II:

Contempt of Pain

Mitty. Stacy. Lillie. Irina. Jeff. Elizabeth. Mother.

The birthday.

I died.

The realization strikes with jackhammer force, his mind snaps.

Casimir shrieked, wailing and flailing. He was in some dark, thick fluid, drowning in it. He did not care. He simply screamed in throes of half-maddened hate.

Gone. All of it gone. His life ended in a flash of striking lightning.

Deeper, he sank. Limbs splattering the thick fluid left and right.

A pair of gauntleted fists grasped his suit, and pulled him out of the fluid, onto a shoreline. He tumbled onto it, gasping and coughing, then retching every bit of the fluid he’d swallowed.

He pummelled his fists into the ground, when his fists hurt too much to move, he beat his skull against the ground.

The very same pair of fists restrained him from cracking his skull on the ground. “Calm yourself! Breathe easy! Focus your mind!”

Casimir whirled around, screaming and crying. A fist rammed into his guts, he crumpled, the figure jumped atop him. Locking his arms, and pinning him down, safely.

“Pain is an illusion of the senses, suffering a delusion of the heart,” the figure above him intoned. “Steel you heart, focus your mind, let free your sorrows.”

Casimir took a long, gasping, wheezing, breath, then screamed, screamed until his throat hurt and his voice died.

He was alive.

He still lived.

“Let it out?”

Stiffly, Casimir nodded. I’m alive. I’m still alive.

“Good,” the figure breathed, rolling of off him. Then laughed. “Good, good. No man should cry like that.”

Casimir rolled over; sanity returned. “Casimir,” he muttered, rubbing his throat. “Casimir Voreband.”

“Ser Byre of the Order of Our Martyred Lord,” Byre said, sympathy in his voice. “You are the first fellow man I’ve seen in this place.”

An alarm rang in Casimir skull.

“This place?” Casimir turned to the man.

He did, and saw Ser Byre. Clad on ornamented steel, the man had a fur lined cloaked, a longsword clad in a scabbard at his side, and a poleaxe at his feet. Grey of hair, wide of smile, and deep green of eyes.

Byre’s face was lined with scars and wrinkles. Kindness shone from it.

“Look up, at this nightmare sky,” Ser Byre shuddered. “Look up.”

He did. He saw with his own eyes the certainty he never wanted. Casimir felt his heart plummet into his guts.

The sky was made of bone white mist. Eyes the size of buildings lined the sky, lines of abyssal darkness, like cracks, ran across it. Light came from the corpse of a titanic humanoid, so large, mountains would pale.

He looked back at where he’d been dragged out of. A roiling, seething, river of black blood, faces forming across its surface. Their expressions trapped in anguish, in fear.

The landscape was barren of life, filled with rocks malformed into leering vistas. Only that tree, in the distance, and them.

Casimir’s mouth dried in an instance. “This…this isn’t earth.”

“Nay,” Ser Byre said, offering him a hand. “And I dread what lives in this mad, queer place.”

Casimir took the hand, and the man hauled him to his feet.

“How long have you been here?” Casimir asked.

“I kept time in my head, half a day at most,” Byre flicking a chunk of gunk off of Casimir’s shoulder. “Dragged myself out of that river, hoped someone else would too.”

Byre pointed at its length. “I’ve walked its length, tried to trace it to the source, endless. Stopped trying, hoped someone else would end up out of this river.”

The two of them stood still, staring at the river. Both of them knew, beyond doubt, the link of why.

“I apologize in advance, ser Casimir,” Byre locked eyes with him. “But have you died?”

Teeth gritted, face twisted, eyes teared up. Casimir nodded. “You?”

“Aye,” Byre winced. “We’re both dead, and yet alive. This bodes ill. As ill as a night with no moonlight.”

Pain panged in Casimir’s heart, he slapped himself, shaking his head. No, he thought. No, I still exist, there’s still a chance. Now think.

Observe.

“You’re a knight,” Casimir said, focusing. “What year did you die?”

“The year 1482 after the birth of our lord,” Byre said, looking Casimir up and down. “You?”

“2012,” Casimir replied.

Byre frowned. “Yet we end up out of this river, near to one another?”

“Did we?” Casimir asked. “Or do we think we did? How do we know we our sense of time isn’t distorted.”

“Aye, I’ve heard it told that the sun rises, and falls, differently with differently lands,” Byre offered, hand on his sword’s hilt. “This place is as different as it gets.”

Casimir pursed his lips. “And it has no celestial cycle.”

The idea took insidious root. Byre had moved backwards, nearer to the river. The knight peered into its length.

“Aye, I’ve not seen sun or moon, nor tree nor plant nor life,” Byre said.

