The cool wind whispered along the crackling flames left by their arrows. The Commander’s head rested on Crepus’ chest with weight. He held his father’s cheek upward to take a glance and hold onto hope that, perhaps, he was still there. Instead, he was met with his father’s head falling limp to his chest a second time.

  The wounded young man froze, his eyes flickering down at the mangled stomach of his uncle with a grimace and bit his lip.

  The mercenaries holding the corpse glanced at each other, then back at the cause of this. Their gazes were accusatory, and scowling. And when Crepus turned, his gaze at his cousin, his kin, was hollow, wide, and resentful. Despite all of this, they all remained silent as they marched back with the Commander’s body held cautiously.

  Desider’s breath went shallow. Never had their gazes been so sharp, so cutting on him. Not the mercenaries and especially not his cousin. His eyes darted back at the Captain, searching for an anchor. Yet his father’s back turned before he could gaze on him, following the mercenaries. He tightened his grip on his wounded shoulder and shut his eyes before dragging his feet after them to the town’s gates.

  The march to the town’s graveyard was quiet, the only audible sound was that of the wind. The mercenaries placed their commander’s body down on the dirt as a few collected shovels, including Crepus. Desider’s eyes glanced back at his uncle’s still, tore open body. He took a step to him as his lips parted, his chest still rising and falling. “I... I wish to aid thee...” Desider glanced at the mercenaries and Crepus, still holding his shoulder.

  They continued digging regardless, leaving Desider’s quiet request to pass with the wind. Despite this, Desider took a step to where they dug, but a hand to his chest halted him. “Thou canst not so much as move thy shoulder—meddle not.” a mercenary cut in. Desider’s eyes and brows twitched, needing to speak, to help. But he stiffened, his eyes darting back to his uncle’s body and the hole dug for him.

  Once they were finished, the wounded young man attempted to touch and carry his cold kin before he was met with a shove from his cousin. Before he could step towards him again, the mercenaries already lifted his body, placing their leader in the hole and filling it once more.

  Desider stood by his father. Once they shared a moment of silence, Crepus strode away wordlessly. The mercenaries, too, left one after the other. Some snarled at Desider wordlessly, some muttered ‘whelp’, ‘fool’ and some avoided him entirely.

  Drowning in disapproval, he assumed his father would say a word, give him a glance, place a hand on him, even aggressively. Again, he was met with a slow retreat to their abode. He glanced to his uncle’s grave once more before clenching his teeth and curling his fingers till his knuckles turn white.

  Once returned, his head raised to meet his father’s gaze, hanging onto a thread of hope. But the door to his parent’s chamber was closed, leaving him with nothing but moonlight to his side. He dragged his feet to his room and sat on the bed. His head faced the roof, his eyes wide and red while holding his shoulder. His body was spent, yet sleep proved to be a worse challenge than any ghoul. The image of his uncle’s torn stomach, the lingering voices of the mercenaries and the glare of his cousin—they did not leave him.

  The mother stirred in her bed as she felt her drunken husband collapse beside her, his back facing her. Clueless, she leaned to him. “Dear?” She asked, her voice just above a whisper. She was met with silence. She asked a second and a third, but when no response was given, she made no effort to press and let morning unveil the silence.

  The sun rose and the roosters cried. Desider was already in the barn, his injury failed to deter him from caring after the livestock, yet the fatigue and the ache in his chest almost did. He scattered oats for the chicken and sheep absentmindedly, his gaze strayed away from them. Moving to the farm, his grip on the pot was shaky, water occasionally spilling away from the crops. Having finished, he trudged back inside.

  His mother sat down on the dinner table and ate. Her eyes perked at her son entering, having already finished his tasks so early. She made note of his hand holding his shoulder and his bloodshot eyes. As he wordlessly made it back to his room, she rose and followed. “Boy, what trouble stirreth here?” she asked, though her tone carried not scold but firm concern.

  Desider turned his face away, his hand gripping at his blanket.

  “Speak.” she demanded. “Why dost thou clutch thy shoulder? Hast thou injured it?”

  Desider swallowed hard, his breathing uneven as he tried to mutter something and part his lips but his chest ached further.

  “Desider!” her voice rose.

  “I have. I have injured my shoulder.” Desider murmured with a heavy tone. He did not gaze upward still.

  “By what means?” Her voice lowered once more, taking a step forward.

  “Monsters. Not unlike those in folktales.” He muttered.

  His mother raised an eyebrow and sat beside him, her eyes squinting. “What dost thou mean?”

  His head finally rose back up, his sore eyes meeting his mother’s. “I mean ghoulish wolves, beasts towering to a trunk’s breadth.” His voice was strained.

  His mother’s eyes widened slightly before inhaling and leaving the room. Desider shut his eyes and rubbed them, grunting from the soreness and that he will have to recount last night. She came back with bandages and a leather sling. She sat by him took off his armor, her expression still and composed and her voice authoritative. “Explain.”

