As night fell, Florence was summoned to the General’s tent.
Here, the General had donned his coat and arm himself with a blade, in a bid to communicate that this meeting meant business. On his side was Aster, the bandit-killer, still bandaged with wounds but no less vigilant. The two of them stood in front of a table with a map of Taratus splayed out next to the candlelight.
Florence took the spot across the General. “I take it that we’ll have to execute the plan soon?”
He was hyper aware of the bandit-killer’s eyes fixated on him, but Florence made sure that his focus remained on the maps, and the locations marked down with some pebbles. There they were, represented by some sticks, camping in the village.
“Sooner than you think,” the General replied grimly. “Marzio was initially headed straight for the borders, but the last I’ve received from him, they’re headed northwest. He hasn’t sent a word ever since.”
Florence crossed his arms. “Sir Marzio and I have discussed contingencies for this, and if he’s still alive, there should be trail marks left from the last location he indicated for us.”
“For a scribe, you seem awfully well-versed on stratagems.” Aster’s voice cut in.
It was the first time that the bandit-killer has spoken to him since they’ve made their introductions, reaffirming Florences’ belief that he had done something to piss the man off.
“It’s the occupational hazard of following an army,” he responded casually, ignoring the man’s cutting gaze. It was a complete inversion of the Aster who offered him bread earlier, all-smirks and harmless jokes. It was as if something shifted the moment he learned Florence’s name, which was unfair. He couldn’t have recognized the noble part of him, as he insisted on his father’s last name.
“Why is someone like you following the army?”
Florence clenched his jaw, not liking the tone of those words. “I was stationed here by His Highness, just like everyone else.”
Aster narrowed his eyes on Florence for a moment, assessing him. Then, by some inconceivable line of thought, he turned to the General and concluded: “Please pick another companion for me, sir. Or better yet, let me do the mission on my own.”
Florence didn’t have to be a scribe to pick up the unspoken words:
I don’t trust him.
He didn’t understand. Earlier, this man was friendly with him, acting as if they were long lost friends. Now, he was essentially stealing the spotlight, basically throwing Florence out in the snow.
And for what? Glory? Was it a ploy to get the General’s favour? Florence couldn’t believe that he ate that bread and trusted this person. Could he have been out to steal Florence’s spot as the General’s most trusted aide?
For some strange reason, he found himself leaning closer at the desk, equally aggrieved. “What, is it because I’m a scribe? I’ll have you know that I know my way around a sword–”
But the man wasn’t listening. His focus was on the General, fighting for his life to get Florence off the mission. “Please, sir, I’ll do anything. I’ll cook for you, I’ll clean for you–”
Florence gasped. “Hey! That’s my job!”
The General’s cheeks burned at this, but thankfully, his audience was too wrapped up in their argument to care.
“--I’ll kill for you, just don’t make me work with that!” Aster pleaded.
That person, who was named Florence, took greater offence at the objectification. Sure, he might have refused to call Aster by name at first, but to call him as ‘this’ or ‘that’ was just uncalled for!
“I want him off the mission, Percival.” Florence told the General, pulling all the strings he had on the man. “Forget the deal, I’ll go to the enemy camp myself. He’ll probably kill me on the way and lie about it—”
This only seemed to send Aster into more hysteria. “See?” He gestured at Florence. “That–that’s not how normal people think! And why does he call you by name, sir? I’m telling you, he’s evil–”
Florence could not contain himself. For the first time in decades, he finds himself reaching out to grip the other man by the collar, seething. “Evil? Look at me in the eyes and tell me which part of me is evil–”
“All of it!” Aster said through gritted teeth. He even had the gall to lean closer to Florence, closing the distance between their faces. “I take back what I said,” he lowered his voice. “I wish I never met you.”
The words were heavy — too heavy. Florence felt a phantom knife strike his chest. Against his will, he found his grip loosening from the man’s collar, at a loss of words.
I wish I never met you.
Where did that come from? What did Florence do? Why is this man looking at him like he’d just killed his family, when his mother and sister were safely tucked and guarded?
What the fuck did I do to you?
He opened his mouth to say something, anything. Thankfully, the General beat him to it.
“I don’t know what happened between you two in the brief time you’ve met,” he said, glaring pointedly at Florence, “but I advise that you keep it out of this meeting. We have more important matters to discuss.”