Casimir froze.

Byre instantly unsheathed his sword, whirling around. Then he also froze.

“Correct me, if I’m wrong,” Casimir said slowly. “But that was not fucking there.”

“We’re in a place half mad, ser Casimir, what’s more madness?” Byre said, wetting his dry lips.

It was tree. A titanic tree of rainbow bark, and crystal wings for leaves. The rotting carcasses of things larger than mountains, of smouldering, black scaled dragons, of krakens the size of small islands, lay around it. Its roots ripped into their flash, sprouting luminant flowers.

The river led right to it, feeding its roots.

Hesitantly the knight glanced back at him.

Casimir simply laughed, blood chilling in his veins. “The second you said tree, we saw that thing. When we thought of it, we saw it. What if...”

Byre nodded slowly, understanding, same as Casimir, what had occurred.

This was place was not barren, they simply couldn’t see what lay in waiting, until they thought of it. Until their minds made some conceptual link, an idea, of it.

There was a long, winding canine howl.

Casimir made a decision.

“There’s only the two of us, and this place reeks of danger, only two of us, against all that lies here,” Casimir said. “You and me.”

“You and me,” Byre nodded, smiling. He picked up his poleaxe and offered Casimir a knife. “A brother from a different mother, no?”

Casimir nodded back. “If you’ll have me, I’ll have you.”

The two of them reconsidered each other.

“If the dead can die again,” Byre mused, desire in his voice. “You think they can come back again?”

The idea was sound. If they were completely dead, then why would their souls need to breathe? Why would their souls feel fear? Souls had no chemical reactions or neurons or matter with which to feel.

“I think,” Casimir took the knife. “That just as we came in, we can come out. I’m not going to lie, Byre, I wasn’t a religious man. But I think, I think I changed my mind. I think we’ll need plenty of faith, here.”

Byre chuckled sombrely. “Let’s pray for a miracle, won’t we?”

“Two,” Casimir corrected. “Two, if we have any chance here, then the two of us get out together, or not at all.”

“For a dead man, you’re a good man,” Byre practice swung his blade. “I wondered what story I’d tell my children, barging back from death seems a good one, and if not, dying with you around doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I didn’t say thank you, did I?” Casimir said.

Byre smiled at him. “You don’t need to.”

Casimir nodded at him. “Thank you,” he said after a breath.

Byre threw his poleaxe at Casimir. “If we’ll fight, you’ll be better served with this. I’ve years of war with my sword.”

Casimir’s hands clenched around the weapon. “Byre, we’re going home.”

“Aye,” Byre said. “One way, or another.”

The two men marched towards the tree.

The two of them sang along with eachother. Casimir, his poleaxe laid against his shoulder, Byre, his sword held at rest.

The tree grew ever larger in the distance, looming, like a graveyard monument to dead deities.

“For the very first time I am alive to my-self,” Byre sang. “Since my sinful eyes behold. The noble lands, and also that earth, to which so much honor was given. It has come to pass, that which I have ever prayed, I have come to this place. I have come to this place.”

Casimir continued it, he’d memorized it, from how many times they’d sang it. By now, Casimir had long realized, they were not even speaking the same language.

Yet they understood each other perfectly.

“Where God walked in human form, I have come, I have come, I have come. Such fair lands, rich and noble, as I have seen elsewhere. You are the honour of them all. What miracles come to pass here!”

“That a maid gave birth to a child. Lord over all the hosts. Was this not a perfect miracle?” Byre continued, feet idly tapping to an unseen instrument. “Here he, being pure, let himself be baptized. So that man may be pure. Then he let himself be sold, that we thralls may be free!”

Casimir’s lips curled up at what the sight of them was. A knight, and a business man, marching to the song of wars long finished, in a place beyond death. In a place where rightful sense seemed odd.

The tree was before them.

“Otherwise we would be lost! Hail to you spear, cross and thorn! Woe to you, heathens, this is an outrage to you!” Byre finished.

“Doesn’t sound so good in English, though your German is impeccable,” Casimir muttered.

“I still don’t know what language English is,” Byre replied. “Sounds like some mongrel, heathen tongue.”

“It…is…” Casimir’s mouth clamped shut.

Byre simply stood still in awe.

It was one thing to spot this tree, from a far. Another to smell the fragrance of strange flowers, to feel blood red grass underfoot. To comprehend how small, how tiny, they were, before these massive skeletons.

Black fluid gushed right beneath it, the river pooling in small lakes that were a clear, bright, white. Filtered by shining roots that wind up the bark of the tree. The small lakes created a vista of ethereal majesty as they led up to it.

