20
Soldier
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She had never been one for funerals. Though, she supposed that the same could be said for most people. It was a strange thing, really. In her time, she'd seen death come in many forms. Some were quick, others were slow. Some were painful and brutal, while yet others came as a gentle, almost peaceful passing.
As a soldier, death was a constant companion, and that was that. As she stood, shoulder to shoulder, amongst a sea of fellow mourners, Vera felt a lingering frustration with herself, that she never managed to steel her heart against such things. She also felt an immense relief that she hadn't, and now would never have to.
The ceremony, naturally, had been held in a cemetery just south of the city proper—it was far enough away from the noise and bustle of Ken’s walls, but close enough not to be considered too distant or inconveniently outlying either way. The place was well tended; its grounds lush green under a canopy of blue sky, dotted here and there with ornate mausoleums carved into dark stone columns. Manicured hedges lined paths through the graveyard, their trunks trimmed low so they didn’t block sightlines at any point along them, and some scattered trees stood like tall sentinels, providing shade for the many mourners in attendance.
Though it was well-past midday, and the sun shone bright overhead, unimpeded by clouds, a cool breeze blew over the field. A few stray leaves danced lazily across the ground, twirling around each other before drifting off towards whatever corners of the world awaited them. On any other occasion, she might have taken advantage of such scenery, closing her eyes to enjoy the breeze, and perhaps letting herself drift to sleep if only briefly. But not today. Not now.
The crowd, easily numbering in the thousands, was made up almost evenly of both military personnel—men and women clad in full dress uniform—and civilians in mourning black. Humans, dwarves, elves, and halflings alike mingled together without distinction among themselves.
Father Sindermann, the priest officiating over the ceremony, was a man born to orate. He spoke slowly, his voice sonorous and deep, carrying throughout every corner of the cemetery, and drawing the rapt attention of the mourners.
"...If there is one lesson that I would wish for all of us to hold above all others, it is that of gratitude," he said. "These are our brothers, and our sisters. These are our fathers and our mothers and our sons and our daughters. They set aside every difference that has divided us from one another—The differences of our homes, of our cultures, our creeds, and yes, even our religions. These were cast aside to forge our bonds in common purpose and mutual love. This is the very nature of our Alliance, forged between the disparate peoples who live within these lands. And they offered up their lives to secure a future that they shall never see."
Sindermann paused for a moment, allowing his words to settle over his audience before continuing. "My friends, can you understand the magnitude of the debt we owe to each and every one of them? Can you see the cost of this war, the price paid by those who fought it, and the sacrifices made in its name?" He gestured to the rows upon rows of caskets before the podium, each draped in flags and banners, denoting the origin of the fallen. "This is a debt none of us can ever hope to repay. Their bodies and their arms will be laid to rest. With the passage of time, the memories of their lives and names will be lost and forgotten one day."
He shook his head slowly, as if to emphasize the point. Then, he stepped away from his podium, and descended to the ground. He walked slowly, his hands brushing along the caskets, as he walked by. Even without the height of the raised platform, Sindermann's voice was crisp and clear and measured, making himself heard by all. "Aye, we shall never see their like again. A hundred, perhaps a thousand years from now, the generations that follow will look back upon us and recall only the grandest of names. The greatest warriors, the most brilliant commanders. Just as we venerate Saint Iris and Hal the Slayer, they will recall Her Excellency, Claudia Levantine and her father, the lord general. They will know the exploits of the honorable Grafs Obelstein and Maurer, and the noble sacrifice of dame Leore Riesen."
He came to a pause before a casket, covered in the gold and black banner of Ansur, and rested a hand upon it. "But what of Anders Trommler? What of the young Karol of Vekelsreik, or Antoinette of Blumenbruck, or George Peralta, and so many more, whose deeds and sacrifice will not be recorded in the annals of history?"
Sindermann paused again, his eyes shutting for a moment. There were murmurs amongst the crowd at this, and a few people shifted uncomfortably, clearly taken aback by his transition into pessimism. But when Sindermann opened his eyes once more, he wore a smile on his lips. "We shall not see their like again," he said again, his tone soft and gentle. "Yet, that does not mean their sacrifice was without meaning. A month ago, when the Legion swept down over us all, these men and women did something much greater than simply winning a war. No, they gave of themselves to ensure that Eostia would survive. They laid down the groundwork for our tomorrow. Just as Her Holiness Laurentia, beloved of all, saved mankind ages ago, the same is true for these soldiers. I make no exaggeration when I tell you now that they have very well saved our world!"
