diaryofamercenary

[diaryofamercenary]

III

Kindness is a rare commodity in this line of work. This life has a way of hardening you against many of life’s greatest joys. Certainly, we still sing and dance and revel and relish in living. I would even argue no-one truly knows how to celebrate life as those who dance with Death so regularly. But all of these are passing feasts of fancy. There is little room for love among those whom you know can die at any moment during the work. This does not keep most from finding it. Or rather, it finding them. Everyone I have known have had love strike them as fiercely as any blow. Some found it in towns we passed through. Some found it in brothels or bottles. Some even found it here, in one who does the work. These, I find, are the most heartbreaking of all. For never have I known better fighters than those who fight to defend those they love. But we all know the work we do. We know the song, and we know each of us must at some point join the chorus of the Dead.

I don’t think I have the words to describe the pain. I, myself, have never loved one who does the work. Not in any way beyond a passing kinship or even a friendship, like with Ansel. But I have seen those who have loved their banner-kin, and I have seen the beauty and the desolation in it.

Rykken and Marh are two banner-brothers in the Company who have loved each other I think for three years now. They are both fierce, large, and loud men. Their attraction to one another was obvious to anyone but themselves. They used to bicker like an old married couple about anything they could bend their minds to. Tactics. Choice in beverage. Choice in food. Choice in clothes. The colour of the sky. I can still hear Rykken passionately argue that the sky is a definite cerulean, whereas Marh adamantly insisted it was azure. They could not get along with each other on anything for the death of them, save for the work. When it came to doing that, they were as in tune as a minstrel’s lute. They held a begrudging respect for one another for their skill at arms. To anyone who saw him wield it, Rykken was a master of the halberd. Marh, on the other hand, seemed to have been born with a sword in hand. In their respective roles in the line, they were fantastic, but safeguarding each other was where they truly excelled. It took a few engagements, but finally they seemed to grow fond of celebrating victories together. Eventually, they even sought each other during defeats. Marh is adept with a needle, and Rykken has more than a passing knowledge of healing herbs. They stopped needing excuses to see each other after half a year’s worth of engagements. They still bickered, of course, but now they smiled while doing so. I think it had always been a sort of sport for them. A means to talk and bond and share. Perhaps they were trying to save face in front of the rest of us. Honestly, we were just waiting for them to catch on to what they seemed blind to. Looking back, I think they knew. They just didn’t want to admit it.

As I have said before, a life spent doing the work is a rough one. I do not need to illustrate nor repeat how the work makes it hard to keep friends, let alone a lover. Spend enough time doing it, and you will find you’ll start ignoring parts of yourself so that it hurts less. It starts with taking your consideration. Eventually, the work will claim your empathy and kindness. Then it will take your love. And you will tell yourself you do not need it. And you will be wrong. Make no mistake. The hardest part of the work is not the killing. It’s all the work takes from you to make you good at it. For if you are good at killing, then you are terrible at living. A fact that will assert itself again, and again, until your voice joins the chorus of the Dead.

A fact that Rykken learned the hard way. It has been half a year since Marh passed from infection. An arrow, daubed with poison, struck him in the thigh. He did not go well. For a week, Rykken did not sleep. Nor did any of us, really. For Marh’s moans and screams from the infirmary would not allow rest for anyone. I confess to my shame that some part of me was glad that Marh went when he did. One more night without sleep and I would have put an end to him myself. Something I have kept from Rykken, who has never been the same since. He is still a master of the halberd, but that is all he is master of now. He has taken to drinking – something he had never shown interest in before – and as a result his eyes are often red. Either from drinking, crying, or lack of sleep. Several of our number have tried to help him grieve, to show we are here for him, to indicate in our own way that we love him. But Rykken will not hear any of it. He says, like any heartbroken fool that does not want to admit to his pain, that he’s fine. But I hear him weep during the thinnest hours of the night. I hear him weep every night. And every morning I fear that we will not see him during muster, but instead find him dangling from some tree. I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t think I can. My heart breaks when I see the way he keeps himself occupied with anything he can set his hands to. Anything not to think. Anything not to be alone. I’m not sure whether it’s commendable or foolish of him that he has not sought to drown himself in someone else’s arms in the wake of Marh’s passing. I know Marh would not have objected. I know little about the man, but I have heard them speak of it at some point, the both of them keenly aware of the risks of the work, and these things were to be given serious consideration. Whether Rykken has forgotten or simply does not care for another, I don’t know. What I do know is that he serves as a reminder to some among our number that we must harden our heart to the things that make life worth living. A position I find as foolish as I find it cowardly.