A titanic tree surrounded by colossal corpses and lakes of the purest white. Almost as if a path, the roots of the tree gathered into bridges across these lakes.

All paths led to tree’s heart, and all of the largest, most stable root bridges, were a shining, golden color.

“What is this place? What is it truly, that it is so obscene and so…” Byre stopped, mesmerized. “So… magnificent.”

Casimir approached the edge of a lake cautiously. “I can see something, or someone.” Casimir leaned closer.

A fist rammed right into his chin, his poleaxe slipped out of his hand.

“Take that you piece of shit, you dare fucking punch me!” a woman burst out of the river, swinging another fist at him. “You motherfucking think you can refuse me, me! You ungrateful shite? You….and…hit…me.”

She froze, a sword at her neck. Her eyes filled with fear.

“My name is Ser Byre, ordained knight, victor of six wars and more battles than you can count,” the knight said, slowly. “I expect two things of you, one, an apology for striking my companion. Two, that you control yourself, woman.”

She was wearing a mini-dress, a steep v-neck exposing her unblemished skin. She wore enough jewellery, of the expensive kind, to bankrupt Casimir six times over. Her high heels alone, were a limited-edition brand production.

Casimir’s heart ached.

Irina had wanted one of those high heels.

Casimir stood up. “I’m fine, Byre, I’m fine.”

“You may be,” Byre’s eyes narrowed at the woman. “But I’ll not let such acts happen without response.”

The woman stood up, puffing up. “I’m Rosaline Pastur,” She said, expecting recognition.

“Let me reiterate,” Byre’s tone was the edge of a growl. “I asked for an apology, not your name.”

“I’m not going to let you intimidate me with your little knight act!” Rosaline yelled, dainty finger trying to push the sword away.

Byre leaned closer, the sword glinting silver. “Does this look like an act?” he whispered into her ear, the sword bit in, a trick of red flowed from her neck.

She paled.

Casimir stepped in, slowly pushing away Byre’s sword, locking eyes with Rosaline. “I’m sure the young lady will apologize to us. Right?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“See?” Casimir said. “Now, let’s take a breath, and introduce ourselves.”

“I’ve already met your bastard friend,” Rosaline bit out, heat in her voice. The heat died the second Byre glared.

“Ser Byre,” Casimir stressed the name. “Ser Byre, and I’m Casimir, and now, use your head, and look around.”

She did.

Her skin paled until she seemed a ghost.

“Wha-what? This…what?” Her knees buckled; Byre caught her, his eyes softening.

“You’ve died,” Byre stated, lowering her gently. “Now, breath. Calm. Breath.”

Her eyes grew wet, tear streamed down. Her face lost expression. “I’m…I’m…my girls. I…I left them…with him…”

Casimir grit his teeth, his heart clawing in his chest. Despair, palpable despair in her voice. “No, you haven’t,” Casimir said, holding his head higher. Back straighter. Impressing resolve and certainty into his gait.

Certainty that was a lie.

Resolve that was threatening to crack.

“There’s a way back,” Casimir lied. “And we’re going to find it. Listen to me,” she looked up. “We’re going home.”

Byre sent a glance towards Casimir. He knelt down by her side, rubbing circles on her back. “Aye, we’re going home lass. We came in, we can get out.”

Hope lit up in her eye.

“We…can?” Rosaline mumbled, a spark of hope igniting.

“Aye,” Byre grinned at her. “Question is, you in?”

She grabbed Byre. “I’m in, I’m in! I’ll do anything to see my girls again! I’ll do anything damn you!”

“We’re all going home, all of us, you understand,” Casimir told her. “I don’t promise you, I don’t give you my words, I’ll simply do it. All of us will.”

Rosaline pulled away from Byre, clenching hands. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

None of this was fine.

Casimir could feel his sanity, gripped in a vice of willpower and nigh delusional hope. His mind knew that, if it had been easy to come back from death, it wouldn’t be the realm of faith and mythos.

But it was no longer about him. Not anymore. Even if he didn’t believe they’d be able to do it. No, now it was about them. About the spark of hope.

Casimir stared at Rosaline and Byre, both of whom were looking at him, expectantly. Byre, resolute, Rosaline, desperate, and himself, on the precipice of despair.

Before them, the tree, and all that which they didn’t know.

Casimir made himself smile. “We’re in this to the end.”

He offered Rosaline the knife.

She took it.

Byre met his smile with an equal one. “And now?”

“We follow the yellow root bridge.”

They walked across the golden roots, to their sides the white lakes, smiling faces and soft coos echoing from its depths. Rosaline was at the middle, Byre at the front, and Casimir at the back.

Rosaline, Rosaline and her endless complaints. She only stopped complaining, once she realized they were ignoring her.