The solemn tone lifted with each word as Sindermann went on, filling with a palpable energy. Indeed, the exuberant emotion he displayed now spread through his audience like a wildfire. "Such greatness can never be destroyed! Their deeds, their courage, and the hearts they dedicated to the cause will endure for eternity. They will live on forever, because we are the proof of their existence, their living legacy."
She stifled a sudden breath at that. The proof of their existence. Those were the very same words she’d always held herself by. Despite her reservations, Vera found that she was being drawn in now. Sindermann's passion and rhetoric were infectious, and it wasn't long before everyone in attendance was caught up in the fervor. She saw tears in the faces around her, as soldiers and civilians alike muttering quiet assents to the priest's words. He'd won them over, just like that.
Sindermann walked amongst the mourners, his hands clasped before him, and seeming resplendent even in his humble robes. His gaze swept across those assembled there, making eye contact with all who would permit it. "I am grateful for this. Grateful to them, and to each of us here, for the opportunity to stand before you, to pay my respects to them and to their families. Friends, the great scheme of rebuilding falls upon us. It is the task of the future to see this new dawn, and to build a better life for those yet to come."
He paused, his eyes alighting upon a figure, and beckoned forward with a kindly smile. After a moment, a woman walked forward hesitantly, holding the hand of a small boy. No doubt, her husband had been a soldier.
Sindermann knelt and took their hands in between his own. "In the years to come," he said, still projecting his voice even as it grew softer, "young men and women will no longer be raised to fight and die in the defense of their homes and their loved ones. The coming generations shall know peace—Peace, and prosperity, and freedom. Our children will be safe and secure, and happy. That dream, at last, is our reality. Even if our children's children may not fully understand the sacrifices of this tragic age, they may yet honor the fallen's deeds by carrying on the great work. Together, united, and inspired by their courage, let us take up the mantle and carry the torch. Let us be grateful, and let us be worthy of it. Amen."
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Dusk had come before she'd even realized it. The sun was sinking low in the sky, casting shadows over the wide avenues and boulevards of Ken, and the city began to glow from within. The sky was a deep, rich purple, and some of the brightest stars in the sky made themselves visible.
The soft rustle of the grass beneath her feet seemed almost loud, amplified by the silence that surrounded her. Most of those in attendance had dispersed hours ago, though even the amount of stragglers left was quite sizable. They were a motley collection, the majority being local soldiers, but a few were the odd civilians or even soldiers from other kingdoms who'd been stationed at Ken.
Vera was not among them. She walked alone, though she couldn't say for certain whether she was avoiding people on purpose. Either way, she walked alone, her pace slow as she made a half-circuit of the cemetery. Her head felt light, as though she could float away on a current of air.
Finally, her feet came to a halt before a casket that the undertakers had yet to bury. The banner atop the coffin bore the black and gold of Ansur, and Vera found herself wondering if this was Anders Trommler, whom the priest had spoken of. A short ways away, more caskets lay, covered in either personal heraldries, or a kingdom's flag for the departed commonfolk. She walked over to a few covered in Ken's banner, blue and white, and rested a hand upon one.
For all intents and purposes, she and hers had been lucky. During the day of the invasion, when they'd been forced to halve their force in order to escort the people of Elmräschen back to the city, Nanba's squad had been almost completely wiped out. In the end, only three of the squad's members survived, two of them fresh recruits. Diether Nanba himself, along with Francisco, Tilly, Meryl, Gundolf, and the rest, had all been slain at some point. No one had noticed until well after the mayhem had ended, and the deceased had failed to return.
"Sorry," Vera muttered suddenly, the words escaping before she could think to stop them. "Sorry, you guys... I don't know where you are. Gods, I don't even know if they've buried you already..." She sighed heavily, and forced a half-felt smile. Her fingers traced over the smooth fabric of the banner, and she closed her eyes. "And I'm sorry, whoever you are. Didn't mean to intrude." Vera opened her eyes again and stepped back, turning to leave.
She stopped when she noticed a figure from the corner of her eye, standing still and silent just a few feet away from her. She immediately recognized him, of course. There likely wasn't a single soul in Eostia that didn't.
The lord general, Grave Levantine, stood proud and upright, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded the rows of graves. He wore a uniform much like her own—a dark blue greatcoat and tan trousers—and a rich wine-red cape draped over his shoulder. Though his gray hair was balding, it still framed his temples and the sides of his face, as though it were a crown on his head.
After several silent moments, as if he'd sensed her gaze on him, the lord general turned towards Vera and offered a small nod. "Good evening."
Vera almost started as she remembered herself and saluted him, a fist clenched over her heart. "Good evening, sire! Forgive me—I didn't notice you were here."
