Disclaimer: The characters, items, places, etc. of Final Fantasy VI are property of
Squaresoft, Inc. No infringement is intended.
“You want to do what?!”
Stalk, his ass. It was more like plodding through the woods with no particular destination in mind other than whichever way he felt like turning. It was a twisted maze of limbs and leaves, filled with thick bracket and burs that clung to the cloth around his shins and pulled at his sword. And it was still dark enough to see basically nothing in forest. Shadows were long and obscured holes and rocks. He could’ve fallen and broken his ankle many times. “Could’ve” being the operative phrase, of course. He didn’t have the luck to do so and get out of this drudgery. That would a nice. Just a couple of weeks hanging around in the medical tents, getting a couple of three gold pieces a week for sitting around on his ass and doing nothing. That would be nice.
Colonel Brookman saw what was happening and didn’t like it at all. Somewhere down there in the fray was Altera, his nemesis. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old bugger, but he had problems of his own to deal with right now. Mainly the increasing amount of resistance his cavalry was running into on their way to the real battle. But, now, it seemed as though half the battle was the actual route to get there.
Altera breathed a silent sigh of relief as he watched the cavalry come streaming down the hill followed shortly by a few straggling men in black uniforms. Imps. So, Brookman wasn’t just being a tardy ass. He pushed his long pike through the unguarded flank of a horse, not bothering to take the time to wrench it free. He dropped it and grabbed a short sword from one of the dead bodies on the ground. It was easier to fight in close quarters with; he wasn’t about to throw his life away with a pike.
Cyan wandered idly through their new encampment, going over the numbers quietly in his head. It had not been as bad as it had first seemed. Most of the injuries were curable, very much so. A couple of stitches and a drink of booze could perk most of his soldiers right back up. Of course, there were always those who couldn’t get back up. They were already being buried. The tags were sitting in a leather pouch in his tent, waiting for Josha to return to camp and sort them out and start writing letters.
He fell over.
Isabel Treveare sighed as her eyes scanned the horizon, watching for any movement in the golden waves of grass. This was a stupid job, and she knew it. Her partner knew it, too, and clucked his displeasure as he ruffled his feathers. There was nothing here. General Garamonde was just pissed that the battle did not go as well as he had hoped, so he felt the need to send the cavalry off in search of his stupid aide. She had a well-deserved rest ahead of her. Not this.
© 1999 by Junj.
3. The Light Brigade
by Junj - junj1@ibm.com
Cyan’s eyes snapped up at the open disdain that carried through the night on those words. It wasn’t a good thing. With every moment this conversation went on, he knew he was losing the confidence of one of his men. And, if he lost his cavalry commander, he lost every member of his mounted men. He certainly couldn’t afford that.
“Colonel Brookman, do you see a flaw in this plan that I do not?” he asked carefully, turning his gaze back to the sloppy map strewn in the dirt. It was simple, affective, and would no doubt be unexpected.
“Sir, with all due respect, sending in our infantrymen there would be suicide!” he retorted sharply, his mustache waving as he blew a breath of air through his lips. “We are already down from our full strength, almost by a half, now. If we lose any more men due to tactics such as these, we won’t have enough soldiers left to throw rocks at the rebs.”
Altera frowned, his forehead kneading as he thought. “Are you telling me that my men can’t handle a mounted charge?” he declared quietly. Cyan grimaced. Sore spot.
“Of course, I’m not saying that.” Brookman crouched down near the dirt map. “What I am saying is that your men are going to be stretched thinly, say about three men per row. Your officers will be dismounted, and you will be carrying supplies. When the enemy comes roaring down that hill, mounted on horses – horses! – you are likely to simply get trampled. Any man, regardless of experience or skill, cannot attack a horse running full charge. As I’ve said before, this entire notion is preposterous.”
Cyan nodded. “I see, Colonel. But, I don’t want the infantry to fight mounted foes. I want the infantry to dodge the attack. Any blind mind can see that they will attempt to capture the entire army going through those two hills and catch us in a pincer. If we space our men far enough apart, they will have plenty of time to dodge and let the horses merely run into each other.”
“And then what?” Brookman bristled visibly. “The infantry get cut off from one another and are slowly slaughtered.”