“The river goes from black, to white,” Casimir said, thinking aloud. “The tree only appears when you think of it. Only the living can think of it. There’s nothing but the tree and-“

A long, angry howl echoed. Nearer now, louder now, a declaration of intent, almost.

“And our pursuer,” Byre said, glancing back at Casimir. Casimir met his eyes, the two nodded in understanding, a message passed that, intentionally, they did not want Rosaline to catch.

They were being guided along this path. Start to finish.

Into the tree they went, surrounded by the light of luminant flowers within. They found murals, carved into its bark, and gilded with gold. It covered the entire surface, start to finish, carved with skill that belied comprehension.

Rosaline stood captivated. “Oh my God,” she gasped out. Hand reaching out to touch the mural.

Byre peeked at it. “It looks fine, yes. But is that any reason to use the lord’s name?”

She whirled on him, finger jammed into his chest. “Every pieces of this mural took decades to carve, you moron, and stop being a sanctimonious shit, I don’t like it. You’re getting on my nerves!”

“Careful of your tongue,” Byre whispered, hand on hilt. “I’ve taken no oaths against striking wenches.”

“Rosaline, stop disrespecting Byre every chance you get,” Casimir idly said, eyes locked on the murals. “Byre, every time she insults you, I want you to slap her.”

“Aye, you hear that?” Byre said. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll make you watch it.”

Rosaline flinched, cowing away from Byre, glaring at Casimir. “And why do you give the orders? Ha? Who died and made you king?”

“Byre, did you hear that?”

“Nay,” Byre replied.

“Neither did I,” Casimir mused.

Rosaline fumed, mouth shut, eyes smouldering at them. He should have expected it from her, rich, pretty, spoiled. She would have been a problem, if Byre wasn’t around.

Casimir traced a hand across the mural, watching the story unfold.

An army of warriors burning and pillaging city after city, killing titans, krakens, dragons, and things of shifting mist and changing forms. He could almost see the story come alive, the banners flutter, the swords weave.

The insides of the tree revealed a wide, open, chamber. The murals around it depicting warriors arriving with the strike of lightning. Almost riding it, unforming from it. The message was clear.

Victory by all means.

Victory against all things.

Victory or death.

“Byre,” Casimir whispered to the knight. “Your impressions?”

Byre nodded slowly, understanding. “Conquerors. Strong ones and proud ones,” he said, quietly. “Best we avoid them. The lady they might take as a pleasure girl, you? They’ll give you to someone in need of lettered scribes.”

“You?”

Byre smiled. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I can take care of myself.”

“You can,” Casimir said small smile. “But you’re starting to grow on me, like fungus.”

Byre raised a brow. “I…thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Casimir snorted.

A nod.

They entered the chamber. Casimir raised a hand, stopping them. “Don’t touch anything, don’t do anything, move-“

Rosaline rolled her eyes. “It’s an open room,” she marched into it. Stomping her heels across the chambers floor. “What are you worried about?”

Lightning flashed across the chamber, storming, surging around Rosaline. Byre leapt for her, covering her with his body. Casimir charged in, right behind him. The lightning struck them.

It devoured them all, disintegrating them bone and meat.

He felt pain, for a second.

For a breath, for a singular moment, Casimir was nowhere, and everywhere. He was the lightning bolt, fleshless power manifest.

He struck the ground and blew it to ashes. Two lightning bolts right behind him struck right behind him.

Byre atop Rosaline, and him, standing there. Hand shaking.

Steel slammed into cheeks, as Byre growled at Rosaline. “You. Listen. When. Commanded.”

Casimir placed a hand on Byre’s shoulder, pulling him away.

“I-“ Rosaline started.

“Get up,” Casimir bit out. “It’s done. Now, get up.”

She didn’t get up, hand on her red cheek.

One moment, they were within the tree, next, in the midst of a vast, roiling field of grass and hills. The sun shone above, clear blue skies, and a serene greenery he’d scarcely seen on earth.

And white rivers. Similar to the white lakes, flowing alongside the scenery, giving birth to luminant plant life.

A howl rang out, nearer. Closer.

Casimir clenched his hand. “Byre?”

“Aye.”

“Rosaline, one more, one more push,” Casimir locked eyes with her. “And I’ll leave you to whatever that is, understood?”

She numbly nodded, still on the ground. He hoisted her to her feet. They started moving, she followed quietly. They crossed the hills, looking for a high ground.

“There,” Byre pointed, steel shining beneath sunlight. “A root.”

A golden root, spiralling in and out of the ground. They followed it, marching until the sun crossed the horizon, and moonlight covered the land.

Until they found them.

