Delgared cleaned his armor when the knight interrupted him. “Delgared,” the nobleman said while stepping into the weapons and armor tent.
“Sir Ectorian.” Delgared lifted his hand in salute.
“How’s it going?” Ectorian had a reddish hue, probably from all the wine he had been drinking. His breath came out as deep pushes. Inside the wide, long tent, weapons hung along with armors, protected from the cold by oil lamps burning every second step from each other. The legionnaires scurried here and there while carrying out their tasks. Many of them ordered, some of them punished to clean armors, sharpen weapons. But Delgared had always preferred to look after his own gear. That task was one of few exceptions from his infamous laziness. It was better that way and wiping away all the dirt on his scaled armor until it shined, and the chain mail glittered, was more of a pleasure than hard work. Keeping the armor set from rusting, oiling it, sharpening his longsword … It was all comforting for him.
“Good,” Delgared said while looking at his armor set, hanging on two hangers. The wine red gambeson, the padded wine red hoses and his scaled gauntlets took up one hanger, while the other was burdened by riveted chain mail, scaled armor and greaves, and with his topped helmet of shining, hardened steel. With the sides ornated with golden eagles, the sigil of the Republic. The helmet had riveted mail protecting his chin, his cheeks, mouth and nose. A veranian’s armor. My armor.
“It’s a fine armor set,” Ectorian said.
“Aye … Why you’re here?”
Ectorian put his hand on Delgared’s shoulder. He faced Delgared’s questioning gaze with a smile. “A bet.”
“A bet?” Delgared repeated.
“That’s the idea. If you win, you’ll get two hundred silver evinians. If I win you give me the same sum.”
Delgared thought for a moment. His wage was nothing to cheer for. He hadn’t lived much better than an enslaved minotaur since moving away from home. He had to live sparsely, as only a lump of bread could cost him two bronze evinians.
If I win on the other hand … Can I take a knight though?
“If I win, I want more than two hundred silver coins,” Delgared said. “I want fifty gold evinians.”
“Agreed.”
Delgared felt regretful. Why didn’t he ask for more?
*
Sir Ectorian was well prepared. Standing in the mustering field, he stayed at a suitable distance. He was covered in a red coat of arms, and beneath it chain mail and gambeson. His kneecaps shone and his chain mail hoses glittered.
Snow fell onto the frozen mud. Legionnaires, knights and cataphracts had formed a large circle around the two duelists, and Taria was among them. My lover. For you I fight as well. Delgared watched the knight carefully. Never underestimate your opponent. Sir Ectorian used to fight with sword and shield, but for friendliness’s sake he had chosen a blunted two handed sword, just like the training longsword Delgared held.
Delgared stood ready in his armor. His chain mail hauberk and hoses covered legs, arms and torso, a gambeson and thick woolen hoses beneath. Delgared’s scaled hauberk was his outer layer, and the kneecaps protected him. His helmet fitted him perfectly, like always.
Snowflakes fell around them; steel clad boots trampled the frozen mud. Delgared and Ectorian had a lot of empty space in the middle, more than they needed to move around. Taria smiled, she stood beside Bordos who cheerfully raised his fist. Even Sir Dalan was there to watch. The colonel was accompanied by two captains. “The first one to hit his opponent ten times wins!” Sir Dalan declared.
“Are you ready for a fight?” Ectorian hollered.
Delgared raised his thumb.
“Brace yourself,” Ectorian shouted as he charged in.
Delgared tightened the grip of his blunted, two handed sword. A training replica of the real sword that had saved his life many times. He stood in the Eagle, one of the basic guards Engsmark’s sword masters had brought across the seas. His longsword was raised over his head by his gloved hands, with his feet a yard apart Delgared was ready.
Ectorian made his cut, but Delgared blocked and turned to the side. He continued, parrying while stepping to the one side or the other. Their swords clanged in the silence. White smoke huffed from their mouths. Ectorian had a half helmet on. It gave him clear vision.
Delgared parried. He went on the offensive, made cuts and swinging combinations to keep the knight at bay. Whenever they came too close, wrestling was used. They raced to be the first one to grab onto the other’s sword grip so they could cut into the belly of the opponent. Delgared lost the first of such a fight but won the second. They kicked or punched each other when the other came too close, to make room for a point scoring cut or thrust.
