---RYNE---

When my brothers came back from the cooking pot bubbling over the fireplace, I noticed both Wilbur and Woodrow took only a few spoonfuls of soup in their bowls. Lydia saw, and she wordlessly got up and grabbed their bowls, dipping the ladle back into the pot and adding more.

Wilbur was about to protest, but a stern look from Lydia made him sit down. She filled their bowls to the brim. “The day may come when we will starve, but so long as there is still food left in my house, everyone in it shall eat.” She set it back down in front of them at the long wooden table.

Claude winked at me. Not only the farmhouse, but the people living in it were charming. The warmth swept through me, seeping through the cold bones that had known only hostility, submission, and fear. It would be so easy to be selfish, to close the door in our faces. But here this family was, and it made me glad that some people still chose to do the difficult thing. They chose to be good.

Lydia told us about her family as we supped. “Four sons and one little girl. Annette was fine one morning and then fell ill come dusk. It began when the clouds started to block out the sun and rumors spread of the disease. The townspeople won’t touch us now and are already closing the town gates. Though some of our good friends still allow Claude to enter, so long as he does his business quickly.” She sighed and motioned upstairs. “Annette rests in my room.”

Wilbur comforted her but was careful not to tell her of his medicines. I knew him. He wanted to climb those stairs, especially now that this family has done us kindness. He swallowed. “Maybe you can take me to her. I do not know much as a physician in the city, but I know some knowledge of healing.” Slowly, he added, “And I might have something that can help her. It is a fever-reducing syrup that was given to us by a fellow monk-physician who travels to the city from time to time.”

Lydia smiled wide. “Thank you, Brother Wilbur. I do not mean to ask for anything at all from all you weary monks, but—”

Wilbur and I shook our heads. He said, “We cannot abandon anyone in their hour of need.” It was Lydia’s message reflected back at her.

Lydia smiled, and then she looked at me and Wilbur. “You two look alike, if not for the color of your hair. Are you sure you are not blood brothers?”

We smiled at that. Wilbur began to lie. “There was a woman that took refuge in our monastery, saying she was with child. Her husband had died in a skirmish, and they had nothing. She held the story of the Saints in her heart and her faith led her to us. There we nurtured her with the rest of the villagers. But when the time came for her child to come into the world, her spirit left. She had kissed little Ryne’s brow here before her lips went cold.” Wilbur patted my head and arranged my wispy hair. “He has been our light and hope ever since. We taught him all that we know. Language, numbers, and prayers.”

Lydia swallowed, her eyes leaking. But Claude simply stared. He said, “But what about you, Ryne? I’m sure the brothers were kind to you. But now that you are old, is it still monkhood that you want?”

It was a question that would stun someone else. My brothers, too, were awaiting my answer.

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” I replied. It was out before I really thought about it. Quickly, I added, “And it’s all I ever want now.”

Silence but the soft crackling of the fire.

“I want to be a soldier,” Claude said softly, his eyes on his finished soup.

“Oh, not this again.” Lydia wiped the tears from her eyes and crossed her arms. She frowned at her son.

“It pays good money. And we need money to pay tribute to Lord Bahram. And I’m strong!”

“You are too young!” She shrieked.

“Boys my age had already died from hunger. It’s either that or by the sword.”

Lydia covered her ears and shut her eyes. We were alarmed at her distress. “Enough, Claude. Saints help me, stop this nonsense. And right in front of guests, too.” Wilbur looked down at his soup. Woodrow, meanwhile, watched Claude.

Claude bit his lip, but unable to control himself, blurted, “The Saints aren’t listening, Ma. Or else crops wouldn’t fail, Annette would be healed, the rest of your sons would be here, and people wouldn’t have to resort to becoming rogues or soldiers just to feed their families!” He slammed his hands on the table and then pointed one hand at me. “Even the clergy isn’t immune. Their monastery wouldn’t be ransacked if the Saints protected them.”

A charred log fell on the fireplace, sending bursts of ember. All of us were staring at Claude now. His chest rose and fell, and when he collected himself, Claude sighed hard and muttered an apology. He excused himself and stormed off, out into the fields.

Lydia looked down at Claude's empty bowl. “Forgive us, brothers. It has been a trying month. But please, please make yourselves warm by the fire.” Lydia brushed her lips with the back of her hand. She sighed and looked at the door letting the cold wind in. “He must have kept that for so long.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“It is all right, Lydia. We understand. Come, you need to rest too. How about you tell us some happier times.” Woodrow said. He stood up and motioned to Lydia to join him. Lydia smiled and led him out into another door somewhere in the living room. I saw leaves and grass and a well before the door shut.

“You haven’t touched your soup, both of you,” I said when Wilbur and I were alone.

“We can’t stomach it anymore, Ryne. We tried. But I am glad that you can still eat.” We stared at each other. That means… they have no choice but to drink blood now to sustain themselves.

“I’m going to their well.” He tapped his satchel. “If this is the last route to whatever it is we’re looking for, then Claude and Lydia could very well be our neighbors. And such good neighbors they are. I could at least empty the last of my precautionary medicines to them. I don’t know how long it would last, but it’s better than nothing.”

