The grave had to be dug deep.

Far enough from the surface to deter any prying jaws of a scavenger looking for a meal. So to this end Blacwin had shoveled until he felt the sudden resistance of densely packed clay. And still he continued to dig, gritting his teeth, ignoring the burst blisters in the palms of roughened tiny hands, the aching of his arms. The thought of some dog, some beast, stirred to motion with the voracious appetites of hunger, catching the fragrance of fresh decay, clawing up the loosened dirt of the grave, and happening upon the remains of his father... that churned his stomach to no end despite the little food that roiled within.

Standing vigilantly at the foot of the grave was the Swordmaster, Lord Darius Wickerd. He had offered to help the boy dig the grave in its entirety, only to be rejected and asked to stand guard over the body instead. Surprisingly, he stayed. With a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, scanning the horizon.

Blacwin was panting, his chest on fire when he found that the spade could scrape no more, the stratified earthen walls of the grave uneven and tapered and sloppy. The gusts from above did not reach him at the bottom, although leaves would occasionally drift down. Back home at Harstone, whenever anybody passed on to the netherhalls, it was tradition to deliver the newly departed vessel to the foot of the family ash tree, where the earthen bed was to be made. Plots were carved out concentrically, next to the beds of the deceased kin from a household. It was the sacred duty of the child, the eldest if there were many, to bury their father and mother once their animus exalted their last gasp, and should the child vacate their mortal body without a family of their own, a sibling or village undertaker would join their parents at the tree. Otherwise, a new lineage would be planted with the union of two seeds acquired from the homes of the respective husband and wife. From that grew another tree.

And so it was a shame that Blacwin could not bury his father under the family ash tree. To be so far away from home. Without his mother for company in his cold earthen bed. Nor himself when he eventually died. Even so, burying him under an ash tree was the least that he could do.

“You can lower him now,” Blacwin told the Swordmaster.

Darius looked into the grave, down at the boy. “You’ve dug too far,” he said. “I’d only drop him.”

“And what would you have me do, leave him for the dogs?”

“No. Of course not. All I say is come back up. Let me lay him down there instead.”

Blacwin knew the Swordmaster did not mean it as a slight, however, it stung nonetheless. Not only was he weak, in addition he was short, too immature of body and constitution to properly carry out his familiar duties. And yet the Swordmaster was also right. One fumble and his father would crumple, his body twisting further. So reluctantly the boy took his hand and was lifted out from the grave.

“I will be gentle,” Darius assured as he cradled Blacwin's father like a child and lowered into the grave. The man was true to his word. With the utmost dignity his father was laid down, straightened out in unnatural slumber, his remaining arm crossed over his chest. “Was he a warrior?”

“Yes… he was," Blacwin said, and to garner more respect he added, “My father, Arydrius Ashill, took up the call of King Karderick to fight against the Arklayian invaders. He stood there at the misty valleys of Wowen’s Pass, braced his shield against the mad charge, a wave crashing on a jagged shore he said, tore the enemy apart with swords and spears, routing them into a dishonourable retreat.”

“So you’re from The Range. Hmm. If I remember correctly, the burial rite should include a sword, so that Wowen may praise the entry of another one of his warriors. Yes?”

At that Blacwin became fiendishly possessive of his father’s sword. So much of his father was already getting taken away, in body and in animus, must he relinquish the few mementos that remained? No. That was unfair. Beyond cruel. And yet he could not leave his father empty-handed for his journey to the netherhalls.

“Must I?”

“I used to have Rangian mercenaries under my employ. Should any fall in the battlefield, they always asked for their swords to be delivered with their bodies… though I suppose any sword should be fine.”

“I suppose so too.”

The fog had lifted from the camp. Plainly laid out now were the charred bodies and pale bones. Somewhere amongst the ashes had to be a soldier, a swordsman, hacked down during the retreat to the stronghold, their wagon of harvests in tow. Those bastards. How like them to value a head of cabbage over a fellow human being. As such a vicious delight played across the boy’s face as he happened upon a soldier. Or more precisely his severed arm, hand still grasped upon a sword. The fingers were locked around the handle, and it took some plying to wrench it free.

“Here.” Blacwin offered the sword to the Swordmaster waiting in the grave.

Wordlessly the sword was taken and laid on the chest of his father. Darius climbed out of the pit and handed the spade to Blacwin, who accepted, though prior to filling in the grave he looked down at his father for one last time, searching for words to say.

Sadness and regret warred within the pounding organ. Born from it was an anger most untempered, raw and crude as a fresh lump of iron from a crucible, turned out into a bath of water, hissing and bubbling and cooling. It sat heavily in his chest, and weighed upon him dearly, a hatred for bastards. No longer did he want to be subjected to the whims of the strong anymore, for his name to get stomped into the mud, into the dirt. The boy wanted to become so strong, so reviled, that no lord nor soldier would disrespect his person. And if such a challenger were to mock his name, his strength, all he had to do was answer with steel and shut up the bastard permanently.

To this end, Blacwin said quietly, “I will avenge you one day, Father,” and then started shoveling in the dirt. “I will make certain that they respect our name. I will carve it upon their lips. I will slay all those bastards. I promise.”

His hands were torn, raw and oozing after the final heap of dirt was shoveled and packed in. It stung to handle the spade so he let it fall to the ground. The sun was stark, yet the sky was grey. A cold gust blew past. The boy almost toppled like a felled tree from exhaustion. However, the Swordmaster started to walk away. Blacwin gave chase, dismayed at the possibility of losing such a martial teacher.

“Wait! Let me come with you,” he begged.

“You demand too much. Have I not done enough already?” Darius said.

“Allow me to pay you back! I can squire for you,” Blacwin said, though the Swordmaster continued his callous march, unfeeling toward the pleas. He persisted. “I know how to cook, clean, take good care of your weapons and armour. I promise I won’t get in your way nor slow you down.”

“No.”

“Please! I have nowhere else to go.”

“Nor do I.”

“Then surely a companion would be nice.”

“...”

Desperately, and with great difficulty, Blacwin drew his sword to perhaps show his grit when the Swordmaster wheeled with his own sword and swung, tearing Blacwin’s sword from his grasp, falling upon the grass. In the sun the steel glistened like a long silver tongue, tapered to a vicious point. It was nearly touching his throat. Just lean forward and his throat could be opened.

“I have no use with a runt like you. It’s not my fault that you’re too prideful to accept the lord’s offer. So get lost. Lest you force my hand and stick you like a pig.” He looked serious and cold, his chin turned up incredulously. Though not completely hardhearted, some bread was left with Blacwin. “Stay away from the roads. Stick to the woods if you can.” And after that shred of wisdom the Swordmaster departed without the boy, his billowing cloak shrinking into the distance. Never looking back.