“Colonel,” Cyan growled. “Your men will follow their tactic. Rush down the hill and attack them from behind. Shortly thereafter, you will be reinforced by the other portion of the infantry which will be under my command.”
“I don’t have enough men to complete a maneuver like that. We’re talking about a long stretch, and I’m short on chocobos.”
“Colonel, you seem to be fighting me here. I want to win this war. We have no reconnaissance and no orders, so I am taking it into my liberty to make our own orders until such a time is reached when we will have new ones.” He rubbed his hands together even though they were by no means cold. “Chocobos will be taken from officers and given to your dismounted cavalry,” he added as an afterthought.
Altera smiled and rocked back on his heels, quietly rejoicing that Brookman had fallen from Cyan’s favor. That only left him. He had risen through the ranks this way, slowly watching other men fall from grace because they wanted to play it safe while their commanders liked life risky. There was no better way to be promoted or taken into regard than to make oneself subtly visible as the only man suited to fit the job where others failed. He could take control of the cavalry as well. No problem.
The chocobo’s head snapped up, and it cooed a warning, cocking its head to the side to listen. Plodding through the grass, propelled by a strong hand on his back, was a grungy stable boy with oversized ears and gangling limbs. His face was dark, and his arms were crossed stubbornly. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he looked none too happy to be there.
“Nice of you to join us, Lieutenant,” Cyan said absentmindedly, frowning slightly at his aide’s tardiness.
Josha snapped a smart salute at Brookman and Altera, waited impatiently while they each returned it, and then pushed the boy in the general direction of the chocobo. “Sorry, General, sir. I had a little trouble at the stables,” he reported, eyeing Brookman darkly.
Cyan glanced up at Josha’s young face. “A moment of your time? Excuse me, Colonels.” He grabbed the younger man’s arm, pulling him out of hearing range, away from even the stable boys who were known to spread gossip like the mosquitoes did malaria.
“Sir?”
Josha’s voice jarred him back to the current situation. “How are you at quail hunting?”
“Huh? What?” Josha arched an eyebrow, all the while looking at Cyan as though he had grown a second head.
Cyan grinned at Josha’s confused face. “Do you hunt quail? Or pheasants?”
He looked dubiously at his superior for a moment before shaking his head. “I’ve never shot at one, if that’s what you mean. Can I stalk? Like walk quietly?” Josha nodded his head slowly. “I don’t quite like where this is going…”
Cyan’s grin widened, disappearing into his long mustachios. It was so nice to see someone with as much personality as Josha in the army. Especially when he was that young. Most soldiers in this army were as similar as could be, strict with protocols among superiors, slipshod with their peers. It was rare to find someone the other way around.
“Don’t take a chocobo with you. It’ll just make noise. And, follow behind the army. We’re moving out in the morning.”
Josha nodded dumbly and then groaned. “Know the latest route they’re using?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll find it. Any country boy can track a chocobo.”
“Yes, sir. It’s times like these that I wish I was a city boy. See you with a little slip of yellow paper, then.”
“Good. Run along, now. And don’t forget to bring your weapon with you.”
Josha sketched another salute. “Us country boys aren’t dumb enough to stalk something without a stick.”
Cyan watched as he disappeared into the night. He slowly shook his head, glancing up at the stars. A few had already faded near the horizon where the sun’s light was already peaking up over the rolling hills. It would break soon enough, just a few more hours, if even that. He had wanted the army up before dawn. As it was, the chances of that happening were less than likely. It was still dark enough to hope, though. Maybe, just maybe, they would be able to catch the Imps off guard.
He doubted it.
But it was always nice to have a tiny, fervent wish, even in this rotten place commonly known as hell, but more often, by those who had never experienced it, called war.
But, of course, he had to avoid all the big holes. He was too lucky for his own good. He could only hope that his luck carried on when he was choosing directions. As of now, all he had found was a few scuffed rocks and broken twigs. Things weren’t looking up for him. Finding a dead messenger was going to be about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack. Except that this haystack stretched for fourteen miles between here and the last outpost, and the body of the messenger might not even exist.
Well, at least he’d always have an excuse as to why he came back empty handed.
That wasn’t much comfort.
