Seig Saint Sebastian!

October, 475 IC, Odin

After nearly three months of school, Yang was feeling like he had his feet under him, but only barely. His schedule was punishing, and he hadn't made any friends, so he spent much of his time in his room, endlessly doing homework. It was unfortunate that he cared about the vast majority of his subjects and didn't have any classes that he could simply toss into the wind. He missed having math class simply for the ability to abandon math class. Aside from the heavy workload, he felt like he was doing well in his history classes, at least.

He had managed to retain his number two spot, somehow. Several Wednesdays in a row, he marched into the practicum fully intending to lose quickly and take a nap for the remainder of class, but then when he actually sat down at the computer, he discovered he was unable to type out commands that he knew would send him to a quick defeat. Instead, he found himself trying his best and berating himself for trying his best, every single second.

His classmates made sure that he heard them talking about him. They loudly discussed his tactics, his appearance, what they supposed his upbringing was, his lack of coordination in the weekend physical classes, and everything else. It was no secret that Yang's belongings disappeared when he left them unattended. He had to adopt unfortunate habits, such as bringing his bag with him to the bathroom.

One day, while Yang was eating his lonely late afternoon lunch, Wahlen found him in the empty dining hall, and, with a rather chagrined expression, handed him back the large thermos that had been stolen.

"Thanks." Yang tucked the banged up thermos back into his bag.

"I found it in the fountain," Wahlen said. "It looked like the one you had. Anyway, try to keep your stuff out of the pond."

Yang nodded, as though he could control that. "I will. Thanks again." Wahlen turned to go. "Hey, Wahlen, good luck tomorrow."

Wahlen laughed at that. "You beat me two weeks ago. I doubt we'll be going against each other again so soon."

"That doesn't mean I can't wish you luck against whoever you are playing."

"Good luck to you, too, then," Wahlen said, and left.

He could trust some of his classmates to treat him fairly, but others, not so much. This led to a constant balancing act during the Wednesday practicums. Although the players of each match were supposed to be secret, that didn't stop the GMs and opponents from trying to guess if they were playing against Yang, and then doing their best to sabotage him. Since all the game records and postmortems were public on the class intranet, people took to examining Yang's matches to see what his common moves were. When Yang discovered that people were doing this, he had to devise ever more convoluted countermeasures: contra-analyzing his classmates and pretending to be them during the matches. On one level, it was an interesting intellectual exercise, on the other, Yang felt as though it were leading him to waste his own time and abandon his principles. There were situations that he felt like he could have won easily, if he hadn't been forced to charge headlong in as he pretended to be Bittenfeld, for example.

Bittenfeld had one tactic, which was to charge directly into the thick of things, then use a terrible combination of micromanaging individual maneuvers and just plain hoping for the best. That said, it was easy to pretend to be Bittenfeld, but it was not so easy to win while pretending to be Bittenfeld. The fact that Bittenfeld himself retained his rank with this strategy seemed like some flavor of miracle.

Yang changed which students he was stealing from, and then switched back to playing as himself, just to vary things. If he could confuse people into not knowing when he was playing, that was the only way he could stop the game from getting rigged against himself.

Whenever it was his turn to be a game moderator, he was relieved. Even though he had to work with a partner (with various degrees of cooperation), it was far less stressful than being an actual player. And he liked the experience of imagining how each player's actions would influence the world, thinking through the consequences and moving the clock forward.

After several weeks of intense matches, Yang finally got to play as GM again, which was nice, but what was less nice was the email that he found waiting for him on his computer when he made a tactical retreat to his dorm room. The email started out well, saying that he was excused from the mandatory Saturday physicals class, but the reason he was excused from it was because the top ten students from each class were being invited to breakfast and a horseback hunt at Neue Sanssouci, the seat of the Imperial Court.

Several thoughts jumped into his head all at once.

First: words could not express how little he wanted to be anywhere near Kaiser Friedrich IV. Though it seemed unlikely that the Kaiser would make an appearance to greet lowly Academy students, the fact that they had been invited to the grounds was enough to make Yang deeply uncomfortable.

