They began erecting a loose ring of small tents near the village square, murmuring in exhausted, raspy tones. Stakes were driven in using the pommels of small swords, and ropes were knotted with firm fingers. It wasn't neat, no standard camp lines, no disciplined formation, just tired men attempting to fall somewhere safe.
Gilbert observed them for a while. None of them gave him more than a fleeting glance before averting their gaze. Respect did not dwell in their hollow expressions. If anything, there was apprehension, perhaps even silent derision.
"They're afraid of me failing them," he said under his breath.
"Or maybe they just think I'm already dead and walking."
A nasty sensation flooded his mouth. He attempted to swallow it away.
A few people nearby had started tiny cooking fires, but it was evident that there was little left to cook. The faint odor of old potatoes and stale grain porridge rose, mingled with the caustic scent of blazing twigs and sweat-soaked leather. Gilbert's stomach cramped up just from the fragrance. Hunger gnawed at him, but he wasn't sure if it was genuine or just the stress twisting his insides.
He then heard a measured crunch of armored boots.
Aurelian Flamehart approached with a damaged knapsack draped over one shoulder. His big sword was now strapped across his back, yet one gauntleted hand remained near the hilt, as if by habit.
The S-class hero moved with careful serenity, making the surrounding militia appear ragged and uneasy. Without saying anything, he crouched and began unpacking. The canvas that fell from his pack was thick and dark, oiled against rain, and adorned with faint sigils of a knightly order. Aurelian worked with the same economy of motion he used on the battlefield, driving stakes deep with strong strikes and knotting ropes quickly.
Gilbert stayed on the edge of it all, feeling like a ghost haunting his own property. Finally, Aurelian's head raised, and eyes met his. In the dim light of the militia's scattered fires, those eyes appeared to flame softly blue, uncanny in the gloom.
"You'll freeze out here, Lord Reinhardt," the knight warned. His voice was low, almost fatigued, but it carried well. "Come. You will share my shelter."
Gilbert's throat became dry. "I—I couldn't—"
"You will," Aurelian cut him off with a weary finality that tolerated no dissent. "I've got space. These men," he tilted his head toward the militia, "are already overcrowded. You'll be warmer here, and if monsters come near tonight, I'd prefer not have to scour the darkness for my errant, Lord."
Something in that final line could have been close to humor, but it didn't reach the knight's eyes. It worked, nevertheless. Gilbert exhaled a trembling breath and crossed over. Inside, the tent was tiny but thankfully protected from the brunt of the cold wind. Aurelian had laid a thick cloak across the ground to soften the packed soil, with another rolled behind it to act as a makeshift bolster. A little lamp lay atop an upturned helm, casting just enough gold light to illuminate the narrow area and catch the rune etchings on the knight's abandoned gauntlets.
Aurelian rummaged through his pack again, pulling out a little bag. "Food," he replied simply. He held it out. He chewed silently, suffering as the bread scraped his throat. Aurelian did the same, his eyes half-lidded, as if calculating a silent watch revolution. Outside, the flutter of the militia's little tents floated through. Tired men settling in, whispering prayers to distant gods. There is an occasional sigh or cough. A choked sob was swiftly silenced.
"This place…" Gilbert began, then stopped. His voice cracked, embarrassingly.
Aurelian lifted his gaze, patiently. "Gilbert squeezed the words out. This location is nothing but a graveyard. Is not it? Even before today. I am just waiting for bodies to fill it."
Aurelian was quiet for a long time. Then he reclined against the tent wall and closed his eyes. "You aren't wrong. But you are also their Lord. So it will be up to you to ensure that it does not remain that way. Or at the very least, fewer souls will join the soil while you wear the title."
Gilbert hugged his knees to his chest. The lantern's small flame swirled, casting shadows that appeared to stare at him. "I don't know how," he murmured. "I barely know how to breathe here."
"That's honest," Aurelian remarked softly. He looked over, and for the first time, he had an almost kind expression.
"Better than those who boast and send soldiers to their deaths out of pride. Sleep if you can. I'll keep an eye out for a bit. If another pack comes sniffing, I'll see it long before it reaches our throats."
Gilbert couldn't quite respond. He just managed a feeble nod. He lay down and drew his borrowed cloak tight. Aurelian rested his sword across his lap again, eyes half-lidded but never entirely closed. Even rest was something that the knight performed gradually.
Minutes passed. Perhaps hours. The tent was stuffy, with slight aromas of sweat, leather, iron, and the lingering coppery tang of dried blood. Outside, the militia finally quieted down, their faint whispers dissolving into ragged snores or strained, frightened silence.
Gilbert stared at the tent's roof. Each breath seemed too loud. Too empty. His imagination went helplessly to dazzling neon alleys in Japan. The steam coming from convenience store noodles. His sister laughed and flicked him on the forehead as he tried to grab one of her Pocky sticks. His mother hummed in the kitchen, and the aroma of ginger and soy sauce permeated their modest apartment.
Home.
A ragged tent in a battlefield village provided refuge. A crumb of hard bread and sour fruit provided a feast. He had never recognized the basic requirements, which were luxury beyond imagination.
His throat burned. He clamped his eyes shut, trying not to cry outright. Eventually, the pressure of recollections became too much. He pushed the cloak off and crawled stiffly out into the night.