He stopped to wipe the sweat from his eyes with one hand, slowly exhaling a large, quiet breath. This work, this soldiering thing, sucked. It sucked beyond everything he had ever done that sucked. It was worse than spring cleaning. At least it was cool in spring. And he could wear whatever he wanted. This friggin’ hot uniform was already begging to be taken off and daylight hadn’t broken yet. He could only imagine how hot armor would be under it.
Something rustled behind him.
He turned slowly, a sort of sinking feeling filling his innards. He had no name for the feeling. He didn’t know what it was. A sort of dread borne from nervousness, or something. He didn’t know, didn’t care very much. It was never right. He had always felt it right before his father asked him about something when he knew he hadn’t done it. His father never did anything to him, told him to go do the job as soon as he had time to do it. But the feeling was always there. And nothing ever happened to him. Maybe it was just the thought of something happening to him like he was alone in the dark during puma season. Nothing ever happened to him. The rustling didn’t return. He moved onward.
He edged his way through a particularly dense portion of underbrush, careful not to bend the branches into unnatural positions. Likewise careful not to pull any leaves from them, or kick up the ground beneath his feet, or scuff the stones lying about. The feeling didn’t go away, but he pushed it from his mind. Who would want to follow him around anyway? He was a nobody, a regular ole Joe Shmoe.
He stepped through the shrubs, gazing about warily. He didn’t trust his eyes; they always played tricks on him. And his ears did little but hear things that were made up by a delusional mind. They weren’t much use. And, his feet. They were always the biggest damn clodhoppers in the –
“Ugh!”
The wind exited his lungs in a loud whoosh as he tumbled to the ground. Pain flared through his foot for a brief moment before fading away as he regained his breath, trying very hard to be quiet. After a racket like that… He groaned. He had probably alerted the watches in Figaro that he was snooping around a forest hundreds of miles from the place. “Shit.”
He pushed himself upward with his arms, ready to pull his feet back underneath him when the very object he had tripped over became apparent to him, filling his vision with its gruesome sight. And to think he had bad luck…
Lying before him in a pile of bloody rags and swollen flesh was none other than the messenger himself. His one leg was distended too far from its socket, rugged bone poking through the soft hues of his uniform, his foot still wrapped tightly in a saddle. Blood seemed almost black in the dying light, long having stopped leaking from the long shaft of an arrow that protruded hideously from one eye. The other was glassy, with a nice fly walking over it, oblivious to the fact that it had once served the man it belonged to quite well. There were dozens of other wounds, broken bones bumping through stretched flesh and distended limbs. And there was quite a collection of flies, and a rather putrid smell Josha wrinkled his nose at.
He felt like he was going to toss the contents of his stomach had he had anything to eat previously. But, it was strangely attractive to look at this man, this dead man, this corpse. Something drew his attention to every feature, something demanded that he stare at every speck of dried blood crusted over the black welts on his face, over his swollen lips, around his one eye, and on the wooden shaft of the arrow. It wasn’t for curiosity’s sake, he knew that much. He had seen many a man and woman dead when the plague had struck his home town. Just a thing that forced him to look on the body. The same thing that was thanking whatever gods really resided in the heavens that he wasn’t the one lying there with an arrow through the head.
With a jolt, he realized that he had been just looking at the body far too long. A small beam of light was already creeping through the green canopy of leaves, illuminating the mossy ground. He jerked into action. Forgetting the vile stench that was permeating through the morning heat, oblivious to the black flecks of blood that rubbed off onto his hands, he quickly sifted through the uniform of former messenger.
His fingers shook as he unbuttoned the jacket, pulling it aside, to reach into the inner pocket in which he knew couriers carried their messages. He reached into it, his fingers closing over the small yellow parchment. It was sealed with red wax, the roaring lion of Figaro stamped into it. Miraculously, it was unbroken and as unflawed as it had been the day it was issued. Nope, no telltale flaws that came in the wax when a hot knife was passed through it and it was resealed. Lucky for him.
He rocked back on his heels, moving the long sheathed sword at his side into a more comfortable position, one that did not jab into his side quite so much. He was tempted to mutter a prayer over the body of the man, but he could not bring himself to do so, even after years of attending religious functions. He never quite knew what to think of God. Now, he wasn’t sure there was one. “Hell have mercy on your soul,” he mumbled, reaching forward and pulling the tags from where they were lodged behind the corpse’s neck. He pulled the leather loop with one copy of the tag from the longer cord, yanking it with a measured force that tore the knot apart easily.