Silence fell across the table, but no less stifling. Aster glared at Florence from the other end of the table, and if looks could kill, Florence had no doubt he’d be cut up in different parts in an instant.
Florence sneered right back.
The General took a deep breath. “Florence, stop provoking him,” He ordered. Then, he turned to the other man with an equally ferocious stance. “And Aster, please treat the scribe with respect. Just because he’s only ever worked with pens and parchments doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his way around a sword.”
As much as Florence was touched by those words, he didn’t feel quite at all avenged. But then again, as much as he would like to keep up the fight, their mission came above everything else – especially since they promised to leave no man behind.
“...I’ll do my best not to hold you back,” Florence conceded, avoiding Aster’s eyes. “Sir Marzio needs our help, and I’d rather not waste any more time.”
Aster didn’t have anything to say to that, but he didn’t have anything else to add to their argument, either. The General took this as a chance to finally get down to business.
He recounted their plan. “The mission is simple: we just need you two to scout ahead and see if Sir Marzio is still alive. If he is, your task is to report back to me so we can come up on a plan to rescue him. Under no circumstances are you allowed to engage the camp and act on your own.”
“And if he’s dead?” Aster asked. “Do we need to provide proof?”
The way he said it reminded Florence of the mercenaries he once met in the south. Some of them brought back teeth, fingers, and memento to prove that the target was no longer capable of keeping them on their person. It was terrifying, to say the least, especially since he’d had to receive these ‘tokens’ being delivered to several members of the court.
“Just a confirmation will do,” the General nodded. “Florence will take care of that. Your job is to make sure he doesn’t die while doing so.”
Aster gave a curt nod at that.
“I’ll be holding camp here, upholding my end of the promise. I expect you will too.”
“Understood.”
The two of them held each other’s gazes, engaged in a silent conversation. Florence had never felt more put out and excluded in his entire life.
“One last question, sir.” Aster finally said.
“Go ahead.”
“What if I die in the process? “Will my family’s safety be compromised too?”
The General’s face remained impassive, but Florence, having known him all these years, could easily tell that he was beginning to have a soft spot for the man. And if he was being perfectly honest, he could forgive Aster a little for that, too. Someone with something to protect always held more integrity than those with nothing to lose.
“He’ll protect them, regardless,” Florence answered for the General, knowing that the man had to put up airs for the sake of the deal. “And you won’t die. I’d hate to write up another report with your name on it.”
The General seemed to take this as a sign of reconciliation. He clapped his hand, “Very well! Now that’s settled, you two will be leaving tomorrow, at first light. Dismissed.”
Aster left the tent without as much as a word. But before Florence could follow suit, the General whispered, “wait.”
Florence held his breath. He prepared himself for a barrage of questions, probably concerning whatever the fuck just transpired between him and the bandit-killer. He didn’t know how he would convince the General that he truly did nothing wrong, but perhaps he could start by getting down on his knees and begging.
“General,” he started to say. “I–”
“Have this,” the General cut him off, offering him…a blade. It wasn’t just any other blade, but rather, it was the General’s favourite dagger too – the one Florence had seen him cut up prey with.
He didn’t understand. “Why are you giving me this? Are you dying?”
This earned him an unceremonious whack upside the head. “Idiot. It’s for you!”
Leave it to the General to be treating one of the Emperor’s envoys with such disrespect – he’s lucky that Florence favoured him more. The scribe took the blade gingerly, trying to look unimpressed but ultimately failing. He’d never been allowed to wield a blade back in the court, and the army never saw fit to provide him one, given how he always stuck to the General’s side. But now Percival is entrusting him his own blade.
“This would fetch a high price in the black market,” Florence blurted out. He knew a few nobles who treated the General’s things like some sort of collector’s item, no matter if it was old armour, old writings, or personal trinkets.
“I would rather you use it to protect yourself,” the General crossed his arms petulantly.
Florence ran his hands through the blade, admiring the craftsmanship. The hilt was obsidian black, extending all the way to the blade like a tooth cut out of a monster. It resembles more like a mercenary’s knife than a General’s trusted weapon, but he supposed it made sense, that the General needed something like this hidden underneath his sleeves.
“I’ll keep it sharp for you,” Florence promised.
“No. I would rather you keep it clean.”
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