Second: Yang had no idea how to ride a horse. He had only even seen a horse in person for the first time after coming to Odin. There were stables on the IOA grounds, but since Yang had no interest in learning to ride, and no time even if he had the interest, he had avoided them. Why the Empire was so obsessed with the horse and carriage when cars and even bicycles existed was completely beyond him.

Third: the idea of being let loose in the woods with his classmates sounded like it would entail nothing but embarrassment for him.

Fourth: the entire concept of hunting for sport.

Fifth: on the bright side, since all the top upperclassmen had been invited as well, maybe he would finally get to lay eyes on his mysterious mentor, Eisenach.

Sixth: at least he was escaping Saturday physical.

Seventh: how early did he have to be awake, in order to be at Neue Sanssouci for breakfast?

He resigned himself to going, as it felt unavoidable. One did not refuse a direct invitation from the Kaiser. To prepare himself, Yang researched as much as he could about how to ride a horse. Certainly, reading a set of instructions wasn't going to help him do it in person, but it was better than having no ideas whatsoever.

Saturday came, and with it, the low blustery winds of October in this part of Odin were in full force, pushing heavy grey clouds in front of the late-rising sun. Yang dressed in his nicer uniform, then joined up with his classmates at the Academy gates, where they waited for the bus that had been chartered. While he waited, Yang inspected the upperclassmen, who ignored all the freshmen (not just him) as though they were lower life forms.

Yang wanted to know if Eisenach was here, so he texted his mentor, then looked around to see if anyone pulled out their phone to respond.

> are you here?

Eisenach responded immediately.

Yang looked around to see where Eisenach was. There was only one real candidate— a broad shouldered man with dark red, slicked back hair who was making a show of putting his phone in his pocket. He met Yang's eyes, gave a cheeky half-salute, then ignored Yang, as he had said he would.

Identifying his mentor, finally, gave Yang more questions than answers. He had definitely seen Eisenach around campus before, but the man had never once attempted to speak with him in person. He didn't stand out at all. There were plenty of tall, broad redheads at the IOA, so Yang had to wonder what exactly Eisenach had meant when he said they had something in common.

It would have to be a mystery he solved on another day, because the bus pulled up then, and everyone climbed aboard. Yang ended up seated next to Ansbach, who detested him, so there would be no conversation from that end.

They arrived at Neue Sanssouci after about an hour's ride and were quickly ushered in groups of six into horse drawn carriages that took them up to the palace proper. Motor vehicles were not allowed on the court grounds. The place was beautiful, even in the chill of autumn. All the grounds were carefully tended, statues depicting the gods or various heroes of the empire dotted the paths, and everywhere Yang looked there was some carefully cultivated detail—ornate flower beds, clever arrangements of lights, bushes carved into the shapes of animals. Tension grew among the students as they came closer to the palace itself. Some smoothed back their hair, others fussed with their uniforms. Yang tried to maintain his usual air of detached nonchalance, but he found it difficult, since his thoughts kept revolving around the wrongness of the situation.

How did you get here, Yang Wen-li? He asked himself.

And then like a blur they were in the main hall, standing in four lines by year and rank. Reuenthal was next to him, standing perfectly still, for once not staring Yang down. In front of him was Eisenach's broad back.

Kaiser Friedrich IV entered the room at the front as all of the students snapped into a salute. Attendants followed behind the Kaiser, one holding a notebook to record anything that he had to say. The Kaiser was old, with a wrinkled face and white hair, but still hale looking. He didn't seem enthusiastic as he strode towards the assembled students, but he did study them with a keen eye.

"You're all seniors this year?" he asked the front row.

"Yes, Mein Kaiser," said the first student in the row, obviously the spokesperson for the entire senior class.

"Good, good. I hope to see you all doing great things within the next few years." He stopped in front of one of the seniors. "Arleheim, please give your father my condolences on the passing of your mother."

"I will, Mein Kaiser," a dark haired man said. "Thank you."

The Kaiser stopped in front of the juniors and sophomores, as well, giving them perfunctory greetings and inquiring about their status. Then he came to the freshmen.