He stood up, tag and message in one hand, pulling the sword back around to his side with the other. He glanced at the body, once again feeling that age old emptiness. That was what it was. Empty dread. This is gonna be me, sooner or later. That was all he could think. I’ll be lying in the middle of nowhere, a lonely corpse among the field of dead, my soul off to face the wrath of God.
He shrugged and turned around.
And was met with the whistle of steel cutting inches from his head.
He dropped back with a startled cry, letting himself stumble over the corpse. He hit the body with a sickening crunch as the broken bones shifted beneath him like pieces of tangy fruit in a Jell-o mold. He rolled to the side, pushing himself to his feet as he heard the dull thump of the weapon meet solid flesh. Not his flesh. Dead flesh. The corpse.
He pushed himself to his feet, finding the hilt of his sword and pulling it from its sheath. The face of his attacker was covered in shadow, carefully concealed in the obscurity of darkness. Probably an Imperial goon out for their orders, or a scout. Damn it. He wanted to curse or yell or scream, but he could never let himself do it in front of his sister much less a complete stranger. He wasn’t the yelling type. So, instead, he said, “I see you’re all up to your normal cruelty. Desecrating bodies. Probably the only targets you can hit.” He snorted contemptuously. “The dead ones.”
His taunting was met with a shriek of rage that sounded far too high to be masculine. The swift body movements and the fluid grace of the sword were also evidence that perhaps he was fighting a woman. But that hardly seemed to matter when the fact was that he was barely keeping that long sword from skewering him. And he didn’t quite feel like ended up like this esteemed comrade on the ground next to him.
Metal on metal rang through the air, cutting the clean serenity of the dawning day. It wasn’t something one wanted to wake up to, but, then again, he had been awake for hours. The point was moot, however, as a feint came a little bit too close to home for comfort. But, he was faring pretty well, all in all, despite the fact that he had about as much skill in sword fighting as he had in cooking, which was to say none.
Then, he was pushed back by his opponent, and he tripped – damn feet – landing rather on unceremoniously on his ass. He pushed up blindly with the sword, wished he would hit something, heard the tearing of cloth, the hiss of pain. He fell back to the ground, then, the sword falling from his grasp, warm blood trickling over his hand. So, he had hit the soldier then, right? Well, if he had, he had just broken one of his mother’s strict codes. She always was very upstanding when it came to following her beliefs. Thou shall not murder.
Well, maybe the soldier wasn’t dead.
He laid on the ground for what seemed like forever, watching the light break through the trees. It was during this time that he realized that the hiss of pain had been his, the tearing of cloth had been the sound of his uniform being sliced. Ah, well… He was probably going to go to hell now. That was okay. Maybe he’d see some of the men in the army there. At least he wouldn’t be lonely.
He wanted to say a prayer for his mother, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. That was okay, too. He never believed in that crap either. Whoever said prayer could move mountains obviously hadn’t tried it out yet. He couldn’t wait to see the look on that guy’s face when he figured it out. That was, if he wasn’t going to die.
He didn’t know if he was. All he knew was that that feeling had gone away.
“I knew this wasn’t going to work,” he muttered quietly, beneath his breath. What a mess this had turned into. Of course, even the worst soldier knew that the best plans were only good until the first blow. Everything after that was one, big guessing game where the losers went home dead. It was sort of a thrilling game every now and then, but it looked as though they would all be going home soon.
He hadn’t liked the plan. That fool Garamonde. That bloody fool.
“Forward!” he order, swinging his silver blade over his head in a gesture that would catch the eyes of his men is the shout was not heard. He brought the sword down on the backside of an enemy cavalrymen, knocking him from the saddle as the blade ripped through leather mail and into flesh. “Forward, men!”
They were almost through the lines, now. They were almost close enough to the edge of the hill so that they could simply ride down onto the fray below. The fool. Damn it! He should’ve seen this coming, that old coot. Any novice strategist could see the move they had been planning. It was an old tactic, the simple “let them ride down on us so we can ride down on them”. He’d seen it before in his time, read it before in all the great history books. It was so simple a tactic that only a child could miss it. And the new twist on it hadn’t help at all.
It was, as he predicted, suicide.
