Mhaieiyu

Arc 1, Chapter 23

Just Hope

The preparations had been met, as had been the prerequisites. At the skin of their teeth for time, the onslaught could be put off no longer. The salvo against the enemy warship that prohibited communication between the island and the continent had been scheduled beforehand, and with selected teams, armoury and plan of offence pre-established, it was now the eventful cue to conclude their decisions and act upon them with pristine diligence. A whole country was on the line, and all had been successfully set up to sequester the civilians from the danger they likely knew nothing of. The islanders were entirely unaware of the arrangement nor the conditions or motivations behind it, and would likely resist if they were suddenly forced off the homeland they were promised to keep. But through heaven or hell, flames or downpour, Xavier would be sure to get them off land even if it meant dragging them by their ankles.

And maybe, just maybe, he would arrive on time to assist in the conflict amidst the mainland.

Few men were dispatched for the job, most of which would serve as reinforcements and delegates of weaponry emplacement if the outcome were to be a satisfactory one. The Syndicate could spare no time between wars, and the moment Yanksee were to be pushed back, they'd have to immediately redirect their efforts toward their more troubling enemy's advances. A haphazardly move on their behalf, but it was the best they could cook up at the time, baring in mind the resources and personnel they could afford to expend. As previously agreed, Emris would assist in the naval repossession, and would immediately return to the continent upon doing so.

Xavier couldn't thank him enough — even if his involvement would only cover half his journey. More so still, Emris' and Xavier's platoon volunteered to lend aid—though the latter was only to be expected—with the exception of Ignus, acknowledging his lack of use in maritime conflict. Needless to say he wasn't too happy about it, but he wasn't that thick-skulled not to realise the clear liability he would pose.

With all plans now finally in motion and the militarised move at the brink of commencing, a hopeful glint shone in the Champion's eyes, much to Emris' mute contentment. With a pound against his superior's chest, Emris smirked.

"Ye sure look lively for once."

Shaking his head, Xavier looked on, supervising his party's work as they geared up. "How couldn't I be? It can't have been many hours ago when I deemed my home lost for good. Now look at us."

Xavier had already suited up, this time in more comfortable wear so as to maximise his mobility and allow him the company of his trusty war hammer, 'Longevity'. The prospect might seem like madness to common man, but against the Crimsoneers, supernatural engagement was more effective than gunfire; and excessive armour could debilitate one's capacity to expel magic as well as dull effective manoeuvring, and such couldn't be a more important factor to Emris' fighting style, which left the pair of veterans bereft of exaggerated wears promoting this empire's iron-clad grip. A casual sight especially baffling when paired up with the other soldiers, most of which cloaked in heavy gear or flashy, futuristic Nynx suits.

"We're ready to move, Captain," one of the soldiers, a Colonel, informed the First Brigadier, earning from him a relieved sigh. Raising his slim hammer from the earth, the brig turned to face his platoon. This would very likely be their last mission together. Even now he cherished their service.

"Are you set?" another asked, breaking the young elite from his trance.

"Of course, and Goddess-speed. Zwaarstrich has waited long enough."

"Aye!"

Kev couldn't assist either, unfortunately, though such was expected from the beginning. It was up to the man to keep morale high and maintain strategical stability on the battlefield. Hell, even the old codger Alpha had resigned himself to the war zone with not an ounce of reluctance. He always did do better in combat than he did arranging papers, after all; despite his status, he was a bloody good swordsman too.

Emris bumped into Xavier as they walked onwards through the exit, onto the fountain-decored roundabout parking lot in front of the complex. An intentional hit to get the vocal wheels turning.

"Somethin' on yer mind?" he asked.

"I dare not list them," the Champion responded, looking at the Guardian through the corner of his eyes. The ensemble marched on, arriving to a small parked convey of lightly armoured cars, Four of which were tethered, carrying behind them four military dinguies for transport. The pair entered the vehicles with little more to say, each taking a seat with their respective platoons. It would be a considerably long drive to the western harbour, with much time to dwell on what imperfections their plans might suffer from. Unfortunately, much of this precious time was wasted by the pressure of uncertainty.

The sun was two hours from setting when they arrived upon the shore, their trip entirely undisturbed as they traversed the city in broad daylight. Even if it were dark, it'd certainly be a spectacle if some poor youngsters tried any moves against a military escort. The jeeps came to a sudden halt as they skidded against earth, the backup soldiers immediately exiting the cars to partake in the relocation of the boats. Xavier and Emris stepped out with an understanding silence between them, even as they walked off toward a nearby tree to soothe and contemplate. Emris still hadn't decided how guilty he was, nor the price his inability would cost them. If he had any hopes of redemption, it would be through this highly inconvenient, deeply significant favour. It wasn't just a moral act either; he was the Guardian, and by his own title, this was his purpose — respected or not.

