like her. Dreams that had been snuffed out by her hand or that of other soldiers. Nonetheless she cheered for their victory, and pretended she enjoyed the war like she saw others did. 

 

"KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM!" she bellowed out, though a frown upon her visage as she did.

[CopOwl 1668]

And who knew Death like a Dame?

 

Death, that cruel mistress; who pilfers the heart and later crushes it to her own pleasure. 

Well, surely her appetite had been quenched. 

 

The striking scent of Death filled the air.

Her perfume eluded to her sweet musk, while her touch left behind only the body's husk.

 

Dame Lynette Mendez paused in her step, two indistinct corpses of those lost flung over her plated shoulder.

It didn't matter who they were; which nation they hailed from. They had died for this institution called war, and they deserved a proper burial. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she returned from one of her countless trips along the roads to collect the dead. From the corner of her well-trained eye, she caught the figure of Sigismund. 

 

To a Knight, the circlet placed upon his brow, his recognizable royal garb, and his stony expression stirs something deep and residual within. That desire to protect and serve calls to the heart with profound pressure, and within an instant the Dame found herself stationed as close as she could get through the crowd to the King's right flank, standing stock still like a stone pillar. 

 

That cry to the heart matches that of Lady Death, whose irrefutable hail beckons one to die in service to their Liege. It is tempting, an invitation of honour. What is a more honourable way to die? Dying on one's deathbed, surrounded by family? Or impaled on a pike, allowing scarlet fluid to seep through chainmail as you think back upon your life and the mistakes you made, the regrets you have; That you didn't hug your daughter one last time, or tell your son you love him.

 

The Dame's eyes glanced between the gathering crowd before her and her Liege. He looked tired. He looked like she did, except he was half her age. And on occasion she still found joy in her life, even though everyone she loved was either sick and dying or dead already. But sheer determination and duty could sustain a person far longer than love could, or so she thought.

 

It was like a light at the end of the tunnel, at the end of the long road. "You have to keep going," She would later tell herself, insistently, "People need you. At least... Until..." A clouded thought filled her mind. "You have to keep going." She reiterated, "What is this moniker for, if not to fuel you... Forever." 

 

The face of Sigimund would forever fill her conscience, until that cry from Lady Death comes, and it comes for us all.

 

I must... "KAROSGRAD STANDS!" 

 

"Now, and always."

[Herod 807]

A distant figure watches from afar with a beaming smile as two dearest friends of his embrace their duty.

”No matter the amount of mercenaries or armies, none shall stand in the way of what is right.”

[crazedpudding 2154]

Eleanora Amador stared down at the carnage, silver tears falling from her eyes for the man she had once sworn to love always. A hand held the delicate string of pearls, gifted to her so long ago. "Vy have fought for so long, forgive me for niet being there to fight at vyr side."