The Imperials had kept half of their army in the hills, just waiting – damn it, damn it, damn it! There weren’t enough curses in the world to convey the complete outrage that was eating through him, now.
Almost there.
His men had followed his lead, hacking a direct path to the edge of the curving hill, cutting through the infantry that had been posted there. Many of his own birds could be seen, lying dead or thrashing as they held onto life. It was a sad sight. But they were almost there.
Almost.
Almost.
Now.
“Charge!” The order was picked up by the rest of his men as he went sweeping over the hill in an overly dramatic way. A rally of cries followed his own as they followed his white bird over the crest of the hill, trampling whatever men happened to get in their way.
Brookman reigned his bird in, letting the closest men to him overcome him. He wasn’t about to lead his men down there where the fighting promised to be worse than up here. He wasn’t a fool; a mounted man was always a better target than infantry. Just let himself be caught up in the crowd as they descended to the battle.
Much harder to be hit that way.
Much harder.
He wove through the fighting, ganging up with his men in taking out as many of the Imperials as possible. This was, after all, supposed to be their battle with few casualties, little losses, and a whole lot of wine to celebrate the victory with. If his men fought like they always did, like he had taught them, with their characteristic fervor and flair, they could have the Imperials running back to their mothers in Vector in no time.
Forget the cavalry. They were just there to remind him that every now and then, his troops needed a little help. Just a little push in the right direction. And then they were a rolling boulder, crashing down the hillside to bury the enemy. That was what this brigade was made of. Not cavalry, not officers, just the little peons, the unskilled soldiers that were hired on three gold a week and whatever they pulled from the dead. That was what war was about. Not delicate maneuvers, not amazing shows of strategies, just a couple of hundred men hacking at each other until one side didn’t have enough men at the time to continue the brawl.
Screw diplomacy. When you knew you have the better of the hackers, and the bar brawlers, and the fighters, who needed fancy battles? Just show up, shake hands, and kill each other outright. You could move an army around all of the continents if you wanted, but that was what it always came down to. When one side ran out of men to kill, then the war was over. Not when one side wanted peace, not when one side had technological advancements, not when one side went bankrupt. There was always a war being fought.
Altera brought his sword over him to hack down into the head of a young boy. What a waste, killing these children. War was meant for men. Boys were too young for such folly as fighting a battle for an unclear cause. Hell, most of the men here were too young for folly. There were only a few who could appreciate the sickly sweet smell of blood over the fresh scent of dew. Altera had met a few of them once. He could never understand it, himself. He just fought because it was right, and he hated to see his men die. God could take him a thousand times over if He only spared one of his troops in His grace. It was a small comfort.
Better than no comfort at all, he supposed.
The battle was winding down, the black shapes retreating down the road or up the hills back to wherever their encampment was. Altera glanced around, noticed with a grimace that the road was littered with the dead and dying, both men and mounts, enemy and friend. He couldn’t tell if it was a victory or not. It made him wonder who had won this round of hacking. There was certainly enough men from both sides on the ground.
We’ll call it a draw, he though ruefully, dropping the sword back on the ground. He didn’t know whose it had been, if it had belonged to the enemy or to one of his comrades. It was up for grabs, now. Whoever was fast enough and needed it, got it. That was how the war went. You could always hack at the enemy with their own weapons. Nobody cared.
Altera sighed and glanced up at the sun. It was slowly creeping to its noontime position, the stifling heat already declaring it to be a broiling day. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead. It was too hot to fight. You would think that both sides would have enough sense to call a short amnesty during the hot summer months. You would think that they took it upon themselves to keep their killers in tip-top shape.
But that was how war was. The killers were expendable. The strategists were not.
He hated those letters; he really did. Sending a letter to announce that your son, or father, or brother was dead. That was low. It was despicable. It spoke of absolutely no respect for either the deceased or the deceased’s family. So, he never wrote them anymore, knowing that they would sound very phony with words like “great contributions” and “dignified death for a noble cause”. It just sounded very… well, lame to him. It was a lot easier just to write “your son is dead”. It might give the family a little peace of mind whereas the shallow lies were just that: lies.
Josha was good at writing that without lying, though his spelling left much to be desired. Write a basic letter, have it recopied, signed by himself and the deceased’s immediate superior, and send it off on its way. An excellent method of telling someone that the man, or woman for that matter, that they loved was dead. It was great. Another amazing achievement by the army. Heaven forbid they should actually send someone in person.
