Chapter 19
Go Gentle into that Good Night
> In the Lower City, escapees are rare but not unheard of. Recently, an individual was retrieved after evading service. Standard procedures were followed, with an extensive interview conducted upon their return to Anthropologia. Regrettably, due to unforeseen circumstances in the workplace, the family will be informed of a work-related accident. The interview shall remain classified.
>
> — Centria Report IX.A
>
> Scriptor Marcellinus, Anthropologia
When Godfrey awoke, Hawker was dead.
It had happened in the night, quietly, without fanfare. Whether it was the cold, blood loss, or infection that finally claimed him, Godfrey couldn’t say. There had been no parting words, no whispered wisdom, not even the long-promised explanation of his heritage—something Godfrey had nearly forgotten in the chaos of fleeing Oakvale.
Hawker, Hand-inducted, who had shown enough promise and talent as a Squire to be raised Soldier of the Hand, veteran of countless wars—though Godfrey barely knew of them, as Hawker had been a fortress of silence when it came to his past—had simply slipped away. He had been the closest thing to a father Godfrey had ever known, and yet, even now, Godfrey felt he hardly knew him.
And he had died cold, hungry, and delirious with fever, and Godfrey's last connection to his past died with him.
The final words Hawker had spat in those fevered moments still cut deep, leaving wounds within Godfrey that would never fully heal. He knew, rationally, that the madness had gripped Hawker; that the old Soldier hadn’t known what he was saying at the end. But some part of Godfrey, the part that had longed for confirmation of his guilt, couldn’t shake the feeling that Hawker’s condemnations had been the truth he had always kept hidden.
A truth spoken only in the final, cruel moments of his life.
The ground was too hard to bury him. Godfrey had no tools with which to dig, no means to offer a proper burial. Mindlessly, he ran his fingers through the frozen snow, feeling it tear at his skin until his hands were cracked and bleeding. But he forced himself to feel. Controlling his blood, forcing it through his hands to stave off the numbness, to punish himself for the helplessness.
Stone by stone, he gathered what he could, piling them atop Hawker's body. A pitiful cairn for a great man. The task, mechanical and unfeeling, was all he had to cling to.
Hawker's broadsword, heavy and worn from countless battles, was planted into the frozen ground above the old man's resting place. It would serve as watch.
Godfrey gathered their packs, combining what little gear remained, his hands moving with numb purpose.
With nothing left to occupy him, Godfrey stood there, staring at the pitiful cairn of stones, at the sword thrust into the earth—a meager offering to the man who had once been larger than life in his eyes.
He thought he ought to say something. But the words would not come.
Perhaps he ought to sing to Hawker, one last time. But the bile clung to his throat, and the panic started to rise, and he remained silent.
He turned and walked south.
XXX
Three days passed in a haze of hunger and cold.
Godfrey moved through the forest like a ghost. He stalked the doe as she weaved through the trees ahead of him, her thick fur rippling with strength. She was large, a powerful creature that had endured the brutal trials of the Gauntlet. He respected her for that, but respect wouldn’t fill his empty stomach.
Godfrey crouched low, watching her from a distance, his hand resting on the hilt of his parrying dagger. The deer was too far to risk a throw, and he knew he would have only one chance. His body ached with exhaustion, his stomach a hollow cavern that gnawed at him with a constant, dull pain. The last of the rabbit had been gone for two days now, reduced to raw, frozen chunks he'd choked down without fire.
He couldn’t chase a wounded doe—not in his condition. He hadn’t the strength to follow her for miles, and if his throw wasn’t perfect, he would be left with nothing but the bitter cold and his own weakness to contend with.
The wind shifted, and Godfrey’s fingers tightened around his weapon. His breath was shallow, quiet, and the distance between them seemed to stretch impossibly long. He couldn’t afford hesitation, yet he also couldn’t afford recklessness. Every muscle in his body screamed for action, but his mind held him steady.
Just then, a sharp twang echoed through the forest. Godfrey's breath caught as the doe’s head jerked up, her powerful legs springing into motion. But before she could flee, an arrow thudded into her side, right behind the shoulder blade facing Godfrey. The force sent her stumbling, her legs faltering as she staggered toward a tree, leaning heavily against it for a moment before crumpling to the ground in a heap.
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Godfrey’s eyes widened, heart pounding in his chest as he instinctively started to rise, but a gruff voice cut through the air behind him, cold and commanding.
"You move one muscle, and the next is for you."
Godfrey’s muscles locked in place, and he tightened his grip on his dagger.
“Take your hand off your weapon, put both hands where I can see them, and kindly explain why you’re on my land, poacher.”
Godfrey froze, slowly lifting his hands into view, palms open in a gesture of surrender. His heart raced, but his mind churned faster, calculating what to say to the man behind him.
“I’m no poacher,” Godfrey said carefully, his voice steady. “I’m just passing through, trying to survive.”
The man’s voice came closer, his heavy boots crunching through the snow. “Is that so?” he grumbled, amused sarcasm thick in his tone. “Then tell me why I found you stalking my deer.”