"It was not my intention to make myself known. There is nothing to forgive," he said simply, then turned his eyes forward once again. After another pause, he spoke up again, the barest hint of a smile playing upon his lips. "You may be at ease."
She quickly ceased her salute, feeling her cheeks flush somewhat.
"...We have not spoken before," the lord general continued slowly, his voice deep and resonant. "Yet you seem familiar to me. Who are you?"
"I am lieutenant Vera Strava, of the fifty-seventh mixed cavalry regiment, lord. We had the privilege of supporting your force during the battle."
The man's eyebrows raised slightly, but otherwise, there was no change in expression. "Was it?"
The question caught her off guard. Vera paused, unsure of how to respond, and the lord general elaborated; "It is evident that a number of your comrades perished that day. They were likely slain at Hargen hill, supporting my retainers and myself." He gestured to the many banners before them. "With that being the case, can you truly call it a privilege to fight beside us, lieutenant Strava?"
...Oh.
Her first instinct was to say "yes." That it truly had been an honor for her and hers to fight and die alongside the noblest hero of the Three Hundred Years' war. But that would be a hollow answer, and both of them knew it. She remained silent instead, looking over the graves and caskets as she pondered the right words to speak. The lord general waited patiently, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The sun had disappeared completely now, leaving the sky to fill with stars and the moon. A few clouds drifted lazily through the air, their shadows casting long, black lines across the grass. It was quiet, save the faint sound of someone's breath, or perhaps the rustle of the wind.
Finally, she looked back to the lord general, meeting his even stare, and said, "May I speak freely, lord?"
At his nod, she slipped into a more casual inflection, speaking with less formality. "That old boy, Sindermann, waxed a whole lot of poetic about nobility and legacy and all that. Really, the world lost an amazing salesman the day he decided to become a holy man," she said, grinning ruefully. "We’re going to enter a new era of peace. But everyone knows that it won’t last forever. Even if it’s in ten years or a hundred, some day, we’ll be going to war again. It might be because of our gods, or for old grudges no one remembers, or just ‘cause some dickhead wants some piece of land somewhere. Just like in the wars of the past, soldiers like us are gonna fight again some day, 'cause that's just how things are."
She shrugged her shoulders, and continued. "But you know what? Sindermann wasn't wrong, either. I don't want to lie to myself, and pretend like suffering isn't gonna exist anymore. But none of it is ever gonna compare to what we saw and what we lost. Whatever the poor fools in the future fight over, at least we know that they'll never have to live in fear of another Legion." Vera paused again, and sighed heavily. "I've seen plenty of good men and women die—Comrades I loved more than anything else, and comrades I hated with every fiber of my body. I owe it to them to prove that there was meaning in their deaths. So, yeah," she said, turning back to face him, "it was a privilege to fight by your side, sire."
She noticed then, that the lord general was smiling. His eyes glimmered, and his mouth curled upwards slightly at the edges. For the life of her, she found herself unable to understand what had pleased him so much, but still felt oddly relieved for it.
"I see. I am gratified to hear you say such." He nodded once. Then, he surprised her again when he clicked his heels together, and placed a fist over his heart in salute. "I must attend to other matters, lieutenant Strava. But let us speak again." With those words, the lord general turned away and walked off, leaving her alone in the cemetery.
Vera watched until he was out of sight, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Well, holy shit," she muttered, shaking her head. She almost laughed, nearly stunned beyond belief. "I think I might have just impressed him."
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From the moment I'd woken up that morning, something felt different.
Not wrong, necessarily, or even uncomfortable—Just off somehow. It was a subtle feeling, one I couldn't quite put my finger on, and which kept nagging at the back of my mind as the day went along. I tried to ignore the sensation, and it wasn't until midday that it finally became clear.
I'd happened to glance out a window, onto the Citadel's vast grounds, and noticed the hundreds of men out there, gawking and pointing upwards. And when I followed their gazes, the change became obvious.
I could see the blue sky.
Bright, crisp, cloudless. Warm sunlight shone down on Garan, casting everything into sharp relief. The ruins, the decayed trees, the mountains at the horizon, and even the golem's broken remains just a way away. All of it looked beautiful, as if I was seeing the world anew. I couldn't really remember the last time I'd seen the sky without the red haze looming overhead.
When I made my way outside, I saw the rest of the men around me were laughing and talking excitedly. Some had tears in their eyes, and others seemed awestruck. We all stood almost transfixed, staring up at that clear, bright expanse. It felt… like a brand new start of things. And an ending, too.
That was, up until Slow Edd, apparently fed up with everyone lazing around, decided to get things moving. "Alright, you lot!" he bellowed, clapping his hands. "Get a move on! You slack-jawed shits'll catch flies, you keep yer mouths open like that! Get a shift in the kitchen, or a patrol, or somethin’!"