He frowned. Where was that boy, anyway? Send him off to do a simple task, and he can’t find the bloody army? They only left a trail as big as behemoth’s ass. And finding a messenger? It was simple. Just follow the easy trail a frantic chocobo left in its wake. A simple task. A bloody simple task. So where the hell was he?
“Brookman!” he snapped, drawing the attention of the man. Brookman turned sharply from where his white chocobo was tied to a wooden post, setting the tack he had been carefully oiling on a foldable stool beside him.
“Yes, sir?” he asked, forcing his words to be smooth and even. He tried to keep his face neutral, but he couldn’t help a look from sneaking into his eyes. A look that said, “You barely made it through that battle.” Cyan ignored it, frowning only imperceptibly before moving on with his orders.
“Where the hell’s my aide?” he growled, feeling his anger mounting with every moment that past. “Send out a couple of scouts to look for him. His assistance would be appreciated, right now.”
Brookman frowned. Find the shadow? Was that what this was about? Knowing the kid, he was probably off getting shitfaced with a bunch of the older soldiers. “You’re sure he isn’t in the camp, sir?” he asked carefully. He wasn’t about to waste manpower on something as stupid as a manhunt.
“Yes, I’m sure!” he barked, his eyes narrowing angrily. “That was an order, Colonel. I sent my aide on a search and recovery mission. I want him back here.”
Brookman snapped to attention, feeling red threatening to burn his face like a scalding fire. Oh, crap. I just made an ass of myself in front of the general again, he though darkly, throwing a salute that was never returned. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” He scuttled away from him, leaving the tack half oiled, forgotten on the stool. He’d find the friggin’ aide, dammit. If that was what he was expected to do now, then he’d do it regardless of whether he liked the job. It was his duty as a soldier.
Again.
Damn feet. They never moved like he wanted them to. They were always too slow or too sluggish or too big. Why did he have to have such big feet? It never made sense to him, and now, with his face in the trampled grass and dirt, it made even less sense.
All he knew now was that they were hindering him. He couldn’t move too fast because they were always tripping over roots or something. He didn’t know. They always found a rock to stumble across, a branch to snap between them before lost his balance and fell. It was an annoyance, was all. He was about ready to cut his feet off at the ankles. Maybe then he could walk right.
He didn’t feel good, either. It was hot. And he was tired. And he was hurting. He must’ve done something to himself a while back, maybe when he had fallen the first time. Landed sharply on something or rather. He couldn’t remember much. All he knew was that it hurt to breathe, and he was too tired to try.
So, lying in the dirt and grass was actually looking like a good idea right now. If just to rest for a little while, to save his aching hands that were clutching at something. He couldn’t remember what. Something important, he guessed. It had been yellow. Now it was kinda red. And his sword. He remembered that. That was in his other hand. When he fell, he always thought that he was going to impale himself on it, that he would run himself through or something stupid like that. A silly fear was all that was. But he wasn’t afraid of dying. No, not yet anyway. Just getting stabbed by his own sword. That always seemed scary. Maybe after he landed on his swords and ran himself through, maybe then he would be afraid of dying. Right now, he was just tired and hot.
Nothing a little sleep couldn’t cure…
“Where’s the army?!”
He stood back up, trying to piece together the words that had spewed forth from his mouth. He couldn’t remember actually saying them, just hearing them, but they had to have come from him. There was no other explanation for them. There was no one else there. They had to be his. But, regardless, the army was no longer occupying the large grassy plains in front of him. Just grass and gopher holes his big feet would find so that he would trip over them and hurt himself and maybe impale himself on his sword.
There should’ve been an army, shouldn’t there have been? It had been here, hadn’t it? Or maybe his goddamn feet had taken him the wrong bloody way. Maybe he had been walking for days in the wrong direction. Maybe he was lost with his big feet and his yellow piece of paper. Maybe the world had died while he was in the forest. Maybe he was all alone now.
He felt like crying. There wasn’t much else that seemed like a logical course of action at the moment. Just cry for a while and then rest in the dirt and warm grass and forget the hot sun above him and his big feet that always took him in the wrong direction. If he was the only one left in the world, he would have nowhere to go, anyway. What else could he do other than cry? He choked on a breath, felt the pain. And his eyes were hot with tears.
