XXIV. Morroc in the aftermath of the hellish incident could be likened to a fallen Doorspawn: lifeless, an empty shell. A strong current of grief may have permeated the once-festive air, however a heavy blanket of disbelief and numbness covered them all; the majority of the survivor’s faces emotionless. They never knew what hit them; and they may never want to.
Could this be Their way of reminding us what the Festival of the Dead really means? Valcrist thought as he surveyed the areas, walking through the streets at a slow yet steady pace; assessing the total damage Morroc has suffered—or at least its center. An arm wrapped around his torso, supporting his deep wound whose bandages were slowly coming off. He was lucky that he got never hit by one of the Doorspawn; the adrenaline rush he had—as well as his innate survival instinct—sent him on a killing rampage that brought down almost twenty of the hideous creatures, wounded or no.
“Emerester, how is your sector?” Valcrist called out as he caught sight of one of his Swords, looking weary and old despite his fifteen summers. Emerester Valeforth seemed to have put on ten years with the mask of exhaustion marring his youthful appearance, with his almost-permanent crestfallen façade and blood streaks splattered all around his figure. The boy, upon hearing his name, looked up and glumly flashed the thumbs-up sign to his dear commander, signaling that so far all was right in the area under his command.
“All of the survivors found are out of the critical condition,” he reported, his voice monotone as if reciting a lesson. “The acolytes from St. Capitolina Abbey are to be credited for it, though.”
“I see. And who is the priest in command?” Valcrist asked as he eased next to his youngest Sword, grateful for the break from the spell of loneliness he had suffered while he inspected the streets of Morroc alone. “I would like to personally thank him, or her.”
Emerester sat on the wooden space beside his commander, resting his steel blade by his lap. “The pair of Prontera’s best healers, I heard. Maraksus Aralnae and Dylan Garwood.”
Valcrist started, looking at Emerester with incredulity. “Both of them?!”
“Yep,” the boy nodded. “They already left however, though they did make sure all of the survivors...well, survived,” Emerester chuckled weakly, faintly amused by his pun. “You should have seen what they did, the street literally glowed green—” he broke off mid-sentence, staring almost dumbly directly in front of him.
“Sevrin!”
Valcrist looked towards where Emerester did, and a grin slowly crept his face despite himself. “Girlie!” he exclaimed, as Sevrin and Fynn approached them. “We were worried,” he stated, checking himself, trying his best to keep his stoic face.
“Thank you, Commander, but the assassin should take credit for my life,” Sevrin stated simply, cocking her head towards Fynn’s direction. It was obvious to the men that she was not exactly happy with the admittance; Sevrin Astergarden mostly thrived on her pride after all, and had worked hard to deserve that kind of hard-earned pride. Having her life saved by one whose profession is to snuff lives on a whim was not exactly a source of dignity for one such as her.
Valcrist wordlessly nodded towards Fynn, then after a moment, sighed. “I know you want to say I told you so, Mister Elenium, and I know I deserve it,” he muttered, voice clipped. His look wasn’t of contempt however, but of grudging respect.
“I wasn’t going to anyway,” Fynn answered simply.
The two men looked at each other wordlessly, tension between them taut. Eventually Valcrist held out his hand to the assassin, which was firmly received.
“The Assassins have just earned my respect. Tell them that.”
“You can be sure your words will reach them,” Fynn assured him as he let go.
Valcrist then turned to Sevrin and Emerester. “I’ll be in charge of handling things here,” he told the two Swords. “However, the Sword of Valor will return to Prontera to commence with their duties there,” he sighed resignedly. “There’s no need for our presence here, Geffen and Alberta had already sent most of their workers. I was assigned Supervisor though, so I’m staying here.”
“But who’s going to be our commander in your place?”
“Erm. Laire Allicran.”
“WHAT?!” Sevrin and Emerester both exclaimed in unison.
“What’s prissy boy going to do with us, then?”
Sevrin however, was not interested in their fate in the hands of Sir Valcrist’s rival. “Wait a minute. So you are saying we don’t have a hand in this matter anymore?”
“You are absolutely correct,” Valcrist admitted.
“Then I quit.”
“I quit,” Sevrin repeated quietly. “If my duties as a Sword of Valor would impede me from doing something about all these, then I am going.”
Heavy silence fell upon them. Valcrist paled, seemingly at a loss of words. He was fingering a loose end of his bandage, his lips partly opened as he looked contemplatively at Sevrin, his expression oddly blank.
“You’re joking, aren’t you, Sev?” Emerester whispered hopefully, words painfully drawn out despite his seeming disbelief. Sevrin tried to give him a sympathetic look, but failed. She was too riled up in her indignity in the fact that she did poorly in her mission and someone from the Temple Assassins got to be the witness of her failure. The fact that he even saved her life was a swift blow to her ego.
All Sevrin could muster for Emerester was an unconsciously pitying look, and needless to say Emerester got hurt.
“Well…it sure would be more fun dealing with Sir Allicran if you were still around,” the boy said plaintively. “But I understand. Everybody needs a Sword of Valor to get things done!” Emerester exclaimed, a grin haphazardly pasted on his face. Sevrin knew that he felt otherwise, and that hurt. She wanted to pat his head and tell him that everything would be alright, that they would all wake up to Valcrist’s heavy gauntleted hand banging against their doors, that they would snooze on their breakfast....