Laughing, the Hounds dispersed, heading towards various tasks.
But, I couldn't quite shake that strange sense of wonder. It wasn't just the view, I realized. I felt... lighter, in a way. As though I wasn't weighed down by all that stuff I used to carry, like worries and concerns and responsibilities. I didn't feel like I had to be anywhere, or do anything at all. I wanted to stay where I was, and just stay lost staring at that incredible sky forever.
Though, something else caught my eye. One of the men, I noticed, had left a sword propped up against a rock, just sort of lying there. Whoever was in charge of our armory would probably give the guy who'd left it a lot of hell, for sure. So, I went to pick it up and bring it back before he got in trouble.
I knelt beside it, picking it up and examining it. It was a simple thing, a longsword, with a straight blade, and a black metal hilt. I ran my fingers along the scabbard, feeling the leather and cloth beneath it.
Then, slowly, I pulled the blade from its sheath, and held it in front of me. I stared down at the dull gray steel, then raised the sword, testing the weight. Then, I flipped the tip, and tested the balance. The grip was solid, and the pommel was smooth, but... for some reason, it felt wrong in my hands.
I gave the sword a swing. Then another, and another. There wasn't any real form to it, no intent. Just a series of lazy chops at the air in front of me. I swung again, and as I went on, I became more accustomed to the motion. I grinned.
This was nostalgic, in a way. I remembered doing stuff like this as a kid, playing with my siblings and friends, pretending I was some hero like Carloman van Straberg. We'd imagine we were fighting orcs, or goblins, or whatever. I'd run around, swinging branches and shouting and yelling.
It was fun. I never realized how much I missed those days.
I stopped, then adjusted my grip—I held the sword in my left hand, my right extended to hold a shield that wasn't there, and I started again. Slowly, then gradually increasing speed, until I got into a sort of rhythm. My leg had already healed, so it gave me no discomfort to move around on it. The motions felt good. Natural, even. But that strange wrongness was still there. I frowned and jabbed forward, plunging the sword's tip into an invisible foe.
I often heard a lot of people talk about how a sword, or a spear, or a bow felt like a part of your own body. That the weapon became a fifth limb. But I never really felt that way. For all that I couldn't picture myself without one in my hand, a sword was always a sword, and I was always me. So, did that make me a better sword fighter? Did it make me worse? Maybe it made me neither.
Either way, even when I was a child, I never actually held a real sword. And as much as I fantasized about it, I never imagined I'd really end up being a soldier. But I had. I joined the army and held my first sword as soon as I turned sixteen three years... No. That had been four years ago now.
I stopped, calculating the dates in my head, and realized with a wince that my birthday had already come and gone several weeks ago. I'd turned twenty without even noticing it. "Gods," I muttered. "It's really been that long..."
So, four whole years, then. Four years since I'd left home and picked up a real sword for the first time. And now, here I was, a scarred and maimed veteran of the long war.
I shook my head, trying to clear it, then took a deep breath and tried to start over. "Don't tense up," I said in a low murmur, echoing my master's words. "Let your actions flow."
I relaxed my shoulders, let out a slow sigh, and set my feet. I switched up my grip again, taking the sword in both hands. The tip pointed directly ahead, the pommel rested near my hip. Pflug, the 'plough' stance. I didn't choose it for any particular reason—It just felt like the one to use. I moved, loosely and without tension, just like she taught me to. Messy chops became actual, proper hews in wide arcs alongside thrusts in short jabs, the sword whistling as it cut through the air. I repeated the movement, then shifted to the opposite side, and continued. My muscles' memory guided me in these practiced movements. In, out, around, and through. Winding in and out, twisting and turning. It was simple, natural.
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But it felt wrong, all the same, like my hands were holding onto something that they shouldn't. The sensation was confusing and frustrating, and I felt my focus waver. I gritted my teeth and kept going, though I still just couldn't get over that sensation. When I finally tired myself out, I lowered the sword and stepped back, wiping some beads of sweat from my brow.
"Think he's dead yet?" someone asked.
I turned and saw Keane some paces behind me, looking back at me with a raised brow.
"Nah," I said, shaking my head and gesturing vaguely to the air. "He got away this time."
Keane shrugged. "That's a shame then, I guess." He glanced down, then up, and gave the sky a thoughtful look. "Damn. Nightfall already, huh?"
I blinked, then followed his gaze upwards. He was right; the sun was already dipping low towards the horizon, and the light was growing dim. "Man... I guess the time got away from me."
He chuckled. "Yeah, well, you know what they say. Time flies when ya have fun, right?"