Godfrey heard the bow being lowered but felt no relief as the farmer's presence loomed behind him, still tense with suspicion. He was clearly used to defending his land from trespassers.
“I’ve got nothing left, sir,” Godfrey said, glancing at the fallen doe. “I haven’t eaten in two days, and I meant no harm.”
The pause in the man’s reply stretched, and Godfrey imagined him weighing his options. The fact that he hadn’t shot him yet was either a good sign or a terrible one.
“You look half-dead yourself,” The man finally growled, moving into Godfrey’s peripheral vision. He was a broad-shouldered man, with thick gray-flecked hair and a scowl etched deep into his sun-worn face. His eyes, however, were sharp, scrutinizing Godfrey like one might inspect a worn tool to see if it had any use left. “You got a name?”
“Godfrey,” he replied cautiously, still keeping his hands visible. He noticed the deep scar running along the man’s jawline, evidence of years of rough living. This was no simple farmer—this man was capable of much more than tilling soil.
The rough man snorted, adjusting the strap of his quiver as he looked over Godfrey. “Godfrey, huh? Doesn’t explain what you’re doing so far out in the woods, especially in winter.”
Godfrey took a long, shaky breath. He considered lying, coming up with some excuse that wouldn’t make him sound mad, but the truth burned inside him. He couldn’t hold it back.
“There was… a girl,” he began slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “In Oakvale. She did something. Something she wasn’t supposed to be able to do. A Knight of the Hand saw it… and…” He paused, his throat tightening as he tried to gather his thoughts. “He killed them. All of them. The villagers. My family. Everyone. Burned it all to the ground.”
The man stared at him, his expression shifting from suspicion to something softer, though still unreadable. Godfrey continued, his words stumbling out now, raw and fragmented. “I—I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought, but I ran. I ran with Hawker. He said it was the only way, that there was nothing left for us there. But now Hawker’s dead too. He was all I had, and now… I’m alone.”
Godfrey’s hands trembled as the weight of his confession hung in the cold air. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. The words felt disjointed, broken pieces of a story that still didn’t make sense even to him. He shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog in his mind, and straightened up, forcing himself to meet the hunter’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice stronger now, though the apology carried the heavy burden of his grief. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I’ll take my leave.”
He glanced at the doe, as he couldn’t help himself, and his stomach twisted, but he turned his back on the hunter. He began walking his lonely path south once more.
Behind him, the man said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as Godfrey continued on his way. There was no cry to stop, no offer of aid. This was a hard world, thought Godfrey, and he needed to remember that.
XXX
Godfrey walked, his feet dragging through the snow as the sun rose higher in the sky, casting weak midday light through the bare branches. His mind was clouded with hunger and exhaustion, each step a test of his will. It had been over an hour since he'd left the hunter behind, his thoughts tumbling back to that brief encounter, but his body felt like it was shutting down, unable to carry the weight of the past days any longer.
His breath came in ragged puffs as he glanced up. In the distance, a rocky formation caught his eye, jagged but sheltered, with a few stubborn trees sprouting from a crack in the stone. It wasn't much, but it would offer some respite from the biting wind that sliced through his tattered cloak. The thought of rest, even just for a moment, tugged at him with an irresistible pull.
He forced himself toward the rocks, his vision blurring at the edges as his legs wobbled beneath him. Just a small nap. That’s all he needed. He would lie down, catch his breath, and continue on his way after.
Reaching the sheltered spot, he collapsed onto the cold ground, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him as he sank into the snow.
He knew he should drag himself up, get off the snow before it melted beneath him and drained what little warmth he had left. But the thought of moving seemed impossible. His body ached in ways he hadn’t realized it could, and his mind, frayed from days of grief and hunger, began to drift.
The snow beneath him was already melting, sending icy tendrils through his soaked clothes, but Godfrey didn’t care. Just a small nap. His eyelids fluttered as darkness crept in.
Just then, the gruff voice cut through the haze like a blade: "If you fall asleep there, you'll never wake up."
Godfrey jolted, the sudden sound breaking through the fog of exhaustion. His eyes snapped open, blinking in confusion as the figure loomed nearby, blocking the midday light.
The man shook his head with a low chuckle as he stepped closer, his boots crunching through the snow. "I figured you'd circle back for the doe, or maybe try to find my place and swipe something. But no, you really just walked till you dropped, huh?"
Godfrey blinked through the haze of delirious exhaustion, his voice a rasping mutter. "If you're some kind of guardian spirit out of a fairy tale, you're doing a shit job."
The man's laughter erupted, deep and full, echoing off the rocks around them. "Now that’s more like it!" His booming laugh carried warmth in the cold. Without hesitation, he grabbed Godfrey’s arm and lifted him to his feet. The world spun as Godfrey tried to stand, but his legs were jelly, and he buckled, leaning heavily into the man.
"Easy there, kid," the man grunted, holding him upright with surprising care. "Name’s Griffon. Seems I’ll be your shit guardian spirit today."