They grunted, both tired.
It was five-five now. Ectorian was a hard nut to crack, a knight who loved battle. Ectorian changed guard, held his longsword over his right shoulder, the tip pointing behind him. The Stag, the most common guard.
Delgared switched guard also. He stood in the Fool, with his longsword pointing to the ground on his right side. A guard of deception.
Ectorian made his cut and Delgared riposted, scored six-five with a well-placed cut from his left side.
They were ready again. Delgared went on the offensive this time, charged upper right, upper left, lower right, lower left. Swords clanging, binding and coming off each other, all in a fast succession.
Six-six. Ectorian won this exchange.
Delgared charged in again, but this time Ectorian blocked decisively. The knight rammed into him and Delgared realized that Ectorian would cut against his head. Delgared just managed to jump away, and the knight laughed. “A quick one! But are you quick enough?”
“I do what I can,” Delgared replied. He cut against head, arms, torso and legs. Complicated, improvised combinations. Combinations Ectorian parried with his own longsword every time. Swords clanging. The two made spinning, vertical cuts from the head, wide swings from the legs that turned into thrusts against torso and throat. Their swords faced each other again and again. Seven-seven. Eight-eight. Sweat flowing.
Ectorian made a thrust, but Delgared just managed to jump to the side. He stood in the Fool now. Delgared countered.
Nine-eight.
The legionnaires gave good advice to the both of them.
He’s skillful. Taking everything I throw at him.
Ectorian won the next exchange. Nine-nine. The following point would decide the whole ordeal.
Delgared grunted. He was exhausted. Sweat dripping onto the ground, snow falling. He switched guard, positioned himself into the Wolf. With his feet one yard apart and his longsword pointing from his left side to the center, against Ectorian’s throat, Delgared waited for his opponent’s move. He wanted to lure the knight into the bind.
Ectorian also switched to the Wolf. The two longswords were only a small distance apart, almost crossing.
Delgared took the bind – the two swords crossed – and made a cut. The knight parried, riposted. Delgared made a half step to the side, cut again. Ectorian blocked, made a cut Delgared faced. The two swords crossed again and again. They binded, their longswords like two snakes together, each swordsman reaching for the strong part of the blade so they could dominate their opponent.
Delgared avoided a thrust and made a cut to his opponent’s shoulder. Ectorian parried and both backed away. Taking deep breaths.
Ectorian cut from the left and Delgared from the right. Their longswords binded. Ectorian rammed him again and Delgared felt clobbered.
He saw Ectorian racing to cut him down. This is it; they will think. And I’ll be indebted. What they hadn’t counted on was Delgared’s determination. He smiled when he proved them wrong, parried Ectorian’s fast swing to the leg and cut him so hard, his helmet clanged.
Snow fell and the wind howled, and yet everyone had heard it.
Applause.
Delgared had never seen Ectorian this surprised. The knight dropped the blunted longsword on the ground and offered Delgared his gauntlet clad hand. “This man has defeated me in an honest duel!”
Delgared grunted from pain and sweat as Ectorian raised Delgared’s arm. The knight lowered it and said: “I promised you fifty gold evinians, but I changed my mind.”
That damned smile.
“Since I’m so impressed – Delgared, you’re the first captain that’s defeated me in a duel – something many knights can’t boast about – I’ll give you five hundred gold evinians. Less is too little for a champion like you.”
Ectorian laughed while the others cheered. Even Sir Dalan looked happy. Taria made an air kiss, but Delgared just stood there. Five hundred gold evinians, a small fortune. For a moment, Delgared forgot the biting cold.
*
Delgared sat by the fire, looking up at the northern lights. My first time.
Delgared took in all the beauty before he peered at the wild boar. The beast was served on a stake, roasting over fire. They had all been given a ration of it, along with cooked potatoes, mushrooms and brown sauce. As the winner of the highly entertaining duel Delgared had been given the largest ration.
It was midnight, but Delgared wasn’t tired. He could be up all night.
On the other side of the fire sat Bordos, one of his closest friends. The big fighter, a man that took the fight to the minotaurs with his battle axe. Beside him sat the Fox, a nickname she had thanks to her red hair and wordplays. Right now she was playing the lute. To her left a legionnaire sung softly while sharpening his longsword. He was perhaps the only legionnaire from the highlands of Marnôr that didn’t choose the longbow.
