“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone on that mission. If I hadn’t seen what I had seen, did the things I did, would the outcome be so different? In the past few days, I saved a child and killed a friend. I write the truth here and lie to the General in his face.
Would things have changed, if someone saw? Would I have changed, if someone else knew?”
-Unabridged journals of the Imperial Scribe; c.94 p.21
True to the plan, Aster and Florence began their trek away from the village at first light.
Despite its harsh conditions, Taratus looked beautiful in sunrises – with the first rays of the sun reflecting off the snow and giving them a crystalline appearance, the peacefulness of the barren lands, and the bruise-coloured skies. The air in the mornings was cold, almost nipping at the skin, but Florence had come to appreciate it, especially after bearing through the sweltering heat of the fields of Aphos.
The General had bid them goodbye at the entrance of the village, and set them off with enough food and water to last for a few days. In his bag, Florence carried his own set of rations, parchment, ink and quill, while his companion was armed to the teeth despite his burly coat. He pretended not to see, but he caught a glimpse of the different weapons that the man had strapped to his body.
It was almost as if he was planning to storm an entire camp on his own. Not that Florence minded – after all, he can’t be faulted for any consequences brought forth by Aster’s own decisions.
The two of them made a silent trek uphill, and while Florence appreciated the time to think, he couldn’t get over the seething hatred that the man harboured towards him. He had spent a greater portion of the night thinking about it, until he’d come to the conclusion that people don’t really need a justifiable motivation to do what they do.
Curiosity killed the cat, but thankfully, Florence was no such animal. He was strategic, and prided himself with the ability to navigate complex social situations. It was, after all, how he survived the dog-eat-dog mechanics of the Emperor’s court.
“Is it the bread?” He asked, breaking the silence as gentle as he could. Aster stopped dead in his tracks, looking at Florence with apprehension. “What?”
Florence considered his position. They were too far from the village for anyone to hear his screams in case something happened, but he figured he could still make a run for it, if he wanted. By then it would simply come down to whose legs were faster.
“The bread,” he repeated. “Do you hate me because of the bread?”
Aster held the appearance of everyone in his village – stale blue eyes, unremarkable dark hair, and an average build that spoke of the daily upkeep required to keep the community going. Perhaps he had a face that was fairer than most, but he carried himself with so little presence that he almost blended in the background wherever he stood.
His gaze, however, had this strangest ability of cutting through. It reminded Florence of a wolf, honing in on its prey. Right now, those eyes are bored into Florence.
“I don’t understand it,” the man muttered, almost too soft to hear.
“Come again?”
“You,” Aster spat, as if that answered every single question in Florence’s head.
I don’t understand you.
Then Aster began walking again, no longer interested in keeping conversation. Rude.
Florence jogged right after him, heels digging into the snow. Really, how could an injured man walk so fast?
“Could you, perhaps, have been wronged by my family?” Florence tried, coming up beside Aster. “Did the Sybillas do something here? Trade routes sabotage? Human trafficking?”
Crunch, crunch.
Saying those crimes out loud, and so openly at that, brought Florence some sort of relief. It’s nothing that anyone could prove, at least, not unless they had receipts. And Florence had gathered many of those across the years. “I know I carry their crest, but truth be told, they’ve only taken me in recently…”
At that, Aster’s pace slowed gradually, picking up interest. He still wouldn’t acknowledge Florence, but the scribe supposed even the most stoic of men could be tempted by trivial stories.
Florence had seen many courtiers gather attention using this strategy. At first, he felt stupid engaging in inane conversations and even more inane people, but he soon realised that these conversations worked a little like gambling. Throw a bone, and if you’re lucky, the dog plays fetch.
But if you’re having a bad day, then perhaps the dog feasts on you instead. It’s a risky affair.
Florence willed himself to project a more casual appearance, like he was telling someone else’s story and not his own. “I don’t know much about their business, but I do know that they’ve dabbled with trade. I have no idea what sins they’ve committed against you or anyone you know, but I swear on my life, I have nothing to do with it.”