"So, you're the new students," the Kaiser said.

"Yes, sir," Reuenthal said.

"I hope to see you all return here next year."

"We will, sir."

"Excellent." Friedrich paused and studied Reuenthal more closely. "What's your name?"

"Oskar von Reuenthal, sir."

"Oh, you're from Count Marbach's family. He didn't tell me that you were in the Academy. I will have to congratulate him on having a successful grandson."

"Thank you, sir."

Yang was standing stiffly, staring straight ahead and trying to ignore the conversation happening next to him. Unfortunately, this became impossible when Friedrich turned to him. "What is your name?"

"Hank von Leigh, sir," Yang said, not meeting the Kaiser's eyes.

"Von Leigh...?" His voice held a note of confusion. "Where are you from, von Leigh?"

"Phezzan-land, sir."

"Hm. I'm glad to hear that Phezzan is still producing people of worth to the fatherland."

"Thank you, sir." And that was the end of the conversation. The Kaiser turned away. Yang could have collapsed in relief, but he had to salute again with all the students.

Apparently, that short meeting with the Kaiser had been all that they were going to get from anyone important, because then they were escorted to a dining area and treated to a much nicer breakfast than was ever served at the IOA. It might have been a nice treat, if Yang hadn't been forcibly reminded that he was working for the Kaiser.

Yang was next to Bittenfeld at the table, who was as rowdy as ever. He poked Yang in the shoulder at one point and said, "Glad to hear that you're of worth to the fatherland, von Leigh."

"I'm sure you are as well," Yang said with a half smile, trying to be gracious to Bittenfeld and deflect attention from himself at the same time. Bittenfeld wasn't being malicious, but the fact that Yang had been singled out by the Kaiser had riled up some of the students who didn't like him. Ansbach, Gautier, and Deitch were the leaders of that crew, though it seemed that more than half the class agreed with them, just in a more quiet way.

"And hey, Reuenthal, what are you doing here if you're a count's grandson?" Bittenfeld asked.

"Maternal grandfather. I don't inherit anything," Reuenthal said, taking a sip from his coffee. "It would suit you better to stay out of other people's family matters."

"I was just curious," Bittenfeld said with a huff, crossing his arms. "No need to be tetchy about it."

Reuenthal just smiled thinly. It was obviously a sore subject for him.

Yang was dreading the end of breakfast and the start of the hunt. It was deer season, apparently. The only saving grace of this day was that his performance wouldn't be graded in any way. Not that he cared about rank, but still.

Most of the others were excited, and jostled about in the stables trying to pick the horse they thought would be best. Yang hung back, waiting until everyone else had chosen. He was tempted to ask the stablehands which horse had the easiest temperament, but realized that would be overheard and picked up on by his classmates. Eventually, through process of elimination, he was left with an old, dappled grey mare who lipped at his hand when he pet her nose. Nice horse. Perfect. Already saddled so that he didn't have to do it.

It took him long enough to choose and get situated that most people had already gone off into the hunting grounds by time he got moving, holding the bow he had been given loosely in his lap and clutching the reins for dear life. He felt wobbly on top of the horse, didn't want her to go faster, but needed her to in order to catch up with the others.

"Come on, Wen-li," he muttered under his breath. "Let's go."

There was a path that he followed into the forest, having seen his classmates vanish there. The whole place was filled with the bright yellow leaves of autumn, and the wind rattled them so severely that he could barely hear the excited shouts of his classmates up ahead. At least now that he was in the forest, he could pretend like he was doing something.

Tentatively, he practiced drawing back the string of his bow. It was far heavier than he had expected, and when he let go of the string, his left arm felt the shock and the bow whacked him in the face so hard that he almost fell off his horse. The horse made an annoyed sound at the ruckus on her back, and Yang awkwardly patted her neck. Okay, no using the bow, then. He could just pretend to enjoy this horse ride in the forest, right? Say he was looking for deer, didn't find any, and then when it was done go back in and congratulate his classmates on whatever they did catch. Sure. That was a plan.

