“You have the nerve to make some threats, boy! After all the family and the empire have done for your kin, you reward me with your treachery. My heart hurts knowing that it has come to this.
Have you no love left for your aunts and uncles? Your cousins in the capital?
Have you lost your mind?”
-Letters of the late Emperor Narcisse Silvano to Emperor Dominique Sibylla; Records
Florence had one job, and that was to write.
In the past few months since he’d joined the Imperial Army, Florence had only ever picked up his pen and done his work as a scribe. When General Percival Ettore sent his most trusted lieutenant, Sir Marzo of the house Fontana, to a den of wolves – Florence writes. When the army was forced to work as hired help for a local merchant in exchange for supplies – Florence writes. Even common folk and soldiers alike had their blood spilled around him – Florence writes.
His reports would be kept in the annals of the empire’s long history, the Emperor promised. All he had to do was to follow the army to the ends of the earth, report truthfully about their whereabouts, and make sure everyone was accounted for. If he was lucky enough to survive, then he would have the position of Imperial Scribe waiting just for him, and a lifetime of comforts as price for all that endured.
The Emperor said nothing about how dire the situation would be. In return, Florence omitted certain details in his reports, just to make things even.
Today, he left out how the army had detoured from their original destination and made a break for the nearest village, hoping to get some supplies. The General insisted that it was to save the people from the caravan of bandits, but Florence knew better. The army was in no shape to save some villagers, much less the empire.
They needed help, and for some reason, the General saw fit that a rude, bandit-killing villager fit the bill.
He has the looks of it, the General said.
And when Florence asked what the fuck was ‘it’, he only had one word:
Killer.
He sat a few feet where the General and that strange man, keeping a close eye on their conversation. He made a few bets with some of the soldiers on how long the two would last until fists were thrown and blades were drawn. So far, most of the soldiers were losing. They were so sure that the abrasive man would easily take offence to the General’s demands, but they fail to account for two things: one, the General was beloved by most people, and two, that man wouldn’t try anything drastic when the family he just saved lay within vicinity.
“Excuse me, sir,” a woman came forward, offering Florence a casket of bread. “Please have something to eat. This isn’t much, but we hope this can help.”
The woman had her head lowered as she spoke, as if she truly believed that Florence would hit her for providing anything less. She was the second person to approach him since they got here, which had been odd since Florence did not look anything remotely close to a soldier.
But you were wearing the General’s coat!
“Oh, I’m not–this isn’t mine,” Florence straightened up, removing the General’s coat. “I was just borrowing the coat, ma’am. I’m not a soldier.”
I can’t even be considered part of the army, he thought. It just so happened that General Ettore was a friend, and that friend took Florence under his wing.
“But you are starving, yes?” The woman offered, the lines in her eyes crinkling. She regarded Florence as though he was someone close, someone worthy of being offered food in this barren place.
“Please take some,” she insisted. “It’s still warm.”
Unable to resist such kindness, Florence found it in himself to take a piece, and break it in half to make sure that more people got to eat. He was no stranger to the cruelty of the outskirts, having lived through it for quite some time with the army.
He immediately regretted his decision for having only taken half a piece, devouring it so fast that he almost choked on the food. Then, like magic, he smelt another batch of the bread, apparently now close enough to poke his cheeks.
Florence felt feral hunger coursing through his veins.
“Here,” a familiar voice said. Florence opened his mouth to retort against the voice, only to have the bread stuff his cheeks full.
“Mmph!”
How disgraceful. This bastard!
“I dare you to spit that out,” the bandit-killer said casually, plopping next to Florence. “Mother baked that bread, she said you only took half. That piece on your mouth is the other half.”
Mother, the words echoed in Florence’s head. That kind, heaven-sent woman actually birthed this foul-mouthed living weapon. He definitely agreed with the General that the man had a killer’s eyes – Florence could see it. Underneath those wounds and bandages, the man carried himself with a hint of steel. Regardless of whether or not he had a literal blade on him.