Popping open his flask, Emris took a long gulp, before offering the drink to his comrade. To his surprise, Xavier took it, guzzling down some of its contents with impunity.

"Vicks, calm it. Ye aren't a drinker——"

The Champion hushed his fellow brig with an idle hand, handing back the flask. He visibly struggled to keep it down. "You'll remember this time, right? You aren't fucking this up."

With a raised brow, Emris let his back rest against the bark. "Aye, aye. I'll be right there with ye if shité hits it."

"I'm still wondering whether that should make me feel safer or more endangered. Alas..." Cracking his neck to the side, Xavier redirected his gaze to the shores, its freezing waters glinting peril. With the help of their Colonel superiors, the soldiers had managed to move all but one craft to the waters.

"I have higher hopes than I've had for quite some time. This is the game-changer. If we strike today, we'll win this by tomorrow. A Queen's... King's gambit, if you will."

Raising a hand with a mischievous grin, Emris noted: "Ever played chess? Queen gambit's an oldie. Often foreseeable, commonly recognised, easy to counter... Don't slim our odds to that."

"You're souring my speech!"

"Monologue."

"Silence! Agh..."

A soldier in robes approached the two faffing veterans, giving a salute. "Sirs, we're ready to deploy."

"A—Ah, yes. Of course! Let's go; onwards, men!" Xavier chanted, earning him the cooperation of his inferiors. Emris snickered at his nervousness, knowing it was light-hearted.

"Aye, let's fuck up some Yanksies!" Emris shouted, to the disjointed appreciation of his own platoon. A tall man lending most of his attention to his acutely-ended lance stood up to face his captain.

"I sure hope you'll remember the plan this time around."

Cracking his neck, Emris imposed his own size to butt heads with the man. "Shut it, Avel. It was one time."

To his comment, an armoured soldier already in their dinghy raised a hand. "This'd be the third time, actually."

Balling his fists, the veteran raised his voice. "Keep it to yerself, Elena!"

A queasy voice spoke—or more so, whispered—out in defence. "C'mon guys. Let's give the big man his space, okay? We'll be safer in numbers."

Pointing to his subordinate in a gesture of appreciation, Emris' lips curved. "Right on, Markus. Keep the litters off my back on the ship too, eh?" he requested, pointing to the sniper rifle the weakly-spoken man rested against.

"Of course..."

"Who in the Goddess' name are you calling——?" Avel yammered.

"I'll eat your legs for breakfast too, asshole!" Elena shouted.

With each member entering their watercraft, the lot looked onwards. With the plot now in motion, the soldiers gave each other an understanding nod, before engaging their motors. Xavier and Emris stayed behind in their vessel as the three other dinghies set off, with Emris taking a lax approach to the engine.

"Ready for the shitéstorm?" the Guardian asked sleazily.

"I'm ready for anything."

"If ye say so, bud."

Intentionally disrupting his stern facade, the veteran immediately started up the engine before thrusting the boat onwards, nearly toppling Xavier from his seat. The horizon ahead was almost empty if not for the black clouds looming ahead. Just beneath the raging storm rested a significantly huge body of metal. The same bastard ship that had kept the communications line between the two countries locked and guarded.

The other dinghies weren't in sight, as issued by their improvised plan, instead having dispersed on each side of the craft, remaining at a safe distance and hiding under the rogue waves as they circled around. Meanwhile, the Champion's two-man assault slashed through the seas, directly ahead of the massive warship. The strongest side for these crafts were the sides, where most of their cannons were stationed, and the artillery was all manned by a limited crew. As such, directing the blow to the front was—while incredibly reckless and dangerous—a decent approach to such a vessel. The lazy sailors took much longer than they should've to respond to the Syndie advance, as they hadn't predicted an attack to occur during the many weeks they were stationed upon the northwestern seas. In fact, when their rudimentary radar systems started blipping, they initially anticipated a miscall, as it had been several times now that the ineffective technology provided signalled a non-existent target. It was only until a huge gust of wind swarmed the area, loud enough to stir up the slothful navies, that their attention was finally captured, and all frontal cannons were manned and fired.

Many shells missed entirely, whilst others were redirected by the strong winds conjured by Xavier's invigorating capabilities. The dinghy zigzagged through the front lines, evading and deflecting as much cannon fire as possible before closing in by the hull, guarded from the poorly placed ship's defences. While not entirely undamaged, to Emris' credit, the boat hadn't sunk yet.

