Chapter 85

Ashes and Dust

Sylas stood on a terrace overlooking the castle's courtyard. It's been five days since the ruination, since the death and pain rampaged through. Hardly much has changed; there were still signs of a massive battle everywhere, from the toppled walls and chunks of the castle missing to the innumerable corpses--those of the people as well as the ghouls--forming morbid decorations.

The strangest thing of all, perhaps, was that it stopped snowing ever since the battle's end. Though it was still cold and awfully windy, with the ashen clouds covering the sky, it neither snowed nor rained. It was as though the heavens were apologizing, offering a reprieve.

He slugged down the remaining wine in the jug, looking away. Corpses were slowly being separated, those of men and women being stacked together for a massive pyre, while those of the ghouls were being burned immediately upon separation. Despite the beyond scarring event, people of the castle... limped on. Their resilience was immeasurable, bounding, to have watched their brethren fall one day, yet have enough strength to start cleaning up the damnation the very next one.

Sylas headed further down into the medical ward; Master Audin had been beyond busy for the past five days. Though there were many dead, there were just as many wounded. In fact, from what he heard, Derrek had already sent out the most able-bodied men into the nearby mountains to try and find any herb with even remote medicinal attributes.

In the meantime, the old man could barely sleep, needing to attend to so many critical injures--from massive punctures to missing limbs. On his way over, Sylas ran into Derrek--the man had, similarly, barely slept, trying to organize the best he could. After all, he was the only Captain remaining--all others have died.

Though pale in the face, and with a large lump bandaged over, he still appeared spirited. He was chatting with one of the few unhurt guards--mostly youngs who stayed further back and acted as the last line of the 'defense' for the castle's breach--relaying instructions. When he saw Sylas approach, he quickly dismissed the young guard and headed over.

“The first batch came back,” he said. “Though the harvest was mild, they did pluck a decent amount. Should stabilize our supplies.”

“Good,” Sylas nodded, his voice cold and distant. “Latest count?”

“... eighteen more died during the night,” Derrek sighed. “We’re down to fewer than two hundred.”

“Strip the dead of anything we can use,” Sylas said. “Before the pyre.”

“Sylas...” Derrek mumbled, seemingly wanting to protest for a moment but holding back in the end. “Very well. I’ll let them know. Right--Valen woke up briefly this morning.”

“What happened?” Sylas asked.

“He... he wasn’t well. Master Audin fed him some wollyseed,” Sylas had learned that ‘wollyseed’ was a fairly strong sedative that they, luckily, had in abundance since there was a patch nearby that spawned a whole heap of them on a yearly basis, despite it being a fairly rare and exotic medicine elsewhere in the Kingdom.

“What about Ryne?”

“Still out of it,” Derrek replied. “Luckily, according to Master Audin, almost all of her wounds were quite shallow--after cleaning them up and dressing them, there was no need for further treatment. But... her eyes... they can’t be saved.”

“... you should rest,” Sylas said, glancing at him. “You’re wasting your magic trying to keep the wound steady.”

“I can’t rest. Not when--”

“Rest,” Sylas warned in a harsher tone. “You’ll not do anyone any good dead. Enough have died.”

Walking past him, Sylas headed down the chilly corridors toward the least destroyed area of the castle that was designated the 'medical ward'. It was its leftmost wing, just short of where Sylas first discovered the Shadow, as it was the furthest away from all fighting. Even still, on his way there, Sylas paused by a massive hole in the side of the castle--stone and rubble spilled inward, quite a few corpses lying just outside the hole--most of them men.

Glancing at them, he turned afoot and moved forward. Just past the corner, he saw many-a-woman rushing about hurriedly, most carrying either dirty or clean clothes and blankets. Luckily, there were quite a few unhurt people who stayed inside the castle, and they were all mainly in charge of taking care of the wounded. Even still, their numbers couldn’t keep up comfortably with the sheer number of wounded.

With how busy they were, the women didn’t even notice Sylas who stealthily wove himself by their side without interrupting them, heading to the Master Audin’s main office where both Valen and Ryne were situated.

Entering, a strong medicinal stench assailed Sylas’ nostrils. Quite a few young porterboys and women were shifting through the herbs and grinding them down along the several desks lined up against the wall, while the old man seemed to be making medicine in a maniacal haze of sorts.

Walking past them, Sylas came to a stop near a curtain; there was a faint opening and, beyond it, he saw Valen resting in the bed, lying flat, his eyes closed. Frowning for a moment, he looked forward once more and walked up to the old man, putting his hand on the frail shoulders. Master Audin jumped, but Sylas held him down firmly, causing the old man to look back.

“Mr-Mr. Sylas, you’ve scared me!” the old man said, sighing.

“You need to sleep,” Sylas said. “You look worse than some of the men lying down.”

“I--I can’t sleep! Who is going to make medicine? No, no. I am fine. I can handle it.”

“... I’ll wake you if there’s a critical patient,” Sylas lied casually. “But you need to rest. You’re the only one remotely qualified to help us through this hell. If you fall ill... then we’d all be leaving the life and death of so many to the toss of a coin. With you here, at least, everyone has a chance.”

“But--”

“Please,” Sylas said, forcing a faint smile. “Just close your eyes for a while. Recharge.”

“... f-fine,” the old man relented, realizing that he was pushing himself well past his limits. After all, he had entered his seventh decade of life this year. He was no longer someone who can work tirelessly for days on end.

“Hey, you,” Sylas called for one of the nearby women who were grinding the herbs. “Help Master Audin.”