  As Desider was being tended to, he spoke with strain from pain. “The feast went well—then the mercenaries spoke of tales. They...said the woods harbored ghouls and beasts that turn a man insane, seen only at night.”

  “And thou wandered there?” She whispered sharply.

  “Curiosity took hold of me!” He exclaimed tiredly. “A-and... I thought I could... handle it. A single beast would not have been trouble... but my eyes saw a pack of seven. T-That is how I received this injury. Mine uncle, he...” Desider gasped and grit his teeth, taking a pause. “...he saved mine own life.”

  His mother’s jaw slackened, and her breath went shallow for a moment. “...what became of him?” she asked. Desider shook his head and clawed at his thigh briefly. “He wasn’t eaten but... his stomach was torn up. He was buried last night...”

  “...What of Crepus?” she asked quietly.

  Desider’s eyes went moist but no tear spilled over his cheek as he went silent for a moment. Having gathered his breath he muttered, “Alive... h-he evaded me... his eyes were hollow...”

  His mother fell silent, pursing her lips. Her eyes furrowed on her son, ready to chide but... seeing her boy, once filled with vigor and life a morning ago now crumbling before her tug at her heart. She tended to his arm silently for minutes. Once done, she rose from her seat and spoke, her voice carried scolding but was covered by resignation. “Why dost thou do this to thyself? Have I told thee not to cease this folly?”

  When her son didn’t answer and gripped more at his blanket, her eyes softened. “What hast thy father done?”

  Desider took a sharp breath and murmured. “He averted me too...”

  His mother scoffed quietly and shook her head. She took a glance at her boy before turning away. “Thou shouldst eat something, lest thee fall ill.”

  Desider laid still on the bed, his wound bound, and the flame in his chest burned on.

  Near noon, the Captain’s consciousness returned to him, yet his will to rise faltered. He laid until his wife entered their chamber. “Dear?” she muttered. Much like the night before, he remained unresponsive. She drew closer and laid beside him, clutching his hand tenderly. “The boy... he told me everything.” His expression darkened, his other hand clenched and his chest rose and fell. “Dear, he... erred in his judgement. Who could guess such tales were real?” She continued.

  The Captain’s eyes shifted to her, though his head and expression didn’t. “Art thou defending folly?” he spoke coldly before finally facing her. “Mine own brother died! And for what? For his need for approval? Mine own brother wasted his life for nothing!” He spoke sharply and his eyes bulged.

  “Wouldst thou wish it be Desider’s?” She questioned softly, locking her eyes with his, and placing a hand on his cheek.

  The Captain scowled and gritted his teeth. His breathing was uneven, wanting to give a cruel answer. But her touch and her eyes were persistent, grounding. The question hung on the air. After a minute he shut his eyes and lowered his head. “And just after I return home...”

  His wife held his head and embraced it, running her fingers on it. “It is alright, dear... thy brother was a warrior. He... passed with honour... shielding the town and those whom he loved.”

  The Captain clutched her arms back and buried his face, his back pinching as he heaved.

  By the afternoon, Desider emerged not from his chamber. He paced around inside a minute and went limp an hour. He tossed and turned on the bed. As soon as sleep caught his eyes, his chest and shoulder alarmed him up.

  The mother was not accustomed to witnessing her son locked up, refusing to eat till his food turned sour. By dinner, she knocked at his chamber’s door and entered, her tone sharp. “Desider. Rise. Thy breakfast turned spoiled.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Desider remained where he was, laying on the bed as if a disease caught him.

  As worry and frustration ate at her, she spun on her heel to her husband. “Dear, I pray thee, aid me! He lieth as a sickly old man, neither eating nor sleeping.”

  “If he wisheth not to eat then let him be. He shall rise on his own.” He spoke lowly, his tone slurred and unbothered and his gaze focused to the window, a glass of beer in his hand.

  “Dear...!” she called out again, her tone pleading. Yet her husband’s gaze and mind drifted elsewhere, chugging down. With frustration, she gazed back at her laying, still son. She scoffed and shook her head, resigning for the day. The Captain flicked his eyes to his son’s room before grumbling and shaking his head.

  Desider’s mind remained clouded, his injury almost numbing itself and his appetite thinner than a straw. He tossed and turned on the bed, hoping for relief, but his thoughts raged on. “(Why now? I was near. So very near.)” “(Did he perish for mine own sake or did I slay him?)” “(Was... she right? Was it all folly?)”

  The sun rose again, his eyes and mind heavy with insomnia. His body trembled as it moved out of the house, collecting the oats for the livestock.

  Then his head spun subtly. His eyes rose to the back of his head and collapsed.

  Though when he cracked his swollen eyes open, his father was the one sitting beside his bed. His eyes widened slightly, yet his body laid still. The Captain gave Desider a firm glance and muttered. “Rest...” He instructed, placing a hand to his son’s chest and leaning. “Thy uncle lived by his weapon, he would have it no other way.”