But she was going, and Valcrist was sending them home without him, sending them off to be under his rival’s tutelage (if it could be ever called that), and the future truly was bleak.
“Yeah, one of us indeed should,” Sevrin said weakly, trying to play along the charade. “What say you that I’m going to be the one doing it for all of us?”
“Erm, it’s fine. Whatever.” Somehow, either Sevrin hit a really painful nerve, or Emerester suddenly decided to drop his mask. The swordswoman felt even more rotten than ever, and she wanted nothing else than to sink into a cool, soft bed.
“You can’t go.”
Sevrin turned to face her commander, expression disbelieving. “What? Am I bound to—”
“Yes, you are bound to your oaths that keep you in your place as a Sword of Valor and that it!” Valcrist cut her off sharply. “You think that your term here may seem to be only an on-the-field training, but you have a responsibility, Astergarden. The fact that almost all of your peers look up to you as their leader—are you really willing to let them down by carelessly breaking the oath you recited to become a Sword?”
“To be the herald of the Elements, to be the Sword that is the harbinger of peace, to be the Sheath of Protection by making the lives of others my Responsibility,” Sevin recited, the words rolling off her tongue fluidly despite of years not saying it. “I have fulfilled my duty, Sir Valcrist, and I would like to think that despite my leaving the Sword I am still living by the Code.”
“Wrong,” Valcrist retorted, yet keeping his tone in check. “You’re not doing you responsibilities. It’s whatever you’re doing for personal reasons…that’s what foremost in your mind right now. You intentions are wrong, girl. And that makes a big goddamn difference.”
“But—” Sevrin futilely tried to explain. What is there to explain? He is right and you know it.
She threw a bitter glance towards the assassin, who didn’t seem to notice. If only he did not save her, she could have ended up in the hospital bed, and the pain she would undoubtedly suffer would be much better than alienating and disappointing her mates. Truth was, she did not expect that trying to leave would have such an impact for all of them. It was too late to take her words back however, and there was no way to go but forward.
If only he did not show up in the moment of my greatest failure, Sevrin thought bitterly. Goddamnit.
“So you want to do something about this whole mess, Astergarden?” Valcrist asked, his voice weak and disconsolate. “Kneel.” He drew out his Claymore, the brown-red stains marring its moonlight glitter. With a sigh he laid its blade on one of his palms as he held it by its hilt with the other hand. The scarlet ribbon wrapped around its hilt had its loose end fluttering in the wind.
The assassin seemed to be alarmed by what he had just said. “What? Sir Valcrist, what are you…”
Valcrist threw him a scathing look and thankfully the assassin had the grace to shut up. Then he turned to the matter at hand once again. “Well, Astergarden? What are you waiting for? Kneel in front of me. Now.”
The woman’s eyes were uncertain, and she had paled, as if she had misinterpreted his words grossly. Damn, I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to make her do that, he thought derisively. But he didn’t care. He stopped caring the moment he lost faith in his decisions, and now, when he lost faith in the one he depended on.
Despite of her apparent discomfort Sevrin did as she was told and gingerly knelt on one knee and bent her head. Once again silence upon them, and Valcrist was growing aware of the stares his little assembly was getting from the weary and grieving passers-by, yet he was secretly and somehow nastily indulging himself with pulling the tension as taut as he could manage.
With a sigh, he finally let go. Valcrist brought the blunt edge of his blade to the surprised Sevrin’s shoulder and spoke, “With the power vested in me, I, Sir Valcrist of Lenneth, Commander to the Sword of Valor, and a Knight of Schwarzwald,” he lifted the blade from her shoulder and laid it gently now on her other, “do hereby proclaim Sevrin Astergarden, Swordswoman and Knight Apprentice under my guidance, as a Knight from hereon, on this day, and beyond her death.” So saying, he gently touched Sevrin’s helm with the blade and offered his free hand to her, pulling her up as she took it.
“Now, Lady Astergarden, you are now a Knight and thus free from your duties as a Sword of Valor,” Valcrist said dully. “I hope it serves your purpose.”
Before Sevrin could speak, Valcrist turned away, motioning for Emerester to follow him.
“This shouldn’t be, I didn’t mean....”
Sevrin put a hand to her lips, tears threatening to spill. No, I will not cry, I will not...she told herself, putting into her mind that Fynn had already seen enough of her true incompetence and she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She bit her lip hard in order to stop herself from weeping, hard enough to draw blood from her bottom lip.
Fynn attempted to break the awkward silence as Sevrin continued to stare at the direction Valcrist and Emerester went. “You’re a knight now. What are you going to do then?”
So callous.
“What I am going to do? For your information, Mister Elenium, I’m going to go away far from civilization and find myself, and all that other stupid clichés,” she spat bitterly. “Even from you, and I would really appreciate it if you’d just go away and leave me alone.”
Silence.
“Heh. I’m afraid I can’t,” Fynn said, cruelty suddenly edging his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go that easily, Venris Dastonia.”