We know the risks we take when we do the work. We are each of us still human, as are those we fight. Should we not have some obligation, then, to engage as boldly with living while we still can? Each day we walk along the knife’s edge. Should we not let life crash into us, as Death might at any moment? Should we not love brazenly, sloppily even? If this is a job – a dangerous one, but a job all the same - it should not take more away from us than it provides. If we are to use it to care for our families, it should leave us the ability to do so in ways beyond simple wealth.

A call to action, then. To whoever may find these words. Do not shield your heart from joy. Do not hide away your love. Even if fear may whisper ruin, and your pain might bring you low, do not let yourself become less than what you are. This life is worth the pain. To have lost means to have loved. And there is nothing in this life greater than that.

[diaryofamercenary]

II

There are many little cruelties in a life. Most, it seems, we inflict on one another. There is a man in our camp, Ansel, who reeks. Which is to say, he reeks beyond the stench that all of this encampment contribute to. We are none of us washed and proper like our betters. Nevertheless, Ansel reeks to such a degree that he is welcome at no-one’s fire, and is often made to keep his own company. I’m not sure how long Ansel has reeked, but I think it is safe to say that he has always done so. No one enjoys standing in line during the work beside Ansel, on account of his odor. At this point I hope I have illustrated just how thoroughly Ansel’s pungent presence affects not only the company, but himself as well.

Ansel is a very melancholy man. This, again, does him no favors in accumulating company. While he does not complain about his lot, nor seem particularly disagreeable, nor inclined to fighting, he seems a defeated man. He does not take to compliments well, nor does he accept or agree when given credit. This makes those around him feel like he is not only difficult to be around due to his odor, but also that his presence is one that can steal the life out of any conversation. As if what they view as a kindness is wasted on a gaping maw. I, however, think that Ansel in some way knows their affectations are insincere. Ansel does not want to be pitied. Ansel wants to be seen and heard, and – as we all do – loved, for who he is. I can imagine that Ansel has been treated in a particular way for as long as he has reeked, and has been made to endure both hardship and his own company for longer than anyone ought to bear it. Thus, anyone who tries to seek it must surely only be a passing visitor, and not a true companion. Ansel puts up walls and trials for those who seek his company, as if to test them. Most of them fail, of course. Because again, I think Ansel knows most of his peers view him as a charity case. I think he knows that people see spending time with him as something that somehow makes them a better person, not realizing they are the same people who make sure he is this pitiable thing by their poor treatment of him. And when this insincere gesture is rejected - because Ansel isn’t stupid and can feel when something isn’t done out of genuine interest - they often revile him even more. Because it is acceptable to do so. After all, would the gods not curse a man with so foul an odor if he was not created to be disdained?  And so Ansel remains isolated in a cycle he has no real agency in. As he feels things will always go. So he makes sure he defeats himself before anyone else gets the opportunity to. It is less painful, after all, though painful it will always be to be rejected. Likewise to reject a thing before it can reject you. There is a twisted sense of power in sticking the knife into yourself before anyone else can. But what keeps the pain out, also keeps out the rest of the world. Make no mistake. It is a prison.

I have tried to get to know Ansel. I have tried to make no judgement on him, tried to treat him as normally as I do everyone else. For I think that’s what he would like most of all. To be treated like anyone else. It took a while, but after a while we even bantered. He takes the jabs at his odor in good stride. But only from me. And I make sure that anyone else who does not have the privilege of Ansel’s friendship keeps from throwing the same barbs. I know the place it stems from, and it is not one of affection. Thus I have bruised a hand in ensuring Ansel’s peace of mind. And several others have lost teeth and a good deal of bravado besides.

Once, on a particularly dull day, I asked him about his condition. What he thinks might be the cause of his odor. He said it’s something he’s had to live with ever since he was a boy. He told me he used to be scrubbed in the river three times a day, but it proved to do little against it. Ultimately, even his mother gave up on it, saying that surely there was something rotten about the boy if the gods saw fit to curse him thus. It is enough to make anyone weep, and how Ansel can tell it without doing so is testament to his strength. I think there is very little rotten about Ansel. I have known few people as kind as him, and none kinder. He is quick to lend a hand to hard work, happy and eager to listen, and does not revel in the work as so many others do. Whatever fates the gods weave for us, I think they have made it difficult for Ansel to walk any other path than that of bloodshed. He, like I, does not relish the work. There are some among us who cannot wait for the scent of blood and the clatter of steel. Those who would take offense at anything, just to have an excuse to brawl. Not Ansel. I have seen him apologize to a bug for crushing it with the careless placement of his feet. I know he plucks no flowers for men or maidens, knowing their life and beauty is best appreciated by letting them stay where they are. And again I cannot help but wonder on the cruelty of the gods to have shaped so lovely a man, and forced him into this little life and poor company, by sheer virtue of his odor alone.