“I’m going to bed with Taria,” Delgared said. “Bordos, you’re in command for the night.” Delgared rose and took Taria with him. Bordos drank and the fire crackled.
*
The tent felt warm thanks to the braziers. Clothes and armor parts laying scattered around him, Delgared sat up under the bear pelt. His red brown hair fell down across his chest.
Taria sighed. “As usual all’s a mess in here. Why must you always be so lazy?”
“I’m me.” Delgared smirked.
“You’re you, but damn, you wouldn’t survive without me.”
“No, my heart’s joy and sorrow.”
She tilted her head sideways. “I’ll make sure that you clean up next morning, arsehole. I’m too horny now and we’re alone.”
Taria seated herself next to him and Delgared was stricken by the beauty of her hazel eyes. He tilted his head towards her shoulder and closed his eyes. Delgared felt the loveliness of her stroking his hair. Their lips met in a kiss. “I love you,” he said.
“Love you too,” she replied, kissing his belly. Showing him with actions what she said with words. He heard the wind, howling outside, and her sweet lips when she kissed his chest. They had came as a gift to King Tyrimer. Three whole battalions, a force of two thousand men and women – mostly men, as the common gender norm in society said that women stayed home to take care of the children. But a few women, like the Fox, or like his beloved Taria, had rebelled the gender norms to join the Legion. If they showed skills in battle; with tactics and other military matters, they became just as respected as their male counterparts. Joining the officer’s corps like the men, and gaining more power when they voted, like the men. As a normal citizen, every voter had a basic vote. That vote was graded to the votes of the nobles. Practically speaking, the basic vote was worth less than dirt. As a legionnaire a vote was as much worth as five votes from a normal citizen, and the voting power increased with each rank. As a captain Delgared’s vote was worth fifteen basic votes. This gave incentives for people to join the Legion. Legionnaires were also given plots of land, size depending on rank. Delgared however knew that the aristocrats were greedy and would often use loopholes to take these farmsteads for themselves, with the legionaries serving as indebted farmers, or carving out their living as homeless on the streets. Reality was a different tale than the one showed on recruitment posters or spun by recruiters.
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Delgared kissed her golden locks.
“I wonder how long we’ll stay here before we get our orders.”
“I rather like Boot’s Bay. The view is beautiful, and our tents are relatively warm.”
“Still, I’ve heard from people that we might move out soon. The storm blew us off course and the journey to Angletown is long and treacherous in this snow.”
“The snow is everywhere.” He grunted.
She kissed him. Taria was a wonder of the world. His wonder. Even though they didn’t own each other – they weren’t married. A soldier’s life was hard, and what they shared was enough.
They had been at sea for months, so to be back at dry soil was more a blessing than a curse. Delgared wondered what would await him in this cold, harsh land.
*
By the ice fields of Helimner, what did I do yesterday?
Svanhild stood by the doorway with a broom and a shovel. She gave a certain kind of smile, and beside her, Johanna. Mirian felt like a fool. Johanna grinned, fitting for a child of nine. Dressed in a white, frieze dress with lavender patterns, she wanted to run up to her mother, but Svanhild stopped her. Shards of glass laid scattered on the floor.
“You mother had a rough night,” Svanhild remarked.
“Mum! I tricked Maeghin this morning!”
Mirian smiled, forgetting her embarrassment. “What did you do this time, Johanna?”
“I gave him buns filled with vinegar.”
“I can imagine dear Maeghin not appreciating that.”
Johanna could barely hold back her laughter. “No … ” she said before giggling. Even Svanhild smiled.
“How are things progressing otherwise, Svanhild?” Mirian said.
“Good, my Lady. Unlike you at that age Johanna likes baking and sewing.”
“I know.”
The chambermaid took her broom and shovel, started cleaning the floor as Mirian laid in bed. Her daughter stayed by the doorway, ordered to by Svanhild. “It’s not safe for you to walk the floor, child.” And damn right she was, the good, old Svanhild.
When Svanhild was done cleaning up Mirian’s drunken mess from yesterday she pushed aside the curtains.
Bloody sunshine.
“Oh my, I hope you’ve learned to not drink that much, Lady Mirian.” Svanhild laughed. “See Johanna, learn from your mother.”
