William woke in confusion, blinded by afternoon light and suffering from a pounding headache. He was ashore, some ways downstream of the encampment. Every movement felt strained, every one of his muscles was fighting against his wishes as he tried to get himself to his feet. A hand slipped in the mud, and he fell back down; his vision swam as he hit the floor again, dark spots floating around and fading away as quickly as they’d come. Most of the water was gone, but the ground was still sopping wet and muddy.

  I should be dead. How am I not dead? It was a miracle he’d survived the fight itself, let alone whatever happened after that. He’d fallen into the ford, clearly, but he didn’t remember how. As if spurred on by that very thought, a sharp pain appeared within his head, as though someone had driven a spike through his skull. He reached up to hold it; there was dried blood matted into his hair. When did that happen? He groaned.

  His mind was foggy, and most thoughts were distant, but he focused to collect himself. He rather wished he hadn’t. There were no practical thoughts, no solutions to his current predicament, only vivid, tortured visions of what awaited in the camp: his friends and squad mates butchered, littered across the battlefield; hidden enemies, waiting to strike upon his return.

  Through significant mental effort he guided his mind elsewhere, but it seemed that every plane of his mind was plagued with distress. He remembered the bodies of the men who had attacked him. He remembered the feeling of a skull caving in beneath his fist, of taking a life. More than one, if the first had not been as lucky as him. He knew that it was purely in self defence, but in that moment - battered and bruised and swept up on the side of the ford - logic did little to counter emotion. There was at least some small comfort for him to be found in the fact that he had these feelings to begin with; killing a man should not be easily dismissed, regardless of circumstance.

  A pit had opened up in his belly. It was too much for him to process all at once. The possibilities of what might be, and the reality of what was, had joined to form a dark, wretched, and festering miasma of emotion inside of him; an oppressive, dour presence that was more than the sum of its grim parts.

  He curled up on his side, and pulled his legs to his chest, sobbing openly.

  William only stopped when his throat was sore and his eyes refused to stay wet any longer. Crying hadn’t helped so much as numb him temporarily, but it was good enough for now. It would never fully leave him, this negative presence, not truly, but perhaps in time he would simply be able to cope with it being shackled to his very being.

  He sat up, and observed the camp for a while in silence. The once soothing sounds of the ford were now a horrible reminder of things he would rather forget. Mental fortitude won out, eventually; there was no sense staying put. He would have to face the unknown sooner or later. There was no movement within the camp, and no noise had come from it. Deserted.

  He gave a silent prayer to the Seraph, and got himself up to his feet - much more carefully, this time. The walk to the ruins of the encampment was not far, but it took him a considerable amount of time. Every step was laboured and unsure, but he powered through it, trudging through mud and deep, unpleasant pools of stagnant water.

  In fear of any lurking enemies, he approached the camp warily, using the remnants of a tent as cover. Its soft, beige exterior was now a dark ruin. The silence was haunting. He readied himself, steadying his breathing, and peered around its corner into the depths of the encampment.

  The tents that hadn’t been razed were splattered with blood, and innumerable bodies lay strewn between them - some bloodied beyond all recognition, others apparently cut down with brutal efficiency. The smell was equally abhorrent - effluvium pervaded every corner of the encampment, assaulting William’s nostrils; it was an inescapable, rancid mix of shit, smoke, and blood. He vomited, failing to stop it with a desperate hand, and it landed atop his feet. The smell of the area didn’t get any worse.

  He spat any remnants in his mouth to the side and wiped his hands on a nearby tent, slowly making his way deeper into the horror. The air here seemed thicker, somehow - William felt like he was pushing through syrup. Whether it was just a trick of his mind, he did not know.

  William flinched at the sudden caw of a crow, perched atop a corpse, disrupted from its feast by his steps. It tilted its head before it dug back in, pecking at the exposed flesh on some unknown man’s face, tearing a piece loose and swallowing it whole. Seeing that the man was wearing Grantford’s colours did little to make the sight any less disturbing. He looked away, trying to focus on the path.

  His goal, now that he was certain enough the camp to be clear, was to check for his friends. His heart stung as he thought about what fate may have befallen them. Had he any tears left to shed, he would have.

  He searched for hours: every inch, every tent, every body. He had to be certain. He had to know. Worry had fuelled him in lieu of any sustenance, as he moved solemnly from body to body. By the time he was done, the sun had set - no longer slowly roasting the corpses littering the camp and amplifying their stench.

  Some of the fallen had been impossible to identify, charred beyond belief, leaving him with only rough features like height as clues to their identity. In the end, he found only two people he recognised, though none were his friends: one of Henry’s lot, and Walter. He didn’t like either of them, but he would never have wished harm upon them. The absence of his friend’s bodies brought little comfort, raising further uncomfortable questions: Did they escape? To where? Were they taken prisoner by Grantford’s forces? Until he saw them unharmed, his mind would never be satisfied.

