One.

The sunlight bleeds through the hatch of the cottage.

Bors is not asleep, hasn't been for hours. Winfred had left the bed before that, though he knew she would've loathed to wake him. He could still feel the numbness in his arms as he remained still. He knows his body doesn't follow his brain's directions as well as it used to. But he doesn't mind laying there in the silence.

Well, it's not completely silent.

He could hear the birds chirping outside of his bedroom window as he stared up at the bare ceiling. The last shadows of dawn are stretching there and he watches them with every passing minute. It's become a tedious routine on these sleepless nights he's had. He could feel his eyes burn with exhaustion and his body aching with fatigue. All these restless nights were bleeding together now, like an endless feast of insomnia. When was the last time he's gotten a good eight hours of sleep, he wonders? Years? Long enough to forget what good rest feels like, perhaps.

He breathes for a moment, feeling his body damp with sweat. The bed still feels unpleasant, the warm blanket sticking to his skin and the sheets sticking to it. He knew it was time for a new one. He feels guilty for having Winfred go through the tedious routine of washing them again. Though he knows she won't hold it against him.

She never does.

He scratches his scruffy beard with an exhausted sigh.

These last few years have been strange. How his brain works these days remained a mystery to him. Sometimes it works on its own, like it all just goes blank and his mind is disconnected from his body and from the realm. It betrays him in more ways than he cared to count, bringing more sleepless nights like this and a terrible start to difficult days. Even getting out of bed was a chore.

Suddenly, he winces at the glint of light that reflects from a golden object on the small nightstand table beside him. Right. His 'hand'; the polished and worn prosthetic with still fingers.

Courtesy of the Order.

Bors sighs as he glances down at the scarred stump that surrounds his wrist. He hates looking at it, but there seems no avoiding it. His eyes see, he supposes, but the images never make it to his brain, never manifest as anything other than sensory input. No emotional connection. No memories and no deeper meaning. Detachment.

It's just another constant reminder of what he had lost.

It was the sacrifice of serving the great kingdom of Camelot, most would say.

Soon, he does find the will to finally gets dressed for the day, throwing on some black leather boots, woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a light coat with layers of black wool covering it and a dark cloak over his shoulders. It was one of his last remnants of his former glory, for those days have long disappeared into something he scarcely recognizes.

The morning light streamed through the open windows, highlighting the remnants of the meal he and his wife had shared the previous night. The cottage had hardwoods throughout and tall ceilings spacious with a decently sized kitchen.

At least he was allowed to return home. He knows he shouldn't be so damn ungrateful. There were those that weren't so lucky.

The front door opened to the forge, letting in the slightly cool air of the outdoors. Bors turned around quickly, shielding the incoming light with his hands as he tried to get a good look at who walked in.

"Ah, Father! There you are," the tone that registered was a mixture of frustration and concern. "I can see you're up now."

The sight of his daughter warms his heart to the brim, a soft smile gracing his lips. His sweet Winona.

"Yes, I'm up," he twists the prosthetic over his wrist with ease, a routine he's gotten used to.

"Mother said I'd probably find you in bed still. I thought you would be at the forge by now."

"This morning was a bit tougher than others," he admitted. "Shouldn't you be at the tavern?"

"I was, but Brant let me go early for the day," her gaze saddens. "I...I was able to walk mother to his spot."

He turns to her and his brows furrowed into an understanding frown when he realized what day it was. An important one that wasn't so pleasant for them. Bors glances down at the bundle of white daisies in her hands as she clutches it close to her chest.

"Ah," His shoulders sag with a huff, his expression softening, "How was she?"

Winona's mouth twitches wistfully, trailing a delicate finger down the stems. "About as well as you'd expect. I suppose she hasn't been getting better?"

He hums in response, "She prays to the First every night, but I don't think even they could mend the hole in her heart."

Not that his presence made much of a difference these days.