Now Johanna run up to her mother. Mirian felt her daughter’s embrace and a warmth in her own heart.
Johanna released herself from the embrace. “We study history, so we’ll not repeat the mistakes of our ancestors.” Johanna pouted her lips, like she was some provincial councilor with too high self-esteem.
Mirian laughed. “I’ll tangle your hair.”
Johanna showed the kind of patience only a cute little girl could show her mother. Her black, curly hair was wonderful to work with and Mirian used every moment she could to tangle Johanna’s hair, because it often got untangled. Wild child.
Mirian shivered, suddenly remembering the grave news she heard yesterday. Knowing what she had to do she gave Svanhild a sharp look. “Svanhild, take my daughter outside and call in Maeghin.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“And Johanna, don’t tease Maeghin in a while, you know how he is.”
Johanna giggled as Svanhild shoved her out.
A few moments later Maeghin clamped in with his iron shod boots across the creaking, old oaken floor. “Mirian?”
“Sit down.” Mirian gave him a smile mixed with sorrow. She was exhausted despite sleeping longer than she should have. That bloody wine. I’ll never drink that much again. She had thought and said so before, but now she was serious.
He did take a seat, his black hair falling gently to the sides. His grey eyes gave her a worried look.
*
Mirian stood at a wagon, peering down at the town’s men and women. People were shivering despite their thick winter coats and the children played in the snow. Throwing snowballs, building snow knights and snow castles.
As the greatest among the grownups Maeghin stood in his scaled armor beside Thoran, the master smith and the chairman of the Town Council.
Now, Mirian. Now.
“Hear me, everybody! The gnolls are coming. Hooftown has fallen and now they’re marching towards us.”
People were like mummers, stricken by fear, their faces growing paler as they stared at her. Helimner’s damned silence. Mirian felt for them. The gnolls were man eating beasts and her town was far from prepared for battle against a whole horde of the monsters. Despite that realization she had to convince her people to stay and fight. She took a deep breath and continued: “They’ll come to plunder and kill, eat and burn.”
Scores among the women folk were frozen while others comforted their crying children. The most spineless among the boys began screaming, howling shouts of fear, and Mirian stared at men who gnawed their teeth. Others looked at each other with anxious gazes. All are not born fighters. Mirian had always been afraid before battle. She had learned to turn off her fear while fighting, but not her guilt. It swelled up inside her afterwards, giving her visions, bad thoughts and dreams.
Men comforted their crying women and women supported their restless men. People took away their children and Mirian sighed. She breathed out in deep pushes. The cold, the bloody cold.
Her daughter’s head, speared by a pike. Mirian forced away her thoughts. “I’ve made my decision,” she said before taking a deep breath. “We’ll stay and fight.”
Many shook their heads.
“What’s this decision? You’ll condemn us all to death!” The man’s face was red from anger when he pointed at her.
“Refuse her!” another man shouted. Townsmen roared and misbehaved. If Mirian had been younger, an unexperienced Lady of the keep, she would’ve been frightened, like a hare among wolves. Instead she was angry. She had to force back her wrath when people raised their fists, screaming at her.
“Hear me well!” she hollered. “We must build up our defenses. Don’t think your Lady has made this decision without having thought it through.” She pointed at the man who had manned them to refuse her. Their words felt like a storm that would pass. “Her me,” she said. “I’ve decided that we’ll reinforce our palisade. We’ll construct barricades to block our streets. Sturdy wagons, wardrobes and other furniture, along with crates and sharpened poles.
We’ll send words to Earl Magnus of the Vale. He has an army of five thousand men with five hundred knights, and the ability to raise scores of fyrdmen.
Three battalions from the Republic of Bazyn-Evenhem have arrived at Boot’s bay. I need volunteers that can persuade them to join our defense.
And at last: We must hire an army of mercenaries.”
Some of the townsfolk gaped and the silence was, well … uncomfortable. Mirian could almost read their minds. Or so it felt. Mercenaries? Would their Lady hire mercenaries?
“We have no choice,” Mirian said. “I propose a confiscation of all gold, silver and copper in Norrtmark. What I own is only enough for about a thousand men. Far, but not enough they’ll come.”
Folks sighed; others crossed their arms.
“I see no other way.” Mirian drew and raised her sword. “We must survive. We’ll give them battle!”