The path petered out into nothingness, but there wasn't much underbrush and the trees were pretty far apart, so Yang just trusted his horse to go wherever. He wasn't that concerned, and actually had a surprisingly peaceful twenty or so minutes wandering deeper into the forest.

He heard the sound of hoofbeats near him, and craned his neck to see who was around. He couldn't quite catch a glimpse of the person-- no, people-- off in the forest. They were close by, though, and coming closer. Should he call out to them? They weren't making much sound. Maybe they had spotted a deer that they were chasing. A cloud moved in front of the sun, and the whole forest grew what felt like several degrees colder and several shades dimmer.

Suddenly feeling anxious, Yang spurred his horse into a trot, holding the reins with one hand and the pommel of his saddle with the other, jolting up and down with the horse's movements. The hoofbeats grew closer, then seemed to split up, moving around him. This confirmed in his mind the bad feeling he had gotten a moment ago. He had spent enough time in the SW practicum that watching forces split up to encircle someone gave him the shivers.

Unfortunately, Yang couldn't exactly go faster without risking falling off his horse. He was barely holding on as it was. He tried to weave his way through the trees, but he didn't have that much control over his direction, and his pursuers were getting closer and closer. He was hemmed in on three sides, and he was far slower than they were.

If his heart hadn't been beating in his throat, he would have laughed at the thought of him losing a cavalry battle. That certainly wasn't something they practiced in the practicum. It was right out of a history textbook.

He heard the arrow before he felt it, the soft whir of it flying through the air, then the explosive pain of it, catching him in his left thigh. His horse reared; he couldn't hold on; he tumbled off backwards and sideways, miraculously managing to not hit his head. His horse galloped off without him, and so did his invisible attackers.

His thoughts were in slow motion as he dragged himself up into a sitting position in the damp leaf litter on the forest floor, the pain in his leg screaming. His thoughts centered on it, then drifted away, then re-centered.

The arrow was going all the way through his thigh, right through the fleshiest part. The tip must have hit his horse, too, causing it to jump and topple him off. Yang pressed his fingertips around the wound, came away with a copious amount of blood. The sight made him feel like he was going to pass out, but that wouldn't be good. Could he stand? Maybe.

He dragged himself, scooting backwards with his hands, towards a tree, tried to use it to hoist himself upwards, failed. The shaft of the arrow seemed to be impeding his movements. He pressed the top and bottom of the wound. Could he pull it out? Maybe.

Then he heard hoofbeats again, coming from in front of him. He tensed, but he had no recourse if someone was coming back to make sure he was dead. His own bow and arrow had vanished with his horse, even if he had known how to use them. Yang pressed his back to the tree he was leaning against, as though that could save him. Maybe if he pulled out the arrow quickly, he could run. He put his hand on the shaft of it, winced hard at the pain that even that small movement brought, closed his eyes, then--

"If you want to bleed to death, you'll pull that out," Reuenthal said. Yang opened his eyes. Reuenthal was sitting on his horse, coal black, looking as nonchalant as ever.

"I see you've come to gloat too," Yang huffed, but dropped his hand from the arrow in his leg.

Reuenthal swung himself off his horse easily, as though he had years of practice. Grandson of a count. Probably he did.

"Who shot you?" he asked.

"Didn't see," Yang said. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the tree. He felt, rather than heard or saw, Reuenthal come up next to him and crouch down. He picked up Yang's hand and moved it away from the wound, investigating it with his own deft fingers.

“You’re a regular Saint Sebastian,” Reuenthal said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Yang opened his eyes then. Reuenthal reached into his pocket and retrieved a pocket knife. He flipped it open. “I’m going to cut this off. Hold still.”

Yang tensed. Reuenthal held the shaft of the arrow still with one hand and cracked the knife through it with the other. The feathered end fell away, leaving only a nub sticking out of Yang’s skin.

“Do I need a tourniquet?” Yang asked, his breath coming shallowly.

Reuenthal pulled off his jacket, leaving him in his white dress shirt, then rolled it up, wrapped it around the upper part of Yang’s leg, and tied it painfully tightly. “Ow,” Yang complained, though it was silly to whine about a tourniquet when the puncture wound was more pressing.