"No work at the forge today. The Order can wait," Bors grabs his daughter hand in his calloused one, the weary smile on the man's making him look even older than fifty. "Let us have this day. For the both of them."

Winona squeezes his hand, smiling as well, "Okay."

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The roads of Ealdor were packed with bustling bodies dressed in their casual attire as they stood behind their workstations. It's a beautiful winter day outside, the afternoon air so cold that the wind bleeds through their bearskin cloaks. This is pleasant village was his home and was comforting to come back after being away for so long.

The men here were the one of the best smiths in the realm, most carrying hammers in their hand before they could walk. Down by the riverbanks were small obsidian caves, 'gifts' left from the dragons when they once ruled the land. Ealdor was one of the best when it came to forging them, and it was why the Order always paid heed to them.

"Bors, it's so good to see you!" he heard the cheerful voices greet him as he passed them by with Winona on his arm. She squeezes it reassuringly.

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He greets them all with a soft smile, of course, but it never reaches his eyes. It's frustrating sometimes. Bors knows they mean well. It's just that he's the one that's different.

Bors was the son of the former king of Gaunes. He left his home young and bright and raring to do some good, to fight to protect people. To bring peace and help the innocents find safety and justice. He left the perfect picture of a young, strong soldier with his brother and father at his side, and he came back broken. He doesn't see things the way he used to. He knows that the optimism he once had is long gone. It always feels like there's this nightmare at bay, not just all his problems but all the damage. He can't escape it, the darkness in his head. And no matter how much he sacrificed for the Order, it just kept taking and taking from him.

But he had his wife and daughter. And they were more than enough. In a realm ravished by war, they presided in one of the few provinces untouched by the songs of dancing swords and battle cries.

The grass rustled around them once they walked up the treetop hill not too far from the village. It was usually a wonderful sight to see for Bors, but now, it's just filled with another heavy burden on his shoulders. His wife greets them when they reach the top, kneeling in front of the small headstone in her Keeper robe. The small bouquet in Winona's hand was still fresh before she laid them down gently on the soft grass beneath.

"You're both here," she sniffles without turning, long brown hair streaked with small touches of gray flowing with the wind.

"Of course, mother," Winona kneels by her mother's side.

"You hear that, my son? We're all here," Winfred breathes a small laugh through tears. Bors' heart felt heavy at the sight of his grieving wife, but he was used to this feeling by now. He's had good practice over the past year coming up here. "The weather is still as cold as ever. So, nothing's changed on that end, I suppose."

Bors swallows the lump in his throat as he listened to the pain in her voice. He wasn't ready to come back here. No matter how much time has passed, the memories were still too raw. There are moments where Bors thinks he hears his voice still. Forgive me, he had whispered as he laid dying on that broken battlefield. I failed you. He was nearly succumbing to his wounds and his words were coming out in small sets of croaks. Bors remembered the desperation that coursed through him, how tightly his arms were wrapped around him when the life was drained from his body. When he returned his son's body home, Winfred had dropped to her knees in a desperate cry that still hadn't escaped his memory to this day.

"I'll bury him up the hill by that tree," Bors told her. "He...always liked that view as a child."

And so he did, and they had been coming here ever since.

"We miss you, Brenn," Winona whispers, leaning her head against her mother's shoulders. "And not a day goes by where I don't need your smiling face to guide my way."

Silence.

"...Yeah," Winona sighs, brushing delicate fingers against the small headstone. "Yeah, I miss you as well, dear brother."

She glances over her shoulder to see that Bors is inches away from her, shoulders tense and back turned. His gaze was now locked on the glorious tree in the center of the kingdom of Camelot, towering over the large castle walls, mountains, and hills. It was luminous gold, the bright mist of the large branches stretching into the very heavens of the sky. Its foundations remained strong and pure, untouched for thousands of years.

Even now, after all these years, Bors couldn't help but bask in its glory. The 'Eternal Tree', they called it. The first true living thing in this world, no origin to transcribe it. And yet, they were bound to it. Just as it was bound to the world.