“Ya’ put down yer’ gun, an’ I’ll do the same, ey?” a man covered in bandoliers filled with ammunition, said. Twin revolvers in his hands.

“I’m not inclined to trust a man who shot at me,” another man said, assault rifle pointed at the other. He was clad in a turban, part of a military uniform with a trenchcoat.

“Fair ‘nuff, t’was my fault, bit of a itchy trigger from this bussiness,” the first man said. “Okay, ‘ere, how ‘bout this, I apologize, put down on of my girls, and we go on from there, ey?”

The two stood at odds, for a breath.

“Acceptable,” the other man replied.

Casimir pushed Rosaline’s head down, clamping hands on her mouth. He locked eyes with Byre.

“You’re familiar with crossbows?” Casimir asked.

“Aye,” Byre replied, intently focused on their weapons. “Same idea?”

“Yes,” Casimir said. “That one? It’s called a rifle, thirty or more shots. One wrong move, and their twitchy fingers kill us all.”

He released Rosaline.

Byre paled. “And the small one?”

“Six, or more.”

The man in the bandoliers put down a revolver, apologized, and the second man lowered his rifle. In seconds, the two of them had their weapons down, and were talking quietly.

Casimir called out for them. “Hey you!”

The two men looked at them.

“We’re friendly! Don’t shoot!”

The two men shared a glance.

“Ya’ll come on ‘ere then!” the first man yelled back. “Me an’ me friend ‘ere ain’t goin’ bite!”

Casimir turned back to Rosaline. “Mouth shut, don’t say a word. Byre, eyes on their hands. Second they move for their guns, grapple the closest one.”

“Aye.”

They went down. Casimir at the forefront.

“Howdy folks,” the first man said. “I’s Leonardo Salomon, and this man-“ he paused. “ ‘pology, never asked yer name?”

“Mohamdou Ölmez,” the second man said, offering Casimir a hand. “Caliphate Counter Insurgency Forces, peace be upon you.”

Casimir took his hands. “Casimir Voreband, Rosaline Pastur, and Byre of Franz.”

Leonardo tipped his hat. “Pleasure to meet ya all, any of you got a clue what’s goin’ on? ‘Cause I remember being shot to death, almost shot Mohamdou over here ‘cause of that.”

Mohamdou nodded along. “I was blown up, sarin gas bomb. Unpleasant. Lack of attractive virgins was distressing. Was shot at. Replied in kind.”

“Short version, or long version?”

“Short version now,” Leonardo said, fixing his purple cravat, and smoothing out dirt on his jacket. “Long version can come on later.”

Casimir gestured behind him. “We’re all not dead-dead, there’s a magical tree that allows transport, and we can go back to life.”

Blank stares.

“That don’ make sense,” Leonardo said.

Mohamdou nodded. “Dead people go to the afterlife.”

“Any of you seeing the pearly gates?” Byre offered. “No pearly gates, means we’re not dead, which means we keep on going, till we die for real.”

Leonardo played with a shell in his bandolier. “Suppose this ‘ere’s hell?”

“Then we’ll kick down its gates,” Casimir said. “I’m going home, all of us are going home, do you want to stay here, or do you want to go home?”

“You sound like one of ‘em business folk,” Leonardo said. “You sure do talk good business. I’m in.” The man tipped his hat.

Mohamdou paused, buttoning up his coat. “I protect and serve,” he said, after a moment. “They should have clarified it would mean ‘beyond your temporary first death’ in training.”

Casimir snorted. “They put that in one pixel font, right in the middle of terms of service.”

Casimir pointed out the path forward, and they marched on, exchanging idle conversation as they followed the golden roots.

“Ya all don’t dress like me, an Mohamdou here don’t sound like no American name,” Leonardo said. “Where ya all from?”

“When,” Casimir corrected. “I died in 2012, Byre in 1482.”

Mohamdou blinked. “…I died in 2134.”

“1898,” Leonardo chirped.

Rosaline furrowed her immaculate brows. “2021.”

They walked over a white river stream, Casimir the first to cross it. “I hope, all of us understand what that means?”

“That this place don’ make no sense?” Leonardo quipped. “Wouldn’t have ever tho-“

A hand gripped Leonardo’s leg, dragging him into it. The gunslinger yelped, his hate flying off.

Byre and Mohamdou pulled him, and the one who’d dragged him in, out. Leonardo went out gasping for breath. Cursing beneath his breath.

The one who’d grabbed him, was a woman. A long, white dress covered her figure. A mantle was around her shoulders, and her hair was braided and tied. Brunette hair and brown eyed, she went out shivering, hissing.

“Bloody ‘ell woman, give a fella a warning before you drag ‘em in,” Leonardo said, snatching his hat out of the air. Pitching in, and pulling her lower body out of the water.