“The medicine is not worse than the malady,” Reuenthal said. “Can you stand?” He stood himself, then reached a hand out to Yang, who leaned heavily on it as he struggled to get his one good leg underneath himself. As soon as he was upright, he felt the blood leave his head, and he almost passed out. Reuenthal wedged himself underneath Yang’s shoulder and supported him as he hobbled forward. “Where did your horse go?” Reuenthal asked.

“Does it look like I know the answer to that question?” He was being unnecessarily rude to his rescuer, and in the more rational, less consumed by pain, part of his brain, he hoped Reuenthal wouldn’t hold it against him.

“Up,” Reuenthal said, then lifted Yang until he had one foot in the stirrup of the black horse, his injured leg hitting the saddle hard. The pain made Yang’s vision black out for a second, and when he came to, he was being held upright by Reuenthal, both hands on the side of his chest. “Do I need to tie you to the horse?”

“No,” Yang gasped. “I’m fine.”

“Hah. Scoot forward.” Yang could not do that, but it didn’t seem to matter to Reuenthal, who hopped up behind him on the horse anyway. Yang heard his breathing in his ear, felt one of his arms wrap around his midsection. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this, but I think that it’s better than having you walk out.”

“‘S fine,” Yang said, extremely woozy. “I’ll try not to fall off on you.”

“I’ll ride gently, then.” It seemed to Yang, though, that the way the horse moved as Reuenthal spurred it forward was anything but gentle. Every movement sent a spike of pain right up through his spine, and it was really only Reuenthal’s arm around his waist that kept him on the horse and upright.

They made it out of the forest, and right on the edge encountered Wahlen and Bittenfeld, standing next to their horses and drinking from canteens. Bittenfeld let out a wolf whistle when Yang and Reuenthal emerged together. “Lose your horse, von Leigh?”

“Bittenfeld,” Reuenthal said, without a trace of humor or patience in his voice. “I would appreciate it if you could find a doctor, or summon an ambulance to the entrance.” He turned, which allowed Wahlen and Bittenfeld a view of his white dress shirt, which was at this point covered in Yang’s blood.

If there was one thing that Bittenfeld had to his credit, it was that he never wasted a moment in jumping into action. He processed the situation, lept onto his horse with ease, and was off at a gallop towards the main buildings of Neue Sanssouci.

Wahlen came over. “What happened?”

“I fell off my horse onto my quiver,” Yang muttered, barely conscious.

“Is that the story we’re sticking with?” Wahlen asked.

Reuenthal looked at Yang, then gave a sharp nod. Wahlen narrowed his eyes, but deferred to Reuenthal as the de facto leader in this situation. He held out his canteen to Yang, who took it and drank, spilling water down his front.

“Should we go to the entrance, or wait here for Bittenfeld to find a doctor?” Wahlen asked.

Wahlen’s phone rang in his pocket. He answered it. Yang tried to listen to what was being said, but his vision was growing greyer and fuzzier around the edges, and the canteen slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He slid back involuntarily, directly onto Reuenthal’s chest, and from there lost consciousness at last.

Yang woke up feeling jostled, but in significantly less pain than he had been in before he passed out. He was in an ambulance, he thought, and his leg was cold-- someone had cut his pants off above the arrow wound. His arm felt suspiciously cold, as well, and he discovered that his jacket had been removed, his sleeve rolled up, and there was an IV in his arm. He looked around as the car bumped away from Neue Sanssouci, back towards the city proper. Reuenthal was sitting next to him, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, and there was a doctor with the Goldenbaum crest on his jacket, and several nurses.

“Hnng,” Yang managed to say, to let everyone know he was conscious.

“Eloquent as ever, von Leigh,” Reuenthal said. “We’re on the way to the hospital.”

“How long?” he asked.

“You’re not going to have a better time once we get there. You might as well go back to sleep.”

“Fine.” If Reuenthal wasn’t going to be helpful, Yang was going to ignore him. He pressed his head back into the pillow, then covered his eyes with his free arm, draping it over his face. He might have been imagining it, but he thought that he heard Reuenthal chuckle.