  William scrounged for whatever scraps of edible food he could find, and took refuge in the remnants of the chapel for the night. It made him feel somewhat protected to be watched over by the carved wooden idol of the Seraph. It had survived the battle unscathed, unlike most everything else. Sleep did not come easily, but his injured body eventually lost the war of attrition against his racing, grief stricken mind.

  He awoke more than once, drenched in sweat, to the sounds of strangled screams - his mind playing tricks, he assured himself. He would lie frozen in fear until exhaustion sent him back to sleep.

  Light filtered in through the torn fabric that made up the chapel’s walls onto William’s face, having drifted across slowly as the morning went on, and woke him from his most recent slumber. He groaned, and turned to shield himself from the light. He didn’t feel much like getting up yet, considering how little sleep he had got during the night.

  Vague and shadowy memories of a dream lingered in his head, disjointed and bizarre. They were impossible to recollect with any degree of certainty; it was like his subconscious mind was restricting his access to them. Only indistinct concepts and actions were available to him: screaming, running, fear. Focusing on them too heavily sent shivers crawling along his skin.

  It was a cold and damp morning. The last of the rain and flood water had yet to fully clear, stubborn as it was, and now morning dew had piled atop it. Even the blackened remains of the burnt out tents were covered with a thin layer of condensation, refracting the light and bringing some semblance of beauty back to an otherwise tragic sight. As it stood, the festering remains of the encampment and the battle that took place there were a blight upon the landscape.

  He was feeling slightly better today, physically, though not by much. The price for his usage of the Hallowed Words was all but paid, and the pains within his head were far less oppressive. Unfortunately, his mental state had seen no such improvements. If anything, the poor quality of his sleep had magnified his negative feelings. It was a wonder that William had not succumbed to his despair - most would, in his position. A lone and faint ray of hope kept him going: finding his friends.

  To that end, William spent the morning searching the encampment, much as he did the day prior; this time, however, he was looking for supplies. He went from tent to tent, and scavenged anything that could prove useful for travel: new clothing, a bag, new daggers, any remaining food, and the like. For anything else, he was confident in his ability to forage - should the need arise.

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  The last item he would need was the most crucial: a map. William’s own knowledge of the area, or lack thereof, was shocking for a native of East Elwood - he’d be as good as dead without one. He recalled spotting one in the pavilion, during his hunt for his friends, but it hadn’t been high on his list of priorities at the time. He set out to retrieve it.

  The once majestic tent was in complete disrepair, having sustained considerable damage in the battle. It hadn’t been set alight, but it was torn to shreds and looted of anything truly valuable - save for the heavy, wooden furniture. He startled some nesting birds as he entered, and they flew off in a panic through a gap in the tent’s roof.

  The inside of the pavilion and its immediate surroundings were conspicuously devoid of casualties - whatever happened here, the Duke and his men were long gone by the time the enemy arrived there. William hadn’t come across the Duke’s body anywhere in the encampment, either. It wasn’t at all surprising - the man didn’t seem like the type to stand and fight.

  William took the map, and laid it unfurled across the nearest surface. There were three villages within a few days walk, if he kept a reasonable pace: Elshaw, to the east; Ashborough, to the west; and Axeby, to the south. They were the most likely places he’d find his friends.

  Elshaw was out of the question - it was across the Seraford, in Milney, and too close to where the Duke of Grantford’s forces had come from. If they had any soldiers stationed there, or he encountered any on the road, he would surely be killed; who else would be fleeing this area in his condition, if not some survivor of East Elwood’s forces? The same could be said for his friends, if they went that way, and so he dismissed Elshaw as an option entirely.

  Ashborough was a similarly bad destination, despite being the most likely place for Anne and Reynard to return to: all trails from the Grantford forces led in that direction. They were clearly pushing further into East Elwood, and following too closely would be a death sentence. He dismissed Ashborough too, for now.

  That left him with only Axeby as a viable option. It was across the border and into Casfordshire, meaning he was much less likely to encounter any Grantford soldiers. It was unlikely that he would encounter his friends there, but there was still a chance. Additionally, if his friends truly did return to Ashborough, they were ahead of the Grantford forces, and likely safe within its walls. He could make his way there once things had calmed down, when passage was safer.

  By the time he was ready, fully packed and with a destination picked, it was well into the afternoon. The foul smell of the encampment was almost unbearable now, as the bodies began their slow decomposition and warmed in the sun. He was glad to be leaving, for that reason among many others.

  William took one last forlorn look at the desolate encampment before he left, and disappeared into the southern treeline.