The village was almost completely dark now, save for a few weak lanterns left flickering by the militia tents. Shadows formed huge pools between twisted dwellings. A dog barked once and then was silent.
Aurelian was there, pacing slow loops around the perimeter. His sword lay over his shoulders, arms folded across the flat of the blade. Moonlight picked out glints of steel and silver in his hair. His breath formed thin white puffs.
Gilbert simply watched for a moment. There was something strangely reassuring about it—the knight's steady back-and-forth patrol, the way his head turned every now and then to study the darkness beyond. As if he could keep the monsters at away solely by refusing to succumb. Finally, Aurelian noticed him. The knight paused, tilting his head.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Gilbert shakes his head.
Aurelian let out a low breath that may have been a sleepy chuckle. He then continued his slow patrol. "Walk with me, Lord Reinhardt. It's better to move than sit and stew in your own fears."
So, Gilbert stepped forward, falling into line beside a hero who didn't even need to draw his sword to frighten the dark away. And for a little while longer, at least, the nightmares stayed at the edges of the village, where they belonged.
Gilbert fell into step with Knight Aurelian. His boots sank slightly into the churned mud, which was still slick from blood and crushed grass. Each breath had a slight taste of ancient ash and moist ground.
Around them, the little, unplanned camp had settled into a brittle silence. The ten remaining militiamen had finally dropped into their tiny tents, with armor stacked nearby in awkward piles. Even while sleeping, or nearly asleep, several people still grasped dagger hilts, as if monsters were about to claw their way through the canvas. Their raspy snores combined with the occasional tortured cry, a terrible lullaby under the brittle sky.
Beyond the line of improvised tents was the hamlet itself, drooping and forlorn. No light shone through the small windows; families had fled into darkness, mumbling prayers that were undoubtedly as empty as Gilbert's title. He saw the same dismal palette of desperation everywhere: patched walls, sunken eyes, and smoke-stained roofs. A few lean dogs nosed among the discarded shields, sniffing dark stains before turning away with low whines.
Aurelian's words broke the silence.
"You're watching them carefully, my lord."
Gilbert blinks, surprised, and lets out a faint, humorless huff. "I'm not sure what I'm meant to watch for. Just trying to see what's left, I guess."
Aurelian bowed slightly, his sword lying on his shoulders. "Fair enough. It's important. Too many rulers just see taxes and levies. Never show the genuine faces."
For a few steps, they strolled quietly. An owl hooted far away but received no response. Even the wildlife appeared scared of this location tonight. Gilbert finally took a glimpse at the knight. "Does it ever become easier? Seeing it like this? Seeing them like this?" He gestured blankly toward the town, at the small, damaged homes, the lines of fresh ground where seventy bodies were now concealed from view.
Aurelian's gaze tightened, but not unkindly. "No. Not if you still have a sense of honor. Perhaps it is easier to grow calluses. Learn not to get alarmed when a child becomes hungry. But it should never be simple."
That answer weighed heavily on Gilbert's chest. He looked down at his own boots, which were stained with blood in thick, slimy patches.
They continued their leisurely patrol, looping around the edge of the woodland, where ghostly trees stood like skeletal sentinels. Aurelian's gaze moved constantly from left to right, noticing minute shifts in darkness and listening for faint creaks. His fingers stretched along the hilt of his blade, knuckles pallid.
Gilbert risked asking another question. "Why did you come here? To this God-forsaken village. It's very little. Meaningless, almost."
Aurelian was quiet for a long time. Then he answered, "I go wherever the court sends me." Where the front is thinnest. Sometimes it's at a massive stronghold. Other times," he gestured loosely around them, "it's a location like this. No walls. No shops. "Just a group of desperate people standing on mud." His tone was nonjudgmental. Just the worn acceptance of a guy used to harsh directives.
Gilbert swallowed. His next words came out harsh. "Thank you for saving us." "I understand it wasn't for me, but..."
He studied Gilbert silently. His gaze swept over the young Lord's too-thin shoulders, the anxious set of his jaw, and the way his hands trembled slightly from tiredness or terror. Aurelian's lips tightened, not cruelly, but achingly honest.
"You are naive. Weak. Incompetent. Unprepared for this world," Aurelian replied finally, each word striking with the weight of iron. "Anyone with eyes can see it. Especially what you've shown in this battlefield."
Gilbert flinched, heat flooding into his face. Shame pooled in his stomach. But then Aurelian's hold on his shoulder was firm, warm, and surprisingly soft for a hand capable of slaying demons.
"Yet still," the knight added calmly,
"You stood on the field. Regardless of how feeble or inexperienced you were, you did not flee when the massacre began. That's more than nothing. That is the seed of something bigger, if you choose to let it grow"
Gilbert gulped hard, his throat stinging from the pressure there. He could not speak. He could only nod once, with a short, jerky motion. Aurelian's expression softened slightly. With a final, almost approving touch, he let go.
"Then stand fast, Lord Reinhardt."
"Dig your ditches. As much as possible, provide for these individuals. Even false courage is still courage. And sometimes that's enough to see another day."
Gilbert stayed there for a bit longer, the ghost of Aurelian's hand still resting on his shoulder. A tiny fire flared deep inside, beyond the chilly knot of fear—fragile, pathetic, but alive.
Maybe that's something…
Something Reinhardt could hope for.