But he had to keep walking. Only when he was walking could he ever get anywhere. Maybe he wasn’t alone. Someone was bound to find him. If he could just keep moving and hand this yellow piece of paper off to someone else, and hand that person his sword. Then he could sleep, and he wouldn’t have to cry because he wasn’t alone.
He took a step, shuffling his feet close to the ground.
One. Two.
One. Two.
He wouldn’t trip if he shuffled his feet. Then he could see all the holes before him. If he just went really slow, his feet wouldn’t find the holes because he could step over them. His eyes were on the ground before him. No holes. No holes. He broke out into a smile. This was easy! There weren’t any gopher holes.
He ignored the sweat running over his vision and matting his hair to his forehead. He was oblivious to the fuzziness that sometimes can over his vision and caused him to stop. Those moments just slowed him down. He wouldn’t have to see an gopher holes because they weren’t any to see. They were all gone. It was a miracle.
He stumbled and fell.
And let loose one strangled sob before letting the tears trickle silently down his face.
“Do you see anything?”
She turned to the other cavalryman, squinting in the bright sun. She didn’t know the man riding on another chocobo next to her; she had only seen him a few times. It was important. Tomorrow would bring another rotation and another face and another name. Right now it was him. Tomorrow, it could be someone she knew or someone she didn’t. It was all just a schedule.
“No,” she growled. “This is stupid. What was the General thinking sending us after him? This is a joke.”
“No shit,” he agreed. “We ain’t gonna find him. He probably got lost in the forest and went crying home to mommy.”
Isabel smiled thinly. “Nah. I’m not so sure about the ‘crying home to mommy’. He’s a lot tougher than that, I think.”
He raised his eyebrows in question. “Really? And what makes you think that?”
“Last night, he came up to me and actually had some comebacks for my smart remarks. And then, he asks for my tags, right? Like he was going to write me up for something. Takes and just stares at the name for about five minutes before handing them back to me. He just wanted to teach me a lesson about wasting time.”
“Yeah, right. Probably couldn’t figure out how to write the report.” He laughed.
She smiled weakly in response, but she really couldn’t find the humor in it. No, this aide had guts. She had seen it in him when he had walked up to her. He was… mature, that was the word. Not something she would normally expect in a rookie his age. He could handle things that a lot of grown men couldn’t. It impressed her, to say the least. It didn’t make her feel any better about being out here looking for him, but it impressed her.
“There,” her comrade said, pointing a finger down the horizon where it seemed as though a figure was walking, albeit slowly, toward them. She squinted. A flash of metal, dark blue, that was him alright.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“What? We gonna give him a ride or something?”
She frowned. “Why not? Professional courtesy. Besides, it’ll give you something to talk about at your weekly cribbage game or whatever.” She kicked her chocobo to get it moving at a fast walk, almost a jog. They would close the distance in no time. No problem.
They sailed through the tall grass with barely a rustle, and she waved at the aide to grab his attention. He didn’t notice, intent on whatever it was he was doing. From here, it looked like he was concentrating on walking. She frowned slightly. As they got closer, she could see that he really looked quite bad, his pace a slow shuffle, his attention very much on one and one thing only.
And, then, even that one thing seemed to fall from him as he stumbled to the ground with a cry.
She gasped and kicked her chocobo into a gallop, forcing the bird into full speed. The chocobo spread its wings hopping nimbly over the gopher holes in the prairie, almost sailing on the air. She reigned it in as she neared the fallen aide, dropping heavily from the saddle as she came upon him.
He was sprawled out on the grass, his breathing heavy and labored, his uniform dirty and ragged. His hair was almost black in some places, curly with wetness. And the golden grass beneath him was red with liquid stickiness, a sure trail of blood.
“Oh,” she breathed, rolling him onto his back. He groaned a response to the action, bringing his unsheathed sword to bear, oblivious to its already red edge. It fell from his grasp, landing on top of him with barely a rustle. The hilt with crimson with blood, the red liquid trickling through an intricate engraving on the hilt. It was of an eagle, wings spread, holding a ribbon in its taloned feet. It was a coat of arms, and the eagle was bleeding.