The colossal steel mountain ceased fire for a few moments, only for more to be heard on its opposite end. Moving along its edge to the back entrance, the pair were glad to see the other two boats charged with the attack were safe and sound, having managed to reach the bay before being gunned down whilst the fourth idled far away so as to keep its cargo safe. The distraction had worked for long enough, and the pincer attack had been successful. Now was simply a matter of invading the ship and gunning down its crew from the inside; a task made much simpler with the unparalleled aid of Emris, Xavier and Avel — the three excelling in close quarters confrontation.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Standing by the modest southeastern harbour which constituted the salvaged, rebuilding country of Zwaarstrich's only port between it and the New World, were a couple of humble individuals with no family name nor significance to their world. They weren't special, their labours weren't rewarded with dignifying respect and their passing would be remembered by a mere handful of friends. To anyone outside the country, they might as well not exist. To anybody within they were little more than a couple of lovebirds with appreciable woodworking skills. Occasionally they might be renown in town for a day thanks to the artistic crafts the damsel put together, but even that fame would fizzle away faster than they could blink.

But their son was different. Their son was special. People loved and adored him, and owed lifetimes of riches for his deeds. His actions were rewarded both physically and socially. His labours would be remembered, as would his achievements in life. Their son would be remembered by hundreds or even thousands of well-respected folk.

In fact, if this couple had anything to be cherished for, it would be their role in bringing such a miracle child into the world, despite their own fragility and unimportance. But even if he wasn't special; even if his skills were as lacklustre as their own, if not worse; even if he had been seen as just another man in an endless sea of decent men, they would love him to bits regardless. So much so, that they couldn't possibly love him more. And so, his fame, his fortune and his recognition was met blindly by his doting parents. Because no matter what the world might call him, he was still their son through and through.

Four years had passed since their son's initiation into the Syndicate after leaving his homeland for the first time in his life. His skills had become locally recognised as that of a prodigious magic caster, and so his skills were quickly picked up by the many officers that routinely checked up on and exchanged resources with the seaside territory. It was thanks to these same officers that Xavier wasn't forced to wander around the dangerous streets of the Hub like a bumbling fool waiting for danger.

The reunion was sweet, more dulcet than either of the three familiars could've contemplated. Happy tears were shed, smiles were shared, concerns and appreciation were lobbed over each other's shoulders... A loving group, no less. Xavier had grown considerably during his absence, rivalling his father's height while still retaining the minimal bulk of his earlier years; giving his combat an impeccable grace.

"Son..." A single word, yet so powerful. So full of meaning. "I'm so..."

"Don't worry, Dad."

Now was no time to repent, nor would there ever be a reason to. The mother was no less shocked to see the steel-hearted man cry of guilt. He was wrong, and he knew it. He had attempted to shackle the boy away from his true desires and purpose, and he could only pray his son would forgive him. For years, this same thought worried him to no end. If only he had known he had been forgiven for so long...

A fourth individual ran up to the small family. A boy, much too young to venture on his own yet so full of spirit he could surpass the will even of the prodigal son at his age. His short almond hair was far from well-kept, with his mother being the only cause of any semblance of its care and beauty. Much like the rest of the family, he wore simplistic cloth wears and a pair of leather boots with a hole by its big toe. His skin was pale—a trait straight from his mother—though it would surely darken in time whenever he began to work the field. His eyes, brown like the soil he trod upon, complemented his beaming smile with a childish innocence that no grown man could ever replicate. With a roar, the kid bolted straight up to his military brother before diving into his open arms.

"Umph! You've grown so much!" the eldest son exclaimed, wearing the heavy gowns befitting a soldier which so-significantly contrasted with that of his kin.

"I missed you, big bro!" the child shouted, pressing his face into the veteran's chest.

"Ouchouchouch— No snot!"

With a cackle, the youngest sibling leaped off his tall brother, offering him an impish smirk. "Oh yeah? I'll be bigger than you one day, just you watch!"

"A—Ah! And I'm sure you will!" Xavier smiled back, amazed at the youth's brazen behaviour considering his own milder one. "Did you take care of mom like I told you?"

"Wha—? There's no way I could've remembered!" the child protested in response. To their bickering, the cool but sharp mother intervened, resting her arms around her shorter son's neck.

"He's kept me feeling safer than ever. He even picked up the training sword, but he won't stop trying out the hammer, just like you," she teased, pulling the kid's ear.

"Heh, he's just as disobedient to his father, too. Looks like he really took off from you, son," the lumberjack added, patting the infant's back to his discomfort.