Rosaline on her in an instance, hugging her and comforting her. “It’s okay,” Rosaline said. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated.

The woman leaned into her, letting out a long, pained, shriek. She curled in on herself, crying into Rosaline’s shoulders.

Mohamdou’s face was stoic stone.

“Ye, sounds ‘bout right for normal folk,” Leonardo said, quiet and somber.

The woman kept wailing. The weight of the day settled on them, he saw the sleep in Byre’s eyes, and felt it in his own.

“Do you know how to make camp?” Casimir asked, feeling the weight on his shoulders increase.

“Aye.”

“Ye.”

“Trained fully in special operations.”

“Please,” Casimir said. “…It’s going to be a long, long, night.”

Leonardo had managed to find enough wood, grass tufts, leaves, and stones, to create a campfire. Mohamdou, for his part, used a combat axe to cut wood, and create makeshift seats. Byre made sure the campfire started, and kept burning.

They sat, leaning forward, the moonlight and firelight companions. Rosaline and the woman – Victoria was her name- sat next to one another. The rest of them together.

“Here, ya all folk take some,” Leonardo said, passing bunches of biscuits around to everyone. “I keep ‘em on me for whenever the missus gets the munchies. Big eater, she is.”

Byre inclined his head in thanks. “You seem an odd one, for a warrior, ser Leonardo.”

“I ain’t no warrior, mister Byre,” Leonardo replied. “I’m an outlaw, spent my time robbing an’ killing folks.”

Casimir blinked. “You’re a bandit?”

“Suppose I was,” Leonardo said, lowering his hat. Using it to cover his eyes. “Meanest, toughest, and best out there. Been in more gunfights than soldiers, stole more than I could have ever earned.”

“And you dare show your face?” Byre accused.

“Nah, I don’t,” Leonardo said. “Way I see it, pieces of shit like me don’ should no more exist, than rapists and murderers. Life’s about helping folk, an’ if folk like me didn’t exist, that’d be better.”

“…Redemption, is it?” Mohamdou murmured.

“There ain’t no redeeming murder, but there is putting it to work,” Leonardo chuckled. “There used to be this big band, name’s the O’Neils, ran by Black Tooth O’Neil, killin’ rapin’ stealin’ thievin’ O’Neil used to be military, ran ‘em like his own army.”

“You faught them,” Byre said.

“Killed ‘em to a man,” Leonardo replied. “Way I saw it, if I’mma steal, I’mma steal from some one who deserves it. Got me more gold an’ coin than I could carry, thought I could go home, marry my girl, give her the life she deserved.”

“You died,” the words slipped out from Casimir.

“His son,” the wind blew. Leonardo’s hat slipped away, revealing teary eyes. “Kid saw me kill his pa, he don’ got no ma. O’Neil, killer, raper, thief, had a son who loved ‘em. I could’ve shot ‘em, kid was a shit shot. I…could have…I should have…I couldn’t.”

“Even the most monstrous of men, is yet a man,” Mohamdou said. “And you were no monster, Leonardo, you should take pride in that.”

“His pride left his lover a widow,” Byre replied. “The young boy had picked a weapon, there can be no mercy to the enemy.”

“You know, I was going to ask ‘em to come with,” Leonardo said, staring into the fire. “I killed his pa, his family, only right I fix it. He chose faster than I did...least it happened to someone who deserved it.”

Mohamdou put down a tarp, disassembling his rifle. “You should feel no guilt, all of us are men who made flawed decisions. Indeed, that is the will of the Maker, that life is a struggle, and death a promise.”

“You sound like you got some experience,” Leonardo said.

“My death,” Mohamdou mused. “At the age of ten, I was chosen as a warrior of the struggle, my father, before me, had been a warrior of the struggle. The ocean were polluted with waste, and clear water was a precious resource.”

“War,” Byre whispered.

“Endlessly, for my people’s survival,” Mohamdou nodded. “Victory or martyrdom, protect and serve. Kill or be killed. Conquer or be made a slave. Insurgents, enemy nations, criminals. I faught, I did not hate them, my enemies. But if my people were to prosper, theirs were to wither.”

“How did you die?” Casimir said.

“I gave sweets to the orphaned children, every week, I helped them find homes, places to live, joy,” Mohamdou looked at a faraway place, even though he sat still. “I never hated my enemies, but they did. Some of my brethren did hate them. They used a child hidden amonst the orphans, armed with a micro-explosives vest. I hesitated, I feared hitting one of them.”

Leonardo hissed. “Twisted animals.”

