The first snow began to fall during Avren’s funeral. The White Cloaks drove ceremonial daggers into their fallen commander’s coffin one by one making echoing thunks as each Cloak stabbed the wooden box and paid their respects. Wiccer winced at each the piercing sound of each thud. Then it was his turn. Wiccer limped over, supporting his weight on a cane. The silver trim of his white tunic shimmered from small shafts of light that pierced the dreary clouds.
Before driving the blade into the coffin, he held still. Light flurries danced around him as he whispered his final goodbye, “Farewell, my Captain, my friend, my brother.” He struggled with the words and fought with everything in him to keep from collapsing on the coffin, if only to cling to his brother one last time. Keeping his composure, he slammed the dagger and slowly limped to his place alongside his father. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the White Cloaks drew their swords to salute a hero.
***
The Mystic Fang tavern was a popular destination in Lost Dawns for the White Cloaks. Its location was a short walk from their headquarters. It opened early and closed late. The bartender often gave Cloaks a discount and today was no different. Cold drinks were passed around as the Cloaks told very tall tales of Avren’s exploits and embarrassing deeds. Those who knew and loved him celebrated his life with a long night of stories, laughing, and drinking. Surely his spirit lived on in their revelry.
Marcus drank silently, not looking up to make eye contact with his only remaining son. Wiccer did the same. They may well have been complete strangers. Were it not for their similar features and the blood that bound them, they would have been.
Wiccer moved to break the uncomfortable silence, but was unexpectedly interrupted.
“I hear that you fought hard,” said Marcus, still not looking up from the untouched foam head on his ale.
Wiccer opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Moments passed before he was able to say anything, “Not hard enough, apparently.”
“I guess not,” Marcus shrugged. Wiccer had trouble reading him, he wasn’t depressed, just disappointed.
Stolen story; please report.
“Next time father–” Wiccer started, but all that was on his mind was his own failure and his hatred for Elucard. The elven assassin was directly linked to his biggest failures in life. All he wanted was to watch the Black Rabbit clan burn. His heart and soul were consumed by visions of Elucard’s lifeless corpse swinging quietly from the gallows. But it was not merely vengeance he sought in this, but his own redemption.
“There won’t be a next time,” Marcus spat before rising from his seat, he clanged the iron stein a few times with a fork from the table. The bar quickly settled down until it was dead silent. Marcus looked around before making his announcement, “I have something to tell you all, lads. This seems like hard news to say on top of an already somber day, but I’ve been informed that King Koda will be releasing us from our duties.”
A mixture of worries and questions erupted in the Mystic Fang. Marcus clarified, “Long Whisper is putting together their own military. I’ll be personally overseeing the training of this army, alongside a select few of you. We are to act as drill instructors, but we will no longer be needed for protection.” Marcus eyed his son’s distraught face, “Protection… We failed miserably in that regard and Lost Dawns has taken note of that.”
Wiccer clenched his teeth in anger, “Father, I volunteer to instruct the elves!”
Marcus ignored his son, “The rest of you will be reassigned to other countries. This division has been disbanded. Finish your drinks. You will be contacted if you will be needed to train the future soldiers of Lost Dawns.” Marcus placed his drink on the table and walked out of the tavern with Wiccer limping after him.
“Father, I said I volunteer to be a drill instructor,” Wiccer shouted at his back.
Marcus stopped abruptly and stood still. Snow crept down slowly from the sky and bathed in the glow of the street lamps, “No, you’re going home to our cabin in Long Whisper.”
“Father my leg will heal, and I’ll be able to perform any–” Wiccer begged his father for another chance to prove to himself that he was worth the effort put into him, but his cries fell on deaf ears.
“No!” Marcus interrupted, raising his voice, “I’m retiring you.”
Wiccer was taken aback, tears formed in his eyes. He hung his head low, choking out his words, “Why? Why do you hate me? I already know it’s my fault Avren is dead. If I trained harder, I could have saved him. If I listened to his lessons I could have saved the king. Please give me another chance to make up for all my failures. Please, I need this!”
Marcus walked away calling back to Wiccer in a low voice, “Pack up and go home. You’re dismissed.”
Wiccer slammed the side of his fist on the tavern wall. Everything he had ever worked for and loved was gone.