Come early evening, an uncanny silence came to settle over the scorched remains of the village. The Knight stood in the midst of the desolate plaza, panting, as they leaned much of their weight and heft against their stone Cross. Tired, yes, but certainly victorious.
The wolves had left. Most of them, anyway. Those that couldn’t, might as well have been dead; bones battered and shattered by the weight of the blows that the Knight had so handily dealt. They ought to finish them off later, grant these beast’s the Lord’s mercy… at their earliest convenience. Perhaps right after they take a moment to catch their own breath.
Thiago, for the most part, had laid himself down by the side of what seemed to be the old village well with his chin rested flatly on the rough cold floor just beside a half-filled bucket of water. Likely more empty than full, by the time the old toro had been done with it. Frankly, it was more surprising how the bucket still had some water, with how busy the pair had been in this blazing heat. He was unharmed for the most part, though he will not be wandering about any time soon. Well, he could—but it was best not to tempt fate when it comes to the temperament’s of bull. God knows they had been pushing it enough as is.
The old boy had been through a lot today, The Knight couldn’t help but admit. Perhaps it would’ve been a better choice to leave the old beast back at the monastery to live off its last few months in peace, but alas, the horses quite loathed the Knight with such visceral vitriol, that had he gotten any closer than a few feet, their helm would’ve been caved in along with fractured remains of their face.
Certainly, not the most graceful end a knight could hope for. But alas, such was the nature of death. So often ugly and disgraceful, coming at the most inopportune times. They were once more reminded the dearly beloved, now departed Vetus Pater Francis Federico del Florido Viento—God bless his soul—who had slipped away into the outhouse in the darkest covers of the deepest nights to heed the call which no man nor woman e’er had the hopes of rejecting;
The call of nature. A number two, if you will—as a most studied scholar of the Arxiva had once put it.
Most unfortunately, the late Pater did not return from the aforementioned call and rendezvous, and that morning the monks were soon awakened by the horrified screams of an initiate, likely beckoned over to the outhouse by calls of (likely) similar nature, only to be greeted by the collapsed form of Pater Federico as he…
Perhaps some things are left unsaid. In the name of grace, dignity, and respect. All things that a man ought to have in life… and in death. Oh, and women too. Humanity, then. But just them? Are we all not brothers and sisters, cousins and neighbors, sharing the same earth, land, and breath? What of the heathens?
What heathens? Were they not people as well? Should we not treat our enemies with deference and respect? Violence is sometimes necessary, yes, but is civility truly out of the question?
Fairness, the Knight believed, was a universal vision that all of humanity shared and strove to uphold! T'was the basis of order, and that which brings rebellion to slumber! After all, t'was only right for the people to rise to when they have been wronged, for t'was their right to put to fire those who would dare fan the flames of injustice!
Speaking of flames, weren’t they forgetting something…?
“Ah.” The peasant man. From Ascalon. Was he… from Ascalon? They didn’t get that much of a good look, considering the situation, but he did have black hair, yes? Not exactly the most uncommon when it comes to the features of various peoples across the surrounding lands.
Perhaps letting the man run off on his was not amongst the wisest of options. But what else was there to do?
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Urgency. Life was a matter of urgency and consequence. ‘Tis the nature of man to folly, and it was in one’s best interest to hope and strive for the best, as little hope of rightness there can be in one’s life.
And speaking—once more—of urgency, they really do ought to get to it.
And so, with a heavy sigh and a passing nod to poor Thiago as the weary beast lay there resting, the Knight pushes themself of their staff and begins walking. There were not that many houses to search through, and surely, they would stumble unto the man eventually.
===
It did not take a while for just that to happen. The search took less effort than the Knight had initially thought, as they had mostly skipped through the homes that seemed somewhat beyond salvation: Crumpled thatch roofing, collapsed windows and doorways, and buildings that seemed to have nothing but walls left standing. And while they were at it, they fulfilled their self-assumed duty of putting crippled beasts out of their misery (sans Thiago, of course. The old toro was wounded, not crippled. He’ll heal it off, just as he always has.)
It was most unfortunate, that they did not find much in the way of survivors, but what was there to do, really? They had arrived late enough as is; T’was only due to the smoke that they had found this burning seaside hamlet in the first place. T’was only the nature of Iberii settlements to spontaneously appear and disappear as the Iberii gather and scatter to there and wherever.
Perhaps had the Knight spent less time leisurely wandering about to hither and dither upon old Thiago’s back, they would’ve saved a greater number of lives than a measly one, but that would’ve required running the old bull ragged. He still had it in him, yes, but t’was not by much. Besides, t’was not as if their time spent traveling was spent idly. There was much to be seen and faced in the countryside, especially now after the armistice, after the Militia Iberii was decommissioned by those short-sighted serpentine aristocracy of the Capitol.
Time was a terrible thing; There was only either too little or too much. Perhaps it was a sign that the Knight simply spent theirs poorly, but who was to say, really? God only made the world in seven days, and had he taken more time, surely the world could’ve been a kinder, just-er place. But he did not, and so It, in turn was not. T'was up to His children to pick up the slack, though of course, children were children. And so often did children leave places and things a bit worse for wear in their wake.
One day. The Knight idly thinks to themselves. One day, I pray, that even sights like these may completely disappear. Even if only for their peace of mind.
That was the only thing that really came to mind as he stepped rough stone threshold of the old scorched house. The thatching was barely intact, with scorched, rotten pillars of wood collapsed down to the floor from here to there, breaking the floorboards just beneath it. It was the far corners of the interior that took the brunt of the damage; Rubble, debris, detritus… and hands, poking out of the ashen clump in the corner. Singed black by its base, with fingers frozen stiff as they jutted out in tense, grasping hooks into the open air. One of them; A left hand, fairly slender in shape—though it was hard to tell as the fires had likely sloughed off most of the flesh, and the other, a right hand, notably smaller, and placed closer to the floor than the one from before.
And before it all was the slumped figure of a man, kneeling motionlessly on the floor with his hands lying limply by his side.
The Knight stands by the entrance, signing a cross with their right hand, while they setting their Cross to their left with their left just by the doorframe, before then entering the room fully. The wooden floorboards creak and moan heavily beneath their weighty steps, but the man does not stir. The shadows of the broken roofing and the fading light of the day did not obscure much, but it was more than enough to obscure the man’s complexion. For a moment, The Knight wonders if the man was still alive—perhaps his spirit had left him in much the same way the late Pater Federico—God bless his soul—had met his untimely demise, but the hushed sounds of weak but steady breathing eases their concern somewhat.
Instead, they pat the man by his shoulder before making their way past him, heading straight for the hands that jutted out from the rubble. Wordlessly, then, they reach for the heaviest piece of debris, and begins the laborious process of heaving it and fellows up, one by one.
The man watches motionlessly, his mind still reeling. But by the time the Knight had set aside the 9th scrap of rubble, the man had already risen to his feet, and just like then, he wordlessly joined the Knight as they picked up the pieces of what was supposed to be their responsibility to begin with.