“I agree with the proposal.”
Thoran.
“I’ll gladly give all I own for the chance to see my children and grandchildren continuing to live in peace. If you promise to give us one year of no taxes after our victory.”
Mirian smiled. Thoran worshipped the gods of Frostmark. The gods of Saagard. Our gods …
“I promise,” she said with a nod before giving words to Maeghin: “Townsfolk,” he said. “I’ve lived here my whole life like many among you. Norrtmark is my home.”
They clapped their hands, and he raised his shoulders.
“Do you abandon your home?”
“No!” some hollered.
“Some would, but I’ll never leave Norrtmark. I have all my memories here. Here I will stay and face the gnolls – even if it leads to my death.”
“I promise you,” Mirian said. “I’ve thought it all through. This is our best option. Our only option.” Her face was red, showed her thirst for battle. Rather that, than flee to freeze to death, falling in the snow or shivering in some barn along the way. “We can’t evacuate the town. It’s impossible. Gundir knows no fire or air magic, and the other mages closest to us are in Angletown. That’s no distance for a mage to reach us before the gnolls. So if so, we would have to evacuate without wizards – and you all know what that would mean.”
They did. By the gods, they would face gnolls in battle. But by staying and fighting instead of fleeing they had a small, small chance for survival. It was the plan of a mad man, but it was a plan and a mad man’s plan was better than no plan at all. Mirian’s proposal was voted through, thank the gods. People roared, pumped up for a fight with the monsters that had ravaged Hooftown. That marched against them. Stars covered the night sky, and the townsfolk went home to sleep. It had been a long day.
*
“How’s it going?” Mirian asked.
Thoran hammered out a sword tang. He looked up from his hard work, wiped sweat away and sighed. “Arrows. Spear tips. We’ll need loads of them, my Lady. Our old crossbows aren’t as effective as the new ones the Vale has, but they’ll work.” The master blacksmith and armorer was properly attired for his work and Mirian started sweating in her many layers of winter clothing. “How many crossbows do we have?” she asked.
“Three hundred.”
“Good.”
In his wooden bucket Thoran cooled down the newly made swords and weapon parts. Mirian grabbed a sword. Her gauntlet protected her from the heat. “A sword for Norrtmark.”
Thoran smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “We’ll need more weapons.”
“The other blacksmiths can help you.”
“Aye, the others contribute.” Thoran continued his work, hammering out his almost blade formed lump of steel into a proper blade. Its tip was a mixture of red and orange, smoking hot.
It was true. The other blacksmiths did help him. They were ten in numbers, not as skillful as Thoran, but they did know how to make chain mail or craft weapons like spears, swords or axes. The tailors meanwhile made more gambesons. A tailor that didn’t know how to sew a good, thick woolen armor was not worth his salt. A gambeson was good protection, even though it was better to have a chain mail and a coat of plates as well, like Mirian did. The coat of plates was a new invention, made for her by Thoran.
“To craft a chain mail hauberk takes a long time,” Thoran said.
“The time we don’t have.”
“That’s the problem.”
“How many mails would you have time for?”
“Just one. A whole hauberk would require all of us to work without doing anything else.”
“Put your time and labor on weapons instead. Spears, axes, swords.”
“Aye.”
“By the way: I need someone that can find the legionnaires and bring them here. To convince them to fight. First, I thought that you’re the right man for that, but now I realize you’re needed here, and Brose is too old for such a journey.”
Thoran stopped hammering and looked up, meeting her gaze.
“Freivir is right for you I think.” Thoran gave her a blink and Mirian couldn’t help but to smile. She left his smithy and crossed the main square, her thoughts straying to Johanna.
*
While the sun rose Freivir left Norrtmark, riding on her white steed. Thoran’s stubborn daughter would take herself to the coast were the legionnaires were, at Boot’s bay. Hopefully – they could’ve left.
A trapper sped off on his sleigh. He had volunteered himself as a messenger to the mercenary companies in Timbertown. He would give them five large chests, filled to the brim with silver, and promises of more once Norrtmark was saved. These chests were a part of the wealth that Mirian had confiscated from the townsfolk after their council, as well as a part of her family’s riches. Mirian thought it all through again, as she stood with her people by the town’s wooden gatehouse. They said farewell to the trapper that left Norrtmark with his sleigh loaded. All to save them. To save Johanna.