Ansel died in the defense of Keepbridge. Alone, as he often had been. Abandoned by his mercenary kin who had prioritized their comfort over their duty to their banner-brother. There was work fending off Mokfar raiders, and what we thought to be a simple brawl with unorganized rabble turned out to be a pitched battle amidst a campaign of which we had no foreknowledge before arriving. I remember the fury of our captain in the wake of the battle. I don’t think I’ve heard such a creative flurry of insult and curses since. I don’t know what compelled the captain to remain, but I think it had to do with the harm that was threatened should we turn tail. And we mercenaries are nothing if not interested in surviving.

What little information I managed to find was that local bands of raiders had been unified under a single warlord-prophet whose name I do not remember, nor do I care to. What ought to have been a simple case of rebuff and disperse turned into a week of bloody fields and butchered kin. Only on the sixth day did the tide finally turn into our favour, and the steel of our courage and discipline finally beat the zeal of the raiders. Once we broke their spine, we spent another day in the pursuit and destruction of the enemy. Our employer would not rest until we had the head of this warlord-prophet on a spike. Such is the way of things.

I spent a week sleeping after that. Fatigue had soaked itself into every fiber of my being. I had time and energy for little else other than sleep and eat. Most others under the banner were the same. Still, I found the time to ask who had been at Ansel’s side during the battle of Keepbridge. After some drinking, some joking, and some laughing, I even managed to find the two who had been in the line at Ansel’s flanks. I listened to them brag about their cowardice. Listened how they joked about how they left him, how it was his fate to die alone, as he had been in life. How he would finally be useful for something. I don’t really remember what happened after that. I just know no one could have recognized what remained after I was finished.

I reported myself to Sergeant Aldor and explained myself. All of it. Considering my crimes, he was lenient. He had me flogged thirty times in front of the whole camp. I don’t think I had ever been as close to death as then. I can’t say I regret what I did. Nor can I say I condone it. But I am no coward, and so I will make my crimes known. I murdered two of my banner-kin after learning they abandoned one of their own. By the interpretation of the law, my punishment should have been death. But I think Sergeant Aldor knew that I served as a better example alive than dead. For I did him a service – cowardice ought to be punished, especially when it results in the death of our own. I don’t think he could have explained this to the churls in any way other than the way I did. But I did not do it for such lofty reasons.

I did it for Ansel, who deserved to live as much as anyone. Who deserved a better life, and better comrades-in-arms. But vengeance does not serve the dead. This I admit it honestly. I’ll even say that it only serves me and my sense of righteousness to justify my behavior by saying it was in Ansel’s name. Yet even this I do not regret. The only thing I regret is that I could not be a better friend to him while he still lived. I hope wherever he may be, he has found the company he deserves.

Let it be writ here, so that he may be remembered as long as this paper lasts and there are eyes to read it. His name was Ansel Vatterbron. It was a honor to be his friend. He drank little, and laughed loudly. He was a virtuous man without intending to be, and a kind man by explicit choice. His favourite flower was the Jeripose. A very common flower, yet loved for the way their petals seemed trimmed with gold in the late afternoon. I think he recognized himself in it. I certainly did.

[diaryofamercenary]

I

I’ve often wondered what the dead would think of all this. Would they think it futile in the end, past the impassable veil? I know the dying often wish for better. Courage always fails the dying in the end. Courage and hope always go last. At least, for those who aren’t faithful. I wonder what the faithful dead would think. Have they truly found their way beside their gods? Alongside some table, feasting eternally? Or living in a state of perpetual bliss alongside an eternal an omnipotent creator? Or some other version, from some other faith, with some other gods.

Here, there is only one prayer that matters. “Look away. Let me live. Pass me by.” We chant it to Death, one way or another. As the clatter of steel, the shouting and the screams of the dying provide the undertones, everyone chants until the bitter end. The only ones who don’t are dead. Or would like to be. Eventually you learn to recognize that silence. And when you do, you make sure that person never stays alone for long.