Xavier chuckled, raising himself off his knees to level eyes with his parents. Absent-mindedly, he muttered: "Mom... Dad."

"Yes, son?" they replied, almost in unison. His mother's smile was enchanting, so reassuring. His brothers' was so livening, so energetic.

His father's...

Well, he had finally proven his worth, hadn't he? His proud yet dejected smile was noticeable. Clearly, some level of disappointment was present. He was incredible, and so he was in more danger than ever. It was only natural for a father to feel such for his young.

"I missed you. So much."

"Son...?"

"I missed you so much I thought I'd die."

"We know, son. We love you too."

"I never really realised how much I cared about you guys until you were out of reach."

"It's okay, son. We're here now."

"When the boat took off on that fateful day, I thought I'd never see you again."

"And so..."

"When I leave..."

"Please..."

"Wait for me, okay?"

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The ship had become a field of war in the half hour the takeover operation took place. Bullets flew from all angles, albeit with visible lack of efficiency. The crewmen stationed here were clearly either past their prime or had become so self-absorbed in their assured safe space that they had forgotten the tidings of war. It made sense really: all bunkered up in their floating steel palace, as far away from the real confrontation as reasonably possible, they should've had nothing to fear. And so, blinded and unprepared by this same arrogance, the entire ship was cleaned of its inhabitants within forty-five minutes. The small Syndie arsenal was surprisingly untouched: Two injured and a mild case of blast shock.

"We're well on track. Looks like I won't be too late, eh?" Emris commented, brushing off the dust and shrapnel coating his arms. The cargo crew soon pulled in, their supplies assisted on board by the two brigs' platoons.

"I'd say so. A clean fight, short as it was. Was the obliteration of the captain really necessary?"

"Eh, I don't like arrogance. And sure, that definitely woke 'em up." Emris chuckled, his wheezy laughter akin to that of a sore-throat hyena.

"Hilarious and just in your style. What of the stragglers?" Xavier asked, pointing toward the dozen or so surrenderers rounded up in the corner. The Guardian shrugged, smashing one of the crew's more valued rum bottles' nozzle against a steel crate as a tactless way of robbing its contents before his leave, filling his flask and guzzling down the rest.

Lobbing the empty bottle against the wall the prisoners were pressed up against, to their distraught, Emris replied. "Use 'em as bait, take their inheritance, eat 'em— I don't give a shité."

Biting his cheek, the First Brigadier redirected his attention to his subordinates. "Cole, is the evacuation team ready?"

Almost dropping his many papers and trinkets, the relatively short military exclaimed: "In two minutes, tops!"

With an inappropriate belch, Emris hollered. "Oi! Lance! Ye got the lass under control yet?"

A noticeably worn out Avel stammered toward the brig. "Yeah, but it wasn't easy. Fucking Vicks, it might've been harder than the mission itself... Don't take the twat somewhere where I'm the only man responsible, hm?"

With a shark's smile, Emris pounded the lancer's back with unnecessary force. "I make the decisions in that department, bub. We'll see," he chuckled, pointing off toward one of the destroyed bulkheads. "Careful not to talk too much. Lass's nuts."

"No kidding... You haven't seen the worst of her either, trust me," Avel informed, wiping the sweat from his neck with a towel. Noticing a particular soldier's presence, the Colonel moved away from the two veterans, calling out Markus' name.

Emris' disgruntled persona seemed to halt almost immediately as he noticed Xavier's eyes. The kid was terrified, no doubt. Goddess only knows what awaits him. And yet, his determination was clear. He wouldn't wait much longer. Among the damp nervousness that laced his body was an aura of hope and certainty.

"Oi, bud." Rubbing his associate's shoulders, the Guardian hopelessly commented: "Ye'll do fine. They'll be happy to see ye. I'm sure all ye need is a quick sight and ye'll be all invigorated again."

"I intend to fight until death robs me off my feet, don't you worry about that."

"Oy... Let's just consider the possibilities, eh? Odds are this'll turn out fine."

"We can only hope."

Two of the dinghies had been prepared for travel, replenished of fuel. One for the men heading back to the war, and one for Xavier to push onward, having insisted that he go first. Under common circumstances, such an order might've been refuted. But this was an exceptional case; a boy-turned-man urging to fend for his kin. Not even a stone-hearted drill sergeant could deny such a demand — given they even could to begin with.

Goodbyes were exchanged between the soldiers as the two platoons parted paths. Emris and Xavier stared at each other, their words robbed of wind. To the old veteran's surprise, Xavier covered his lips as he hesitatingly smiled. Stunned for a moment, Emris's profile softened. By the divines, this kid was no small fry, but still he wore few scars and battle marks. His mind was littered with experience, yet his body had not corroded still.