After the farewells she visited the tailors to look over the town’s armors. The thick, woolen gambesons were, along with old helmets and padded hoses all Norrtmark could offer its defenders when it came to armor. Mirian knew that the gnolls would have armor piercing clubs, axes and spears. But what could she do? These old armors were better than nothing and she thanked the gods for that.
When the evening arrived, with its mild snowfall, Mirian went with Maeghin to her keep. They seated themselves in the Great Hall that wasn’t that large and Svanhild came with food and drinks. Good ale.
“Cheers then,” Mirian said as she banged her pint into Maeghin’s.
“Cheers,” her cousin replied.
“It’s serious with the palisade,” he said after drinking.
“I know. The gnolls haven’t marched south in a horde for seventy years and the last time we crushed them beneath Hooftown’s walls.”
Maeghin scratched his black beard. “If Simon had raised a proper stone wall from the beginning, we would’ve been better prepared.”
“He never had the resources.” Mirian watched the tapestries, her scattered brain having a hard time focusing. “If Magnus was a good man instead of a church burning tyrant … We could’ve married. I would’ve convinced him to build a wall ‘round Norrtmark.”
“We wish for many things.”
Mirian put her hand on his and met his gaze. “Thanks for supporting me during the town’s council.”
“Nothing to thank me for. You know where you have me.”
“Still, it’s important to thank each other.”
*
“Mirian!”
“What is it?”
Maeghin was standing beside her bed. “Trouble,” he said between coughing.
Mirian rose swiftly and left her bed. Pointing at her hanging armor she waited for Maeghin to help her put it on. He did so, quickly, and they left her corridor with fast, creaking steps.
“Hakkon has convinced some fools to leave our town.” Maeghin looked at her.
“But we agreed to stay and fight. We reached that conclusion together. The townsfolk could say their opinions.”
“I know.”
“But why then do they do this?”
“I don’t know.”
They left the hallway with speed and crossed the courtyard. Snow already fell over the thatched roofs, and she looked at the gathering crowd. Folks had come to say farewell to the fools that had decided to leave Norrtmark. Among the fools the women were seated in sleighs with their daughters while the men stood, well pelted with clubs and axes. They held them tightly while peering suspiciously at the townsfolk.
“What’s going on here?” Mirian said with a low voice, barely keeping back her rage. Hakkon angered her with his gaze.
“It’s only madness to leave,” she said. “You’ll all freeze to death.” Mirian could barely hide her wrath, but Hakkon just shook his head.
“We’re well provisioned with clothes and food, my Lady. We’ll live.”
“You have no wizards. That means death when the storms ravage.”
She begged the women with her gaze, but it was no use. Their faces showed no signs of regret, or even doubt. And the men were even more decisive. By all the gods.
“Rather out and face the storms than the wrath of gnolls. You know what they did to your father.”
Mirian drew her sword. “I warn you, Hakkon. One more word and I’ll cut off your hand.”
Hakkon backed off and Mirian turned, facing her townsfolk.
“I know you don’t always see me as your Lady of the keep, since I want to follow my father’s example. Earl Simon was a good man, and you owe him your reverence.”
Many bowed.
Her heart stopped racing and Mirian put her sword in its scabbard.
“I promised my father that I’d take care of you as if you all were my own family. The world is filled to the brim with dangers. The cold, robbers … gnolls. We decided, all of us together.” She looked at Hakkon, begging him to stay without words. He didn’t budge.
“Is it your will to go against our decision?”
“It’s our will, my Lady.”
No power without honor. Her house words. Mirian was only twelve when she truly understood what they meant. I can’t condemn them. If I imprison them, I will only lower the town’s morale. I have no choice. Mirian looked at the townsfolk that followed Hakkon. The women in the sleighs, cuddled up in pelts with their children. Some were no older than four. The men, well pelted, gripping their clubs and axes tightly. She coughed, trying her best to not shed any tears.
“Then … by the powers invested in me as Lady of Norrtmark I condemn you all to exile. For going against the collective will of this town you all must leave within the hour. Say your farewells.”
“We’ll take on this punishment, my Lady.” Hakkon bowed but she turned her back on him, walking. Maeghin was by her side. Now they rule their own fates. May all the gods spare them.