I nodded. “I’m going to go look for Claude.”

We went our separate ways. Claude was on the last wooden step of the porch, shoulders slumped, hands on his chin, boots planted firmly on the ground. “Hello,” I said softly. I left the door open, allowing a small slant of orange light to fall upon his right shoulder. I tapped him.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier about the Saints. I am quickly being labeled as a blasphemer.” He chuckled and closed his eyes. “If I said that near our priest, I would be locked up and carted off somewhere.”

“It seems cruel, to enforce a belief to others,” I said. Claude opened his eyes. I sat beside him. “I thought for the longest time that we came to preach, not enforce. That’s what our brothers and I feel, anyway. Even though the Saints did exist, they did not ask us to worship them. Just follow their example.” I sat next to him. “Are you sure you want to be a soldier? How about being a merchant, or physician, or a craftsman? You carve wonderful sculptures.”

“A physician,” he breathed through his teeth, smiling. He shook his head. “I’m too old for any of them. Guilds like them need young apprentices. Some of the candidates need schools and sponsorships. Guilds nowadays want you to pay for some of them before entering, or really impress the guildmasters with your skill. But soldiers… they take anyone. It’s either starve or become one. At least this way, I won’t see my family slowly dying.”

“Your mother would be worried sick thinking of you every single day the moment you leave this house for war. She’ll never recover.”

“She’ll understand. Look, if the land was fertile, then maybe I would forget ever wielding a sword and be fine holding a staff for the rest of my life. Follow my brothers and parents' and grandparents’ footsteps. But none of us are guaranteed to live until tomorrow. Not even monks like you.” He huffed. “With the money I get for enlisting, we can pay for a good doctor.” He looked at me, eyes wet. “I just don’t like not doing anything. I don’t want to slowly die.”

“Claude…” There were no words that I could think of to ease his burdens. All I kept thinking about was that he was too young to be speaking like this. Was this how Wilbur viewed me? I thought.

I had not known him for long, but Claude seemed too decent to be ravaged by war. So young, Lydia whispered as he saw me. And boys my age were already holding spears and arrows. The high lords were mad to lower the age of enlisting. I hated them. So easy to starve the men and let them become desperate. It was Knox all over again.

Finally, I said, “If we helped you somehow, then you would stay?”

He shrugged. “Unless you can speak to the soil for crops to grow, then yes.”

But then it got me thinking. Well, what if we could deal with the land? What if this could be our next project? It’s not at all different from the mission we were told at the beginning. Except this time, it would be true.

A frail wail broke the silence. Claude shot up, sharing the frightened look I had. We hurried indoors.

Lydia and Woodrow were already at the foot of the stairs, her hands pressed to her mouth. She crumpled when she saw her son. They hugged each other, shaking. They knew Annette was not long for this world. A swirl of cloak passed me as Wilbur, voice calm and body tall, told Lydia, “Take me to her.”

Lydia broke free from Claude and went up the stairs. I followed them. The dried mud from our boots scattered like pebbles with each step. I gripped Claude’s hand as I passed him and told him I would help. Claude looked at me, trying not to cry, and nodded.

Annette’s room was hot. It was not an uncommon sight for us; a small body swathed in blankets. As we looked at her, Wilbur frowned. I winced. We had thought it a death-chill but there was more to it. The girl on the bed looked bloated and she was coughing heavily with the bile stuck in her lungs. Without the right medicine, we wouldn’t be able to treat her. Lydia was at the foot of Annette's bed, already praying to the Saints. Wilbur was hovering over Annette’s burning brow, peering closely.

“Lydia, go downstairs and boil the feverflukes in clean water, about the size of a large basin.”

Lydia, frantic, went downstairs and called her son for help. Wilbur softly touched Annette’s cheeks. Without meaning to, his sharp nail pricked her skin and a single bead of blood stuck to his skin. Wilbur’s eyes widened, the brown eyes turning black.

Faster than I can stop him, Wilbur sucked his finger. I ran towards him, pushing him to the wall. I kicked his legs from underneath him just like how Woodrow taught me and pinned his arms. I placed my knees on his chest.

But Wilbur’s eyes were turning back to brown. He tasted the blood on his tongue, making a curious expression. He was thinking.

“I know what I must do. I know what she needs!” Wilbur nodded at me to let him go and brought out the usual potent medicine made of many feverflukes and the new medicine to warm the body from his satchel. “The sickness from the south hasn’t yet reached Rothfield. But this may be a new mutation of the deadly fever.” As a side thought, he added, “We really should be naming the new sickness and medicines, Ryne.”

Wilbu’s shoulders relaxed. With the absence of a mortar and pestle, he grabbed the empty bowl near Annette’s table and poured half of each medicine, then he added a sprinkle of denzemond. Only two teaspoons were left in his packet. He mixed it with the wooden spoon and watched the medicine interact with each other, sharing the same scent.

Lydia came just in time with the flower-infused ewer. Wilbur showed her the medicine he made. “I don’t know if it will work, Lydia, but I promise it won’t make things worse.”

“It’s all I could ask for,” she huffed.