"Seein' a pro as young as ye, I might feel a pinch jealous. Yer makin' the oldies weep, mate."

The soldier's face flushed at the comment, showing once more that delicateness he hid. Shaking away this weakness, the Champion showed off that brilliantly noble, amazingly fierce complexion. With one last salute, and no more words to share, the two parted ways.

Emris and his platoon took off to mainland shores, as their time too had been cut short. And, with all preparations set, Xavier entered the craft that'd take him to his homeland, allowing his subordinates and cargo-men to sort out the rest of the boats now at their disposal; preparing for a mass of human traffic.

The sun in the sky had lowered enough to just barely start fusing into the horizon. The skies and clouds cleared above as Xavier ventured forth, turning into a beautiful display of brushed tangerine. The soldier's nervousness only grew as he inched toward his place of birth, the dinghy cutting through and bouncing off of the deep blue waves. At first, the island was merely a smudge of earth in the distance, but as he approached it soon grew into the landmass he so tenderly recognised. The humble wooden port was in perfect view, its form resembling a house with a missing wall, allowing smaller craft to enter and repose beneath the shade those crickety planks offered. Buildings and houses became visible, all made from handcrafted adobe and logs, tied together with plant-based bindings. The entire place was a quaint little haven that effectively defied the common telling of human discord and lack of coordination. A small society. A breath of fresh air, with many trees outlining its bountiful inner circles.

Xavier's breaths were uneasy as he pulled into the open-ended port. At first, he tried to calm himself under the guise that he was overreacting. But as he noticed nobody tending the harbour, the sinking feeling in his stomach only worsened. Stepping off the craft without a care to even tie it into place, Xavier stumbled toward the exit, parting the hinged door with a screech.

One step at a time, he made his way through the path to his village, his eyes sunken as possibilities flushed his thoughts and drowned away reason. Everything was familiar, if not for the odd sign relocation or the movement of supply boxes. Much like returning home after a two week vacation, the little changes were noticeable, but not unwelcome. Torches were lit; the grass was kept; the path wasn't cluttered with debris...

So why, my Goddess, does this feel so horrendously wrong?

A simple explanation: there was nobody around. The land of his childhood had become a ghost town, but why? Xavier couldn't bring himself to yell out. Every time he did, his voice came out hoarse and dry. His boots were red. His walk was uneasy. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't bring himself to see it. He couldn't, wouldn't stop his feet.

The houses were untouched, yet devoid of life. The gravel hadn't shuffled, but had become stained with filth. Each step rang through the Brigadier's ears like a horrific squelch.

Something is wrong.

He kept walking. His house was nearby.

Help us. Something is so, so wrong.

He kept walking. His house was close...

Please, I don't know what——

He stopped walking. The house he grew up in was finally in front of him. His body teetered from left to right as he reached the door, slamming against the frame as he lost his balance. The door was already unlocked, and so, with pale skin and shaky, fainting breath, he opened it.

Xavier's mouth hung agape. His paces were terribly unnatural, akin to a baby learning to walk. Many times he had tripped over, coating his face and clothes in a vile mixture of mud and lifeblood. He wandered through the village, a single, finite destination in mind. A mixture of disjointed words slipped from his mouth over and over.

"The bunker. The bunker— bunker, the bunker. Reach the bunker. Get to the bunker, the bunker."

His voice was dead, as he should be. His body seemed to operate automatically. His soul might as well already be gone; shrivelled up and locked away so as to muffle out the horrors he could only pray were nothing more than a sick nightmare. But even his subconscious couldn't come up with something so foul.

One step, then another. One foot, and then the other. He kept this cycle of hopeless stumblings in a desperate hope to find what he was looking for. To find them.

And yet, before he could reach the town's edge, a new voice echoed in the square around him. The silence of the place permitted the voice to bounce off of the walls undeterred, cutting through the soldier's shocked psychosis for a mere moment. It wasn't the voice of a doting mother, a proud father or a restless younger brother. It wasn't the voice of the many lumberjacks he had come to know, nor that of the merchants he would often buy bread and cabbages off of. It wasn't the old rabbit farmer he had grown so fond of in his younger years.

No. Instead, he was met with the macabre vocalizations of a hungering monster. A complete, irrecuperable madman.

"Ah, ah, ah...!" the voice chanted, full of emotions so abhorrent and incomprehensible that Xavier choked a sob near instantly at the mere implications in which it was wrought.

"This is wonderful. This is incredible! Delectable even! He has come. Finally, he has come, yes. This is..."

"AH! FINALLY! THE MAIN COURSE!"