“Yes,” she nodded faintly while Sylas turned his attention elsewhere, walking through the curtain and closing it completely, sitting by the bedside.

Even in his sleep, the young Prince looked relentless. Master Audin had confirmed what Sylas already feared--the boy would never walk again. Someone so full of life, of hope, and of wonder, would forever be bound.

“... I’m so sorry,” Sylas mumbled, lowering his head. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry...”

“Why?” a coarse, lifeless voice replied. Sylas looked up swiftly, noting that the young boy had woken and was looking at him, his lips stretched into a faint, forced smile. “It’s not your fault.”

“...”

“Nobody would tell me anything,” Valen continued. “What happened?”

“... you should rest.”

“Dammit, Sylas! Tell me what happened!!” Valen grabbed Sylas’ arm and held on firmly, the young boy’s gaze teary.

“... I’m not sure myself,” Sylas said. “Something came and swept through the courtyard, knocking everyone nearby off. You... your back got hit by a wooden stake and... it lodged itself there. I’m sorry, Valen. I--I...”

“... how is everyone else?” Valen swallowed his tears and asked. “How is Ryne? Tenner? Derrek? The rest of the castle?”

“They’re fine,” Sylas lied, already knowing he would reset it eventually. “They’re fine. And you... you need to rest.”

“It’s... good,” Valen mumbled, but Sylas felt it--he felt the boy’s heart dance and burn and beat. A million complex emotions swarmed it. “It’s good they’re fine. Yeah. Good.”

“Drink some,” Sylas took the nearby bowl of water and helped Valen sit up and drink a gulp. “Rest,” he added, knowing that the water already had some wollyseed. “Rest well.”

As soon as the Prince fell asleep, restless and conflicted, Sylas stood up, taking a deep breath. He was close to ramming his fist into a wall, anger, guilt, rage, pain all trying to consume him whole. Leaving the room, he ran into the woman who escorted Master Audin.

“Did he fall asleep?” he asked.

“Like a baby,” she responded. “We were all telling him to go rest. It’s good that you showed to convince him.”

“Old men are stubborn oaks,” Sylas mumbled, talking in part about the Master and in part about himself.

“How... how is the Prince?” the woman asked.

“... asleep,” Sylas replied. “Do you all need anything?”

“No, we are fine. What about you? When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Sylas replied. “After a few jugs of wine, I think.”

“...”

"Oh, no, please, judge away," Sylas added quickly and honestly. "While everyone's trying to piece themselves together and save as many others as possible... therein the prophet lay--in his own piss, passed out like a common drunkard."

“... nobody’s blaming you, you know?”

“That’s because nobody believes I was a prophet to begin with,” Sylas said.

“...”

“But I was,” he mumbled, looking toward the curtain beyond which the young Prince lay. “And I failed him. Failed you. Failed all of those lying dead outside. I had an eternity to find a way. But I broke after, what? Seventy? Eighty years? Hah. If I had known... no, I can’t make excuses. It’s all on me,” he added, glancing at her, his eyes vacant, expression dead.

Before she could reply, he walked off, leaving her stunned for a good while longer after the fact.

In the meantime, he parted the other curtain in the room, walking into yet another painful memory. To his surprise, however, Ryne was awake--sitting up on the bed, still. She flinched and tried to look toward the source of the sound, her lips quivering.

“W-who is that?”

“It’s me,” Sylas said softly.

“S-Sylas? It’s... you?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yeah,” he replied, walking over to the bed and sitting down. Her hands searched and ran across his neck and face, as though to confirm it. “Does anything hurt?”

“... a-a bit,” she mumbled.

“... I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve this.”

“... it’s scary,” she said, her voice quivering.

“I know.”

“But... we survived,” she said. “We survived the attack. That’s all that matters.” Sylas gritted his teeth, awed. “Though it’s scary... and it’s dark... as long as I have my life... I can’t give up.”

“...”

“I’ll find a way,” she said, grabbing his hand and forcing out a smile. “To be useful. So, please... just... just don’t leave me. I’ll be useful. I promise,” her voice cracked, draped in desperation. It was harrowing, Sylas realized, just how terrified she was of loneliness. He couldn’t quite grasp it, the source of the horror, not to mention that she felt she had to be useful not to be tossed aside.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, swearing inwardly he'd at least handily beat up the woman who instilled so many scars and insecurities into such a sweet child. "You just take your time and rest. I'll always be in need of an adorable and amazingly clever helper. And there ain't a soul in the world who can take that place from you."

“... you... you promise?”

“Promise,” he nodded, realizing it was pointless halfway through and freezing his head in position. “Drink,” he brought the bowl of water to her face, laced with wollyseed, and helped her slowly drink a few mouthfuls. “Rest now.”

“... don’t leave,” she mumbled as she lied back down, grabbing his head ever so tightly. He remained, even after her fingers turned limp and after she fell asleep, looking at her. He was angry. He had been angry ever since he continued to live. But he didn’t know what to do with it.

It was boiling like a lake of fire within him. He was angry with himself, with the world, with the dead, with whoever that hand belonged to... but mostly with himself. Yet, he knew that it wouldn’t help him, nor anyone else. It’s all fucked up, he sighed, standing up and leaving. I need to find Iun. And that human he talked to before the battle started. He’s the crutch. Iun should know who he is as well. I didn’t see him in the battle; it’s possible he withdrew into the forest. I guess... that’s where I ought to be too.