  It was the better part of a day later before William emerged from the trees once more, having made remarkably good time. He had pushed through that leg of the journey with single-minded determination, walking well into the night before finally taking some rest. Likewise, he was up early - though of that he had little control. Any locals would think him foolish, but William was ignorant of the dangers that lurked within the forest. He was completely unaware of just how lucky he was to have escaped unscathed.

  He had spent little time admiring the beauty of the forest as he sped through it - it was nothing more than a green blur in the back of his mind, already fading into nothingness. His thoughts had been too occupied to commit any of it to memory, caught in the same dark and uncomfortable spiral of emotions.

  The end of the forest marked the start of Casfordshire, and was where the River Cass truly opened up: it made the Seraford look like nothing more than a trickle. It would make the rest of his journey to Axeby much easier - though he hadn’t had much trouble to begin with - as he could simply follow its banks south. The easily accessible fresh water was an added bonus. He stopped briefly to clean himself, and with no time to waste, pressed on.

  The scenery here was much different to what he was used to, having grown up around the Elwood. It was all rolling meadows and farmland, separated seemingly arbitrarily by dry stone walls as far as the eye could see; seas of green broken up by the pleasant accents of uncountable wildflowers. The only trees to be seen were few and far between, but grand in scale - huge beeches full of vibrant, dark green leaves that stretched out in every direction. It was uncanny - the sights were just as green as in the Elwood, but in a completely different way. The openness was a little daunting, too, though William didn’t have the head-space to process the feeling on top of everything else.

  In what seemed like no time at all to William, the sun had begun to set: almost his entire line of sight was consumed by the wondrous colours of the evening sky. Pinks, blues, and oranges mingled together in a beautiful gradient, and the sun illuminated what few clouds drifted lazily through the sky.

  His legs and feet were aching beyond belief. I can go no farther today, he thought, much to his own annoyance. He continued only briefly, walking over to rest under a nearby tree. As soon as he sat beneath it, an almost overwhelming tiredness washed over him. He’d made the right decision.

  The next two days went by just as quickly, as he continued to walk mindlessly along the side of the river towards Axeby, taking detours only to forage. It seemed that blackberries were relatively common, though it only barely staved off true hunger. His journey was uneventful, and lonely.

  The only other person he had seen was a black smudge far off in the distance, moving around near a thicket at a field's edge - presumably, it had been someone toiling away in the heat. He doubted he would have had much to say, even if they were closer.

  His distressing thoughts had grown distant as the days went on, sequestered away by his subconscious. It was easier to keep them pushed away and avoid dwelling on them, but they had a habit of rushing back to him as he tried to sleep. He could keep the tears in now, at least long enough to drift off.

  Motivation swelled within him on the late morning of the third day, as a settlement peered above the horizon to greet him: Axeby. His pace noticeably quickened, and he all but ran the rest of the way. He was exhausted upon reaching the village’s perimeter, doubled over and panting for breath, garnering wary glances from the men stationed nearby.

  That’s a lot of people, he thought with some surprise, are they all guarding the village? They were huddled together, talking amongst themselves and giving him odd looks. They seemed worried and cautious - not the usual types to be on guard duty. In fact, most of them seemed quite old and ill equipped for such an occupation: there was hardly a scrap of armour between them, leather or otherwise. They were armed with a mix of genuine and improvised weaponry, one of the men clutching a pitchfork as though it was his most cherished possession.

  At the front of the group was a silver haired, elderly man, barefoot and clothed in one piece of dirty green fabric that hung over his body loosely. He seemed haggard, and held a walking stick for support; William wondered if an errant gust of wind might lift the man from his feet.

  The elderly man spoke up as William approached, with surprise blossoming onto his wrinkled face, “Praise the Seraph! They have sent a Blessed to aid us!” His voice was quiet even through his exclamation of joy. The others burst into whispers, and looked at William with anticipation.

  “Excuse me?” William was momentarily confused at how they’d identified him as Blessed, until he remembered his mark.

  His confusion didn’t seem to resonate well with the group. One of the men at the back sought clarification, barely disguised desperation evident in his voice, “You have come to aid with the beast, no?”

  “I-“, William started, the line of questioning catching him completely off guard, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you refer to. I’m just passing-”

  The group erupted into a frenzy of discordant voices all speaking at once, making their disappointment and anger clear. Others stayed silent, looking to the elderly man expectantly.

  “That’s it - we’re fucked, then.”

  “Bollocks!”

  “They’d sooner see us dead than help!”

  The elderly man kept his eyes on William, and attempted to shout over the men, quiet as he was, “Silence!” There were no Hallowed Words or Blessings carried on the sound of his voice, but the men obeyed all the same, and fell silent.

  He spoke again, breaking the silence he