“Indeed,” Mohamdou said, cleaning the barrel of his rifle. “I regret not pulling the trigger, yet I hold pride in that. What manner of men are we, that we’d not feel a thing at taking lives, no less that of children?”

“You’ve softer hearts than I,” Byre said. “A child can gut you as good as any man. Even can make you sick enough to die.”

Leonardo stared at him. “An’ so can anythin’ ain’t no excuse to have no heart.”

“It is if you wish to come back home, I lived to see my loved ones, instead of failing to uphold my duty, due to some misplaced sense of kindness, such as all of you,” Byre retorted.

“I do not think so,” Mohamdou gestured with a weapon part. “We all carry our wounds upon our hearts, our sins are punishment inside and without. Only the truly monstrous and decrepit feel nothing at sin.”

“We all stop feelin’ at some point,” Leonardo replied. “I’d have gon’ mad long, long while if I cared for every trigger pull.”

“That is how a warrior should be,” Byre said. “Swing the sword, spilling the blood, and let the faces wash by.”

Mohamdou tilted his head. “And how is that strength?” he turned to Casimir. “Tell me, do we killers seem strong to you? Are the cracks not plain?”

Casmir’s gaze swept across them all. “Does it matter? It seems semantic at best, looking for needless problems.”

“No, it is not,” Mohamdou said, gesturing at all of them. “We are warriors, killers in act. What separates us from mere murderers? Shall the serial killer who is kind to his family, be the equal of the farmer kind to all? We must be different, lest we all be judged as sinful in the eyes of the Maker.”

Byre frowned. “We are different, we hold courage in our hearts, strength in our arms, glory upon our tongues and virtue in the killing stroke. We hold fast to our brothers in arms, and we kill the unworthy of life, and put to slave chains the contemptuous.”

“An’ so did O’Neil’s lot,” Leonardo muttered. “Ya all folk should’a seen ‘em. Loyal, honest, courageous, strong, and self-righteous. Would grab folk and sell ‘em to bidders. Never met a bunch more willin’ to fight for their own. An’ they were all horrid.”

“They are outlaws,” Byre retorted. “We are not.”

Mohamdou raised a brow. “And why does law equate to right?”

“It doesn’t,” Casimir said, heart twisting. “You were all soldiers, outlaws, and knights. I was a business man, a merchant. A successful man. Richer than the richest king of your times.”

“Ya don’t speak like one of ‘em filthy rich folk,” Leonardo stated.

“I never thought much on it,” Casimir let out. “Wealth, money, it was just…it simply was, it didn’t have any value of its own. It simply let me make my family happy, the best of education, the best of housing, the best of clothing.”

Mohamdou nodded along. “Yet, to be so rich, the wealth had to come from elsewhere.”

“I never thought that hard on it,” Casimir laughed. “All the factories, all the people who worked for pennies, all the contracts. I couldn’t even tell you if they had chairs in their factories, or not…I just.”

“You never thought about it,” Mohamdou did not accuse. “You are only human, sir Casimir, and no man alone bears the sins of all his actions. The killer has sinned, and the man who sold him a knife, if knowing of his desire, has so to sinned.”

Byre stirred the campfire. “I’m no sinner, I lived my life to the best example.”

“That is a lie,” Mohamdou smiled softly.

There was a long quiet.

“Aye, I suppose it is,” Byre admitted, wiping away at his eyes. “I’ve burned out entire villages, at the orders of my grandmaster. I’ve put to sword an entire city, at the order of my grandmaster.”

“An’ ya just followed the daft idiot?” Leonardo asked.

“Traitors were executed, and to disobey orders was treachery,” Byre said. “…I still remember their eyes, reflected in my sword. The children. The women. The old. Their fear.”

“And what should you have done?” Mohamdou

At that, Byre laughed, and laughed, and laughed more. “Should’ve been a traitor, then. But I wanted to go home, couldn’t have done that if I wasn’t loyal.”

Byre looked up, at the night sky. “All the same, I died. Knights raided my home, burned my lands and its peasantry, slit my throat and left me there. My blood slipping. My home turning to embers before my eyes. On the orders of our enemy.”

Leonardo smiled in sympathy. “That don’t sound like no knight to me, that sounds like bandits.”

Rosaline glanced between all of them, Victoria holding her hand, leaning on her shoulder.

“We’re all…bad people, aren’t we?” Rosaline said, quietly.

“We’re flawed people,” Casimir suggested. “Maybe some of us more flawed than they realized.”

Maybe he should have cared more, for everyone he’d every employed. Maybe he should have tried to make the world a better, more just, more kind place. He’d had the money, the influence. He just never cared enough.

Then he died.

Now he’d come back, return to do what he should have done.

The idea made him smile.