"I'm not sure if I'd call it 'fun,' though." At his questioning look, I elaborated: "I was just trying to get back into the swing of things, I suppose. You know, in terms of sword fighting. But it's like..." I gave the sword another twirl, then stared down its fuller. "I think I might have lost my edge, or something. I remember how to do all the proper motions, and everything, but... I dunno." I sighed, and scratched the stubble on my chin. "Man, am I even making any sense?"
"Yeah. I get it." Keane nodded, his expression softening . He turned, gazing across the land and watching the setting sun.
We stood there for a while, each of us alone in our own thoughts, and watching as the sky slowly continued to darken. Eventually, Keane let out a breath and removed his spectacles, wiping them clean on his shirt's hem. "I was supposed to let you know," he began, "Vault's planning to make an address tonight."
I paused, and stared back at him. "What, to everyone?"
"Something like that."
"Then... does that mean we're finally going back south? To Geofu? I—"
"Look, Ansel," Keane started, cutting me off. His voice was soft, almost gentle, and I couldn't help but be surprised by it. So, I fell silent, and waited for him to speak. After a moment, he exhaled. Then, after a few more seconds, he said, "...I've been meaning to ask; Once we go back, what do you plan to do?"
I blinked, and glanced at the Citadel. It loomed above us, the walls and spires rising up into the air, casting their shadows across the ground. The sun had almost set, leaving only a thin sliver of orange and pink in the sky. "You mean like in general?"
He nodded. "Indulge me."
I took a moment to think about it. Eventually, the answer came to me. "Well, it's a bit hard to say," I admitted with a shrug. "There's a lot of things I gotta do and give back. So much so, I'm not really sure where I'd even start..." I trailed off, then shook my head. "...Actually, I think I do—First of all, I'm gonna go back to my hometown."
I pointed vaguely southwards, past Garan’s barren plains and the mountains beyond. "It's been years since I left. So, I want to see the place where I grew up. See how it looks now, and... Well, just be there, I guess." I nodded to myself, as if cementing the decision in my mind. That'd be enough. Nothing too grandiose, or big and flashy. Just being back home, and seeing my family.
"That's it?" He rolled his eyes, but I could tell there was a faint smile on his lips.
"That's it. I'll figure out the rest from there."
Keane let out a chuckle, no longer holding back his amusement. "I should've expected no less. That's good, though. I'm glad to hear it."
I gave a nod, then added, "Ah, that's probably it." I raised the sword once more, bringing it to eye level, before sliding it back into its scabbard. "The reason why it felt so different to hold a sword—I think it's because I'm never gonna use one ever again."
"Oh?"
"There's no war left to fight," I said. "No Legion to threaten anyone. So, there's no reason to worry about losing that edge," I said. Then, I tapped at the bandaging covering half my face. "Besides, it's not like I'm gonna be much good in any fight with only one eye."
"That's not true," Keane said, so suddenly that I nearly started.
"What?"
"Don't sell yourself short, Ansel. There's a whole lot more to you than just swinging a sword around," he said. "Yeah, you're stubborn as shit, and you can barely read or write, but you're quick on your feet, you've got guts, and you're not the type who backs down on anything. When it comes down to it, those are the kinds of things that..." Keane trailed off, then frowned at me. "The hell are you smiling at?"
Smiling?
I realized, then, that I was indeed smiling. Pretty widely, in fact, to the point where my cheeks were nearly starting to hurt.
"What's gotten into you? Wipe that dumb-ass grin off your face!"
"S-sorry!" I tried to say, but the words barely managed to come out in between my chuckles. "Haha! Man, I'm sorry! It's- it's just, I've never heard you compliment anyone before!"
Keane's look intensified into an outright glare, but I could tell he was holding back a smirk. Snorting back a chuckle of his own, he turned away and muttered, "Damn it." Then the facade shattered entirely. His shoulders shook, and he let loose a laugh of his own, low and genuine. It sounded strange, coming from him.
When our laughter finally subsided, I saw his gaze turn towards the Citadel. The sun had almost set, leaving only a thin sliver of orange and pink in the sky, peeking out from behind the walls of the Citadel like a timid child.
"We'd better get going," Keane said. His voice was quiet and solemn, a far cry from the lighthearted tone we'd been speaking with moments ago. When he turned back to face me, he moved to place his spectacles back on, then stopped. Instead, he let them hang from his shirt's collar.
"Are you okay?" I asked him.
Keane nodded. "I'm fine. Just... It's nothing. Come on, Ansel, let's not keep anyone waiting on our account."