  Desider’s expression went still and vulnerable, his breath shuddering. His mother entered shortly after with a new bowl, sitting beside Desider and speaking with a low tone. “Rise, my boy. Replenish thy strength.” Having no out and feeling an aching ease from his father’s touch and words, he rose and ate from his mother’s hand.

  ‘He would have it no other way’... he thought back to his father’s words. But so many questions remained unquenched. “(Was this fate?)” “(Was his blood on my hands?)" After a few, Desider held his stomach and rushed outside. Once he found an open area, he vomited, coughed, his eyes watered, and his back weighed on him.

  Days and nights passed by, though it did not heal or make easy his wounds. Sustenance was given to him a day, he denied himself the other. The questions in his mind lingered, his chest still ached. Like the claw of a beast driven to his beating heart.

  Seven days had come and gone since The Commander's passing. Desider's need for closure or clarity prodded him to visit his uncle's grave. As he walked eastward, he passed by The Commander and Crepus' house. With a furrow and tired eyes, he took a glance.

  The Commander's battleaxe sat beside a window, though Crepus was not inside. Desider stepped closer, eyeing the battleaxe with pursed lips and a small frown. He took a slow, deep inhale through his nose before dragging his feet back to the cobblestone path.

  As he made his march, a small but noticeable number of people seemed to be coming back from the graveyard, merchants, mothers, fathers, and children. Some passed with sympathy, some with quiet snarls, most without a glance. Desider's head lowered and shut his eyes. The word was spread.

  The young man halted, his eyes catching his cousin standing by his uncle's grave, mercenaries circling around him. He walked back and stepped to the side, hiding behind a slaughterhouse. There he eyed his cousin, his eyes blinking and his grip on the wall tightening.

  Unknowingly, he caught the attention of the butcher. "Aye, lad. What art thou doing?"

  Desider turned his head and met the man's gaze, his voice low and strained. "Mind me not... I only wait for that young man to leave the graveyard."

  The butcher wiped the blood off his knife and squinted at Desider. "Thou speakst of the town's Commander? I spoke to him not, save for a time. He aided me in a time of need." The butcher looked to the distant grave from above, glancing Crepus and the mercenaries, some leaving and some others staying. "I gauge that lad and his companions art his family?"

  "Only the unarmored, flaxen haired one..."

  The butcher gave Desider a look, noticing the similar, if not identical hair color. "Art thou in relation with them?"

  Desider did not respond but furrowed his brow.

  "Rumors say his nephew led him to his death... some others say it was a foolish venture."

  Desider coughed and shook his head, distress etched into his face.

  The butcher raised an eyebrow, but after a moment, scoffed and turned back to the slaughterhouse with a snarl.

  Desider swallowed hard as his injured shoulder pulsed, yet he remained there, waiting for Crepus to leave. Once his cousin did, he noticed three mercenaries standing still. He blinked and took a deep breath, slouching down the graveyard.

  The mercenaries leered at the approaching young man. For a time, Desider stood silent, looking down at his uncle, the town's hero, his hero. A life that saved many and inspired more, inspired him. An honoured warrior.

  Yet all his tired eyes can see is the consequence of longing for recognition. Desider heaved and gritted his teeth when the silence and their glares lingered. He tilted his head to them, his voice regaining a semblance of vigor. "It was mine own fault... I wish to redeem myself. I pray thee, take me. Alloweth me fight for his honour... bleed and die, I care not...!" Desider's chest rose and fell upon speaking, his eyes darting between all three.

  The mercenaries exchanged glances before one sneered and snapped. "Thou couldst not lift a straw with that wound, what dost thou speak of?"

  "Once I am healed... It taketh a few months, no?" He retorted.

  A second spoke through half-lidded eyes, amusement evading his voice. "Thou dost sure have a knack for death, eh, knave?"

  Desider scowled, his brows twitching.

  The third glanced back at the Commander's grave before sighing, then tilted his head to Desider. "Son, thine uncle becameth not our commander through recklessness and folly. Dooming thyself is easy, yet it bringeth no victory." He paused for breath then shook his head. "Dost thou truly assume thine uncle wished for thee to perish?"

  Desider's jaw slackened, his teeth showing as his face started to redden. "I can not let mine uncle perish in waste! Not—"

  Before he could finish, the first one retorted. "Thou already hast." He proceeded to take a step toward him with a scowl matching Desider's.

  Desider curled his fingers as his head jerked back, as if he was about to ram the man. With a sharp turn, he stormed out of the graveyard, a vein pulsing on his temple.

  The Captain, however, strolled with a bottle of beer in his hand as his son passed him without making eye contact or saying a thing. He glanced at Desider before looking ahead to find three mercenaries standing by his brother's grave. He sighed and nodded to himself before continuing his visit.

  Once Desider returned home and isolated himself back in his room, he heaved and sat on the bed. He clenched his fists a second before placing his forearm to his mouth and biting it. His teeth dug as his heart drummed, his veins burning, his wounded shoulder throbbing—until he tasted blood. He let go with a heavy gasp before silently slamming his fist on his bed.