This, at the very least, was true. If the Sybillas were guilty, then Florence would gladly assist Aster even, should he decide to exact retribution. No one would bat an eye for it, especially since the Sybillas were notorious in the capital for business monopoly and smuggling. But he couldn’t show all his cards just yet, lest he risk this man poking his nose where it doesn't belong.
Aster appeared to have picked up on this, proving once more that he was sharper than he looked. “Already selling out your kin? Unbelievable.”
He responded! Truly, information is the best currency above all!
Still, he couldn't show the victory on his face, so instead, Florence shrugged nonchalantly. “...I was the child of a commoner. The Sibylla’s didn’t like my father, so we lived apart from the estate most of my life. Surely it’d make sense why I don’t have the highest opinion of them.”
The sound of crunching snow filled the silence between them.
So no sob stories, Florence mentally took note of this fact. Alright.
“...it’s not your family.”
“...”
“It’s not you, either.” And then, as an afterthought, “At least not yet.”
It was Florence’s turn to pause in his tracks. His fraudulent reports, under the table dealings, and other transactions immediately came to mind, and a part of him wondered if this man, this near stranger, had somehow managed to learn what the General himself couldn’t.
Why is someone like you following the army?
Aster’s words the previous night echoed in his head, heavy in their condemnation. Almost as if he knew exactly what to condemn.
“What does that mean?” He asked. He was briefly aware of Aster slipping a hand underneath his sleeve. Instinctively, Florence ought to reach for the knife in his back.
“Florence,” Aster’s voice dropped low. It also carried an undertone of threat.
Florence shifted his stance to match Aster’s. They were barely through the day when the atmosphere around the two of them had shifted, and honestly, Florence would rather that they hashed it out now than deal with it later.
“What do you know?” Florence jutted his chin out, no longer keeping up pretence. It wasn’t until he caught Aster’s eyes shift at something behind him that Florence immediately realised what was going on:
“Out of the way!”
Florence was suddenly thrown aside. The next few seconds happened so fast that the fight was over before it ever started – there was a squelching sound, a whimper, and just like that, blood had sprayed on the snow.
Aster laid with his back-flat, with the dead wolf bleeding right on top of him. Their eyes met, but no words were further exchanged between the two.
Florence stayed where he was the whole time, paralyzed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene. He could only watch as Aster pushed the wolf away from himself and got up like nothing happened, with a slightest wince being the sole indication that he was still recovering.
He walked towards Florence in slow, pronounced steps. His knife had yet to be sheathed.
But to Florence’s surprise, he was met with a stretched-out, bloody hand, reaching out towards him.
“Here,” Aster said. “Get up.”
Huh?
Aster glanced at the wolf, then towards his hands. There was a moment where Florence could almost see the gears turning inside the man’s head.
Without further ado, he proceeded to wipe his hand off of blood. “Oops, sorry.” He stretched out his hand again. “What are you waiting for? Get up.”
And really, who was Florence to deny the person who just saved his life?
***
Later on, once they made it into a clearing, Florence found it in himself to voice out the words he’d been wanting to say for a while now.
“...thank you.”
“Don’t,” came Aster’s curt reply, “It was my job.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Have you ever fought with a wolf? Those things could lock their jaws into you before you can even scream. The slightest movement could get them to pounce.”
“...”
“...you should’ve seen your face, though.”
“...”
“I thought you were going to kill me!”
“...and what if I was?”
A snicker. “You’re welcome to try, then.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an invitation,” Aster said, smiling. “Whether you do it behind my back, while I’m asleep…you’re welcome to try. I’m quite looking forward to the other creative ways you can take my life.”
Florence found it rather amusing how one man can be genuinely welcoming towards his own death. More than that, Aster was looking at him like they just shared an inside joke, albeit a one-sided one. Like he knew something that Florence didn’t.
So instead, Florence did what Florence always did best.
“I owe you one, so best believe I’ll repay that first more than anything else,” he recounted. “Then we have the mission. If we survive the mission and come back in one piece, then please look forward to my attempts.”
I’ll make it worth your while.
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