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There was certainly something to be said for the lush, green lawns of the manor. The grounds boasted a verdant expanse of well-trimmed emerald grass and tall, healthy trees. Flowers bloomed in deliberately placed beds, their petals vibrant bursts of color against the deep green. The air was warm, and the sun shone down upon the grounds with an intensity that was almost painful.
It was as though the entire estate was designed to draw the eye, and to make one feel welcome.
He had to admit, grudging as it was, that it was a beautiful place.
It was also just about the very last place Young Edd had ever expected he'd be going to.
He'd never visited any fancy aristocrat's home before. That was, in part, because he had no need nor desire to associate with the sort of people who could afford to live in places like this. They, likewise, had no desire to interact with the likes of him. Noblefolk and former street urchins didn't tend to mix very well. Who could have thought?
However, there was no point in bemoaning whatever bizarre circumstances had led to this; he had his letter in hand, a chip on his shoulder, and a fight to pick.
A groan passed his lips as he made his way down the path that led to the front gates.
The gravel crunched beneath his boots, and the sound echoed through the stillness. A pair of guards stood watch over the entrance, dressed in fine suits of white and blue, emblazoned with the family's emblem across their chests. Their armor gleamed, polished to a high shine, and they wore plumed hats atop their heads. In their hands, they held large greatswords, almost as long as a man was tall.
One of them, who sported a fascinatingly forked beard, gave Edd a once-over as he approached, taking in his tattered cloak, ragged clothes, and sour expression. The guard promptly shook his head, made a shooing motion with his hand, and declared, "No beggars. Piss off back the way you came."
And so, everything was already off to a fantastic start.
"This how you treat all your guests, or am I just special?" Edd asked, stopping a few paces away from the gate.
"Guest?" the other guard, with a waxed mustache, scoffed. "You're no guest I've ever heard of. Now clear off," he said, bringing his greatsword up to rest on a shoulder. "Or we'll clear you right off."
"Yeah?" Edd growled. "Well, what're you gonna—" He bit down on his tongue, cutting himself off before he saying something he'd end up regretting. He swallowed his anger, took a breath, and then continued, "Look—I was invited here. Quit bein' dicks for five seconds and go fetch someone so I can prove I've come here for a reason."
"Ah! Good heavens, my apologies!" Beard cried out with a fake gasp. "I didn't realize that Her Excellency was awaiting an appointment with the Grand Duke from the Principality of the fucking cripples."
"Shall I take your shit-stinking, flea-ridden coat for you, sire?" added Stache, snickering. "Gods forbid it be soiled by the dirt of our humble manor."
The pair burst into laughter, loud and obnoxious, as Edd closed his eyes, took another breath, and nodded to himself.
To hell with this, he decided.
"I didn't come all this way to waste time with you two dickheads," he said, striding forward and pulling the letter from his pocket. He shoved it forward towards Beard. "Go on, then."
Beard looked at the envelope, and then back to Edd, cocking a brow. "The fuck is this supposed to be?"
"Are you blind as well as an asshole? It's a letter, dipshit. Some buttler-looking motherfucker gave it to me and told me to come here."
"And?"
"’And?’" Edd echoed. "The hell do you mean ‘and?’And so read the damn thing so you can let me inside! Gods!".
"As if I can even read that shit!" Beard sneered and slapped his hand away, sending the letter fluttering to the ground. "Get your godsdamned hand off me, you swine!"
Edd's fingers twitched, longing to close into a fist and smash that sneer off his face. He stopped, eyes narrowing, as he caught up to what the Beard had just said.
"You... don't know how to read?" he asked.
Both men bristled, their faces darkening.
"Neither of you? Holy shit, and they still let your bum asses work here? What the hell's wrong with this place that—"
"You watch your damned tongue, boy," Beard snapped, taking a step forward, prompting Edd to do the same.
"Aww, hell," Edd lifted his brow and let out a chuckle, "what'cha gonna do? You gonna blast me with your breath, you chinless fuck?"
Beard's nostrils flared, a red heat rising in his face. "You're one to talk about stench. Yours reeks like a dead dog, and you look more fit for a pigsty than you do for anywhere a civilized man might go."
"I'll have you know my stink is the smell of a hard day's work, while you two fancy cunts just stand around looking pretty. Y'all even know how to swing those pig sticks of yours?"
With a growl, Stache stepped up as well. Both of them stood taller than Edd, but, somehow he found that he didn't feel particularly intimidated. If anything, he actually felt a smile tugging at his lips.
"And what hard work is that?" Stache spat. "Digging through trash heaps and sucking cock for a ha'penny per blow?"
Edd grinned back at him. "Oh, I see your mother's already taught you all about her profession!"
With that, Stache reeled back as if he'd just been slapped. Then, his eyes flashed with a hot rage, and he brought his greatsword forward, its tip pointed at Edd's sternum. "Don't you fucking talk about my mother!"