“I was actually tempted to eat it for you,” the man admitted. “But the General said we’ll be working together, so I needed to build some goodwill. There’s my goodwill. Mother gave you another whole, I only ate half. Fair deal, yeah?”
So I was supposed to get one and a half, Florence thought. Then, as soon as he had finished chewing, the implications of the man’s words had finally sunk in, just like the food to his stomach.
“Wait,” he spluttered, “You agreed?”
“I negotiated,” the man corrected. “Make no mistake, my services are not for free. Your General will have to uphold his end of the deal, and if I find out he breaks his word, I’ll break every bone in his body.”
Florence snickered. “You talk big.”
But the man only held his gaze, unwavering. “I talk business. You’re asking me to leave my family in the army’s hands, and everyone knows that the army’s protection doesn’t mean shit.”
Florence had nothing to say to that. As the scribe, no one else could attest how little the army was able to actually change the situation at the borders, much less to every single village they tried to assist. If it were not the lack of resources, then it would be timing. If it wasn’t the timing, then it was the people. The outskirts held no regard for an army that only eats up the empire’s resources.
“But you still agreed,” Florence whispered. He wondered what the General offered to this man for him to join them. His family’s protection was a given, but what else? They didn’t have the resources to pay anyone, much less keep themselves properly fed.
“No one knows when they’ll need the empire’s white knight to fulfil a request,” the man snickered, effectively breaking the ice.
Florence let out an affronted gasp.
“You–you better not request anything scandalous!” He shrieked, uncaring how this affected his image. Florence could accept working for this bastard of a man, but the knowledge that he could potentially harm the General in the future? He would have to go through Florence first!
“Actually,” the man said, without ever taking his eyes off Florence, “Maybe I could have you do it in his stead.”
“I’ll have you killed before you even get the chance to try,” Florence snarled against his better judgement. The words, however, lacked its intended venom – and the man easily saw through it.
He laughed. It was a clear, lighthearted sound that didn’t belong in such a cold, snowy land.
“Spoken like a pure-bred noble indeed,” the man muttered, as soon as he calmed down. Florence found it amusing how the man was fixated on his lineage, as if being a noble meant anything in the outskirts.
Florence came from a family of nobles, but he was, in no way or form, associating himself with those stuck-up hypocrites.
“You have no idea how much worse pure-bred nobles are.”
“My name is not ‘you’. Call me Aster.”
“You don’t get to order me around.”
“What, are common people too lowly for you to address by name?”
“It’d be better if we don’t call each other by name,” Florence stood up from his seat, dismissing himself. “I don’t know if the General briefed you about the specifics of our mission, but having our real names put out means danger.”
I don’t want your name, or your story, is what Florence didn’t say. This man would only be with them until Lieutenant Marzio was rescued. After that, they would either go their separate ways, or one of them would die in the process. This bandit-killer – Aster – seemed like a good person.
Florence knew a lot of good people. Most of them wound up dead.
But before he could leave, a hand grabbed his wrist with a grip so tight he swore it would bruise later. The bandit-killer smiled at him, all-teeth.
“You’ll need my name later, though?”
Florence blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“When I kill them all,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’ll need my name for the credits. Who knows, maybe the Emperor gives out special rewards to special hits like that.”
It was Florence’s turn to laugh. “Your confidence astounds me. I’ve yet to meet a man whose head is as conflated as yours.”
The bandit-killer extended his hand out, scars and all. “Now you have. Nice to meet you, scribe. My name is Aster Cassius Mortimer. Call me Aster.”
One day, if we’re lucky, we’ll survive long enough to meet someone whose head is as fucked-up as ours.
Florence knew he would regret it. The same way he knew accompanying General Ettore was a one-way trip, and that the Emperor would never send help — this was doomed from the very start. A meeting fated to end in death, one way or another.
Despite all this, Florence shook the man’s hand.
“Likewise,” he whispered. “My name is Florence Dominique Sibylla. Call me Florence.”
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