“My husband,” Rosaline started. “He…loved me, for more than my figure. More than what I looked like. I never did. I loved his money. His wealth. I never realized he loved me. Never thought on it.”

She looked around. “I never cared for him. Married him for his wealth, I knew I’d get older. Uglier. His invitations to bed aggravated me, the coy moans and sounds an insulting act I had to put on. The three children I bore an annoyance.”

“Unpleasant woman,” Leonardo quipped.

Rosaline glared at him, her glare fell as she deflated. “He believed the act. But I found someone better. Richer. Handsome. I framed him for child pornography, got the papers, found the lawyer, got ready to take my kids.”

Leonardo stared in utter horror. “The hells wrong with ya?”

“I…thought I was right,” Rosaline said, hands folded in her lap. “I deserved this, I faught all my life for this. All the pictures, the magazines, the sheer humiliation. I deserved the best.”

“And he killed you,” Casimir presumed.

“He asked me why,” Rosaline muttered. “He asked me why.”

Mohamdou looked away from her. “You’ve wrong him greviously.”

“I told him why. And he hit me,” Rosaline replied, touching her cheek. “One hit. My head hit the table, didn’t feel my death.”

Victoria besides her, hugged her.

“An’ you, madam Victoria?”

Victoria was an older woman, her sharp features dulled by age. Streaks of white run across her hair, still, she remained shapely. Hourglass of figure, full of cheeks. Lustrous of hair.

“Assassinated,” she muttered. “Three men, they ripped me to pieces. I felt every sword strike, every blow. They killed my son, and my daughter. Ripped the velvet from my dying body, and left me naked in the bloodied mud.”

Byre poked the fire, embers danced in the air.

“Why?” Casimir asked.

“For my crown,” Victoria said, hand reached out for the embers. “Rebels and traitors, half starved, ragged things. They ambushed my entourage, threw themselves at my men. Anything to kill me. To replace me with someone else.”

“I find it hard to believe such malice is unwarranted,” Byre told her.

Victoria pursed her lips. “I’d starved them to fuel my armies. The gold mines of my rivals were undefended, if I took them, I would the richest in the land.”

Mohamdou reassembled his rifle. The pieces of it clicked together. “Arrogant, is it not.”

“And what does a foot soldier like you know of ruling?” Victoria said. “If I did not conquer, I would be conquered. You yourself admit to that.”

“I do, and I admit that it is evil,” Mohamdou smiled at her. “Why must we kill or be killed? Why must be conquer or be conquered? Why must we enslave or be made a slave?”

“It is the way of things,” Victoria said. "We must stand at the top, no matter how...how lonely...how painful it. There are fairytale princess. Only strong queens. Only those strong enough to rule, will.”

Mohamdou met her eyes. "Is that what you wanted?"

Victoria played brushed a stray hair from Rosaline's face. "It doesn't matter what I want. It matters the way it is."

Casimir shook his head. “And who made it that way?”

“There is no other way,” Victoria said. “We’re not children, living in some make-believe world of heroes, people die, heroes do not exist, and we must fight or be trampled.”

"And what did you want?" Casimir pushed. "All that power, what did you want with it?"

"My people, rich and fat," Victoria combed Rosaline's hair with her hand. "No orphans, no wars, no plagues or famines. I wanted..." Tears fell. "I wanted to be the empress of fables, the good and rightous queen. I...wanted that. I want that."

He felt it, rising in him like a leviathan. In his heartbeat.

In his soul.

Casimr stood up. “None of us came here by choice, none of us wanted to be here. All of us comitted grave errors, all of us comittied ill acts. This isn't the end, this is the start. This, is the chance we've never knew.”

Byre, Leonardo, and Mohamdou smiled at him.

He raised his voice. “All of our mistakes brought us here. All of our ills brought us down.”

Rosaline looked down, Victoria glanced away.

“My name is Casimir Voreband,” he said, fire in his eyes. “And we stand here together, with all our flaws, and all our errors. For this, is the chance we never knew, the chance to be better.”

He met their eyes.

“My name is Casimir Voreband!” he roared, fire in his veins. “I promise you all this, so long as I draw breathe, so long as you stand by me. I’ll stand by you! Raise your heads! Hold yourself higher than you ever did! I...I!"

Tears blinded him, he wiped them away. He swallowed the hesitation, he killed the doubt.

"I'll stand by you! I'll stand with you! We'll stand higher than we ever stood, taller than the tallest shadows we've ever casted, that's how we'll return, that's how we'll do the nigh impossible," Casimir's hands clenched to fists.

"My name is Casimir Voreband."

They were going home.

He was going to bring them all home.

All of them.

“And we’re going home.”