With that sort of imminent mortal peril, any sensible person would have immediately stopped what they were doing and fallen to their knees, apologizing up and down—
"Oooh! Scary!" Edd said, feigning a shiver. He spread his arm wide and lifted his chin towards the man. "You're as good at being threatening as you are as being literate."
—But no one had ever accused Young Edd of being a sensible person.
Beard cut in then, slapping the sword out of the way to grab at Edd's cloak. "Again with the damned reading? Fuck's sake, I'd bet you wouldn't even know what a book looks like if it hit you right between the eyes."
"'Course I don't! But I also don't go around swinging dick, and pretending like I'm Sir Fuckwit of House Cuckhold, and then getting all pissy when someone calls me out on it!" Edd then paused, and made a show of sniffing at his own cloak. He grinned widely. "Careful there, you might get some shit and fleas on your pretty blouse, m'lady."
Beard's already red face darkened to a brilliant shade of purple, thin lines of drool leaking from his lips. For a moment, Edd thought he'd have the unparalleled pleasure of seeing the man burst an aneurysm and die to conclude the argument. He had no such luck. Instead, the guardsman shoved Edd back, and brandished his sword.
The man practically barked, spittle flying from his mouth with each word. "You're looking to die so badly, boy? You came to the right place! I'll mince you like a hare and feed you to the damn dogs!"
Edd couldn't help himself anymore; he laughed. He doubled over, body shaking, and slapped at a knee. The sound echoed across the grounds, and he glanced up to find both of the men staring at him, their faces contorted into expressions of pure fury. "Oh, you boys are just cute!" Edd said. "Like little kids hiding' behind big-ass swords, and thinking just 'cause you got a few extra inches in steel, you're something special!"
"To hell with the godsdamned swords, then!" Stache screamed, and flung the greatsword over his shoulder. The weapon spun end over end, and impacted against the estate's gate with a loud clang. "I'll throw down with a cripple, I don't give a shit!"
Beard paused, looking down at what his comrade had just done, before turning and throwing his own blade over as well.
"So fucking be it!" Edd shouted back, and tossed away the knives at his belt. "I don't even need two hands to knock both you bitches down a peg!" With that, Young Edd lunged forward at full tilt, his fist poised to strike.
Beard was quicker, however, grabbing Edd by the wrist and pulling his arm tight, locking it into place.
"Shit," was all Edd managed to say, before a blinding flash of pain splintered his face. He staggered back, blinking, then grunted when Stache’s knee slammed into his gut. Edd fell to the ground with a breathless gasp, as the two guardsmen closed in, boots and fists slamming into him, over and over again.
Blessedly, the world quickly desaturated, then slipped away into a painless dark.
----------------------------------------
Something brushed against his cheek.
It was wet, and rough, and big enough that Edd could feel every single undulation from its movement.
He ignored the tickling sensation, and returned to his state of blissful, painless nonexistence. Whatever he was lying on—thin mattress or hard stone—wasn't comfortable enough for him to care too much about losing himself, even for a moment, or even for eternity.
Whatever. He deserved this chance to rest.
But the feeling returned quickly—Was it quickly, though? Or had another eternity of nothingness passed?—and another tickling sensation spread across his opposite cheek.
What the hell is that? some part of his mind wondered.
Feeling returned to his body as his unconscious mind became curious about the chaotic feeling around his face. His cheeks tingled now, and rather than brushing against it, the warm, wet feeling enveloped his entire face.
Shit. Water? It's raining?
No. It couldn't be. It didn't feel consistent enough to be rain. The warmth caressed his face, his nose, his lips, with a tender warmth, like a lover's kiss.
But that was silly. He was supposed to be out in the middle of a street. Nobody would be tending to him, delivering gentle kisses to his bruised and bloodied face. And yet, that fantasy, that someone might have cared enough, felt so real, so comforting. Edd found that he wanted to hold on to that feeling forever, drowning in its warm embrace.
"Mm. Mmmm…" His lips parted, and he exhaled against the fantastic feeling, almost blowing it away.
But it returned immediately, and something wet—a tongue?—began to massage around his face again, from the tip of his chin, all the way up to his forehead.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Was... Was someone licking his face? Who? Why?
More sensations returned, and reality reared its ugly head. The street's familiar stench and grit pressed against his cheek. Somewhere around him, indistinct voices spoke indiscernible words at one another.
Edd groaned, the sound muffled by the cushion-y feeling surrounding his mouth. A chuckle sounded out from the general vicinity of his face, and a slick something pressed against his ear.