"Of all the views we've seen, this one never gets quite old," Bors says. Winfred's arms slip into the crook of his own with a hum, head resting on his arm.

"...I can see why he loved it," a wistful smile etches her lips and Bors pulls her closer by an inch. Silence fills the air again, but they were content with that. There was no need for words. This peaceful moment was for them, and them alone.

Suddenly, a cry sings into the cold air, perking up Bors' ears. His shoulders lift quickly, brows furrowed.

"Did you two hear that?"

The women straighten up beside him, lips parted before they hear another cry, almost in sync with the other, "Yes, I do."

They turn to the forest trees to the side of them that were materializing at the edge of the town, revealing the source of the noise. A cloaked body is crawling in the dirt, crumpled in a heaving mess. At the sight, the suspicious part of Bors' brain barely registers as Winona rushes over to the commotion.

"Winona!"

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?"

She's already hunched beside him as he was now curled on his side. He flips himself onto his back and the swaddling on his chest unravels, revealing two tiny figures clinging onto his chest for dear life with his large arm holding them close. They were infants.

"My word!" she gasps, staggering backward, almost falling to her feet as well. It was as if her legs had grown suddenly weak. The man's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as he lay in front of her. Blood was stained on his cloak, arrows stuck out of him like a flower of violence. Yet, he lived.

How was this possible?

Her gaze travels to the infant on the right of his chest. She had minor tussles of dark brown hair curling on top. Her chubby cheeks were flushed pink with sensitive, smooth skin, still pale and shriveled like her sister's. She was whimpering and fussing and struggling in the swaddling.

"Bors!" Winfred exclaimed, her quivering hand covering her mouth. They rush to Winona's side in an instant, brows raised in shock.

"You alright, boy?" Bors spoke.

Silence. The stranger's gaze is now looking to the sky, almost as if he were being lulled by the stars and myriad colors.

Bors examined him for any more telltale signs of injuries. Although he sees more scars, his body was also littered with strange runic tattoos that ran along both his arms and down his spine. His face seemed frozen in a perpetual grimace and a beard grew thick at his jaw. He had strong features, hard cheekbones and proud nose.

"He's been in a battle," Winfred observed. "Many in fact."

There were deep gashes on his sides and abdomen. Winona recognized the claw-marks. He must have come across a pack of hungry wolves eager to make a meal of him. They were a few days old but in all the excitement; the wounds had broken their seal and bled once more, gaping at the mouth. Those would need a strong poultice and at least a month to properly heal. And the arrows? She would have to extract them herself if he had any chance of surviving.

And then there were the infants. By the looks of them, they weren't even a month old. No damage was inflicted on them, thank the Lords. It seemed this man was a great protector.

"He needs help. We need to get them home so that I may tend to them."

"Winona-" Bors tries to stop her before she steps towards the injured party. But it's too late. Her arms are already outstretched towards them and the stranger quickly draws a large axe from his side, inches away from Winfred's neck. Bors instantly cursed himself for not bringing his blade with him. "

His eyes were on hers now, icy blue. His right arm that was wrapped around the babies grew tighter. No words left his lips, but the message was clear as day; 'Don't take another step forward.'

"Winona," her mother warned, all of their hands lifting in surrender.

Winona's throat bobbed, fingers trembling, "It's okay. There's no need to be afraid. I only want to help."

The man's brow furrows, guard strong.

"Let me help you, please."

Looking at the wounded man, Bors cursed his breath. Damned this woman's kind heart.

The tensions seemed to stretch for an eternity and eventually, the stranger lowers his weapon back to his side, responding in a silent but curt nod.

"Go get help, Mother! Please!"

It doesn't take much convincing for her to do as she quickly rushes into the village, howling in a panic. But, in those hurried moments, Bors was staring at the tattooed man, heavy breathing with eyes shut closed.

By the Lords, what has happened to this man?