My halberd – Sunset - knows the tune we sing together. I say the words. She provides the music. Screams, when she strikes true. Scrapes, when she does not. But always she sings with deadly purpose. The purpose she has been shaped for, as much as I have been in wielding her. Hours she has been singing now, and her voice has not tired yet. My arms, however, have long grown heavy. But the line in front of us are as adept at the work as we are. They speak and I know their tongue, but none of their words reach me. They are not Sergeant Aldor’s, spoken in that distinct, crackling baritone. Like if a landslide could carry a note. I don’t register their faces. I learned the trick of it years ago. It took a dozen battles or so to truly master it, but now those we face seem barely more than phantoms to me. Their spears, at least, are real. This I’ve always kept at the forefront of my mind, even when it wanders. But the ones who wield it no longer seem real to me. I find it helps keep my mind clear to not think of them as people. It keeps me going. It keeps me alive.

I think on the people positioned at my left and right flank and wonder, do I have friends? A moment of silence passes as my halberd finds a phantom’s neck. A long, wet gurgle finds its way into the song, cut off by the sound that all butchers know. I don’t think I have friends. Not anymore, anyway. I used to. The work took most of them. Others, I’m not too sure. I know we left Oddis in Harridan last campaign. One day, it seemed like whatever it was that once made up Oddis had simply… vanished. She wouldn’t talk anymore. Matter of fact, she wouldn’t do much of anything. She would not eat without assistance. Barely could manage to go to the bathroom by herself. It was like she had turned into a husk or a statue. If it wasn’t for her breathing, one could easily assume she’d simply died standing up. Honestly, that seems like more of a mercy than what her life is now.

It was hard to leave Oddis. She had been one of our best. Her and her famed montante could break a line of pikes and make it look like she was dancing to boot. I remember the time we ran personal guard duty for the Headman of Ol Yareva. Despite its brick buildings and other markers of affluence due to its fortunate location as a trading hub, it somehow still managed to remain a complete lawless shithole. As it turns out, a local gang leader had put a price on his head. A sum hefty enough that the threat of actual harm was serious. Such is the way of things when you choose to fill your own pockets than taking care of your own. Not feeding your people has a way of starving the loyalty and decency out of them. But we don’t get to judge or consult. No, we get paid to work. And work we did. Oddis held her own against a small cadre of citizens and scoundrels who seemed bent on skinning the Headman with as blunt of a knife as they could find. Something which Breego, Una, Derrin and myself took the four of us to manage on our end of the street. The work had been short but bloody. Order – or at least the fear that ensured some degree of obedience – had been restored. Sunset sang well that day. But not as well Oddis’ blade. And now Oddis was back in Harridan. What was left of her, anyway.

It seems such a petty thing. Oddis was an artist in her own right. As the painter seeks to capture beauty with a brush, and the singer moves us to tears with their voice, so did Oddis wield violence. Her montante – Loria, after the poet – was a sight to behold when she did the work. And many voices did she add to the chorus of the song in her time with us. And now, seemingly on a whim, it was taken from her. She was taken, from all of us.  

I’ve heard some people say that such is the will of the gods. That it is not up to us to understand, but to respect – even to fear, lest it happen to you. But I have heard many prayers towards the gods in my time doing the work. At this point I have heard every cry, every prayer, and the name of every god invoked on battlefields the worlds over. As often as they cry for their mothers or fathers, I have heard them cry for mercy, for relief. For help. But I have never seen the curs pay any heed to their devoted. I have never heard the voice of the divine with my ears or in my mind. Not during my darkest nights, or my moments of deepest grief. Not as the rain found its way into my tent, and down my cheeks. Not even when - in moments of weakness - I thought to pray. For mercy. For relief. For help. But the gods kept their council. And I remained alone with my grief.

Suddenly, a respite. The press of bodies weakens, then abates entirely. My attention narrows and the world becomes real again. I look ahead to see only the backs and heels of those we faced, steadily growing smaller. It seems we have broken them. Our line cheers in victory and I check myself for injury. It only takes a single, well-placed thrust to drain the life from you, bit by bit. Something that's easy to miss when the blood has risen and the rush of victory or defeat courses through you. I saw Jarev go that way. Made it all the way back to camp before he realised he'd lost most of his blood on the way back. Poor sod. We all thought the fatigue and pallor was from the work. And he'd been so excited to open that bottle of brandy he'd been saving. Ever since, I check for injury as often as I check for insects. I'd like to call it habitual. Derra calls it neurotic. I can't rightly argue.

Nevertheless, the day is ours. The work is done for now. Tonight we'll feast and drink and fuck and find any means to piss the time away. And in the morning we'll regret ever having done so, and surely march to some other battle, on some other field, for some other fat-pursed cunt in need of hands and horror.

Such is the way of things. The sun is out, still. The sky a beautiful cerulean which I only ever really seem to appreciate in the wake of the work. I think I'll lay in the grass for a little while and admire it. There's little other beauty to be found today.