Edd opened an eye, blinking as sudden light rushed into his vision. Above him, the expanse of a dark purple sky greeted him, swirling with clouds. He groaned again as his head thumped, clenching his fist and feeling blades of grass tickle against the skin of his knuckles. He shifted, dirt shifting around him in response. The warmth returned once more, on the tip of his nose.
Edd blinked again, and saw a pair of eyes looking directly into his, bright blue and clear. Eyes, framed by a long face, coated in white fur, and ending in a black nose with wide, flapping lips.
Ah, okay. It was just a dog, all along.
Satisfied that the mystery was solved at last, Edd closed his eyes once more.
The dog licked his face once more, and Edd shot up with a scream. "Holy fucking gods, what the shit, get the hell offa me!"
He scrambled away, pushing the dog with him, but the animal only followed, nuzzling him with its nose.
"Gods! Get away, you damn mutt! What in the—"
A hand settled upon his shoulder, and Edd flinched away at once, only to find himself staring into a pair of concerned eyes.
The man who stood there was pale and thin, his gray hair fashioned into a short style, with a black mustache resting above his lip. A pair of spectacles sat perched upon his nose, and he wore crisp, clean clothes.
"I'm sorry," the stranger—whom he silently dubbed as 'Specs'—said, smiling gently. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?" He extended a hand down, and after a few moments' hesitation, Edd took it.
Once he was standing, he slowly reached up and gingerly touched the side of his face. The immediate feeling of 'Ow, dammit,' helpfully informed him that, yes, he was still in pretty rough shape. "Yeah... I'm good," he said, wincing. "You should see the other guy. Erm, guys."
Quirking a brow, Specs looked over Edd's shoulder, prompting him to do the same.
The guardsmen, Beard and Stache, were down on both knees, heads bowed low, hats clutched in gauntleted hands.
"Uhh. What?" Edd managed to ask.
Almost in unison, the two guards flinched and bowed their heads lower, nearly brushing against the street now. "We are most sincerely sorry for our ignorance, sir!" the said—no, pleaded. "We should've heeded the young master's words! It won't happen again! Please, sir! We beg for your forgiveness!"
"...What." Edd repeated, just as confused as before.
Beside him, Specs cleared his throat. In his hand, Edd noticed, he held the letter that had brought him there in the first place. Specs bowed before him as well. "I, too, must beg your forgiveness. We were remiss in informing the estate's staff that you were expected. I cannot apologize enough for that lapse, nor for the inexcusable behavior displayed by my men. They've been reprimanded, and I can assure you that..."
Edd stopped listening. He glanced down at the guards again, as they groveled. He approached them, then, sucking his teeth, drew his foot back. The motion was slow, deliberate, and the way the guards flinched made it clear they knew what was coming. Yet, they didn't try to duck away or anything of the kind. Rather, they clenched their jaws and closed their eyes for the imminent, vicious kick.
Those eyes opened again with surprised blinks when Edd merely scrapped the soles of his boots over their heads, instead.
"Earlier," he told them, picking at his nose, "I was hard at work, sifting through trash heaps. Pretty sure I stepped on dog shit, or something weird like that while I was at it. And here I've got two perfectly good surfaces to clean it off." He smiled at them, wide and toothy. "Y'all boys keep up the good work."
He turned on his heel and faced Specs once more, the confused guards—partially relieved, partially disgusted by the threat of nonexistent excrement—slowly rising to their feet behind him.
Specs watched him with curious eyes, then seemed to deflate as he let out a relieved breath.
"Anywho, you look like the type of upstanding, well-educated guy who can read worth a damn," Edd said. "You this place's majordomo, or somethin'?"
From the twin sharp intakes of breath behind him, and the way Specs' brows shot up, Edd got the impression that he was very much not.
Still, Specs recovered quickly, and shook his head with a smile. Smartly, he extended his left hand to offer Edd a handshake, and said, "No, I'm afraid I don't have the privilege of such an esteemed title. My name is Klaus. Klaus Curtis."
"Oh," Edd said. "Oh, shit." He then immediately cringed at having cursed right in the face of the Knight-Commander's husband. "Uh, I, uh, I mean—Oh shit, it's nice to meet you, sir. Lord, sir."
Edd made a mental note to himself; Stop talking at least until he was dead, and possibly a bit longer afterwards, just to be safe.
Still, the lord laughed, warm and pleasant, and clasped Edd's hand firmly. "There's no need to stand in ceremony, the pleasure is all mine! You're Edgardo Marín, yes?"
Immediately, Edd withdrew his hand, eyes narrowed into a glare. "The name's Edd," he growled through gritted teeth. "Now, where the hell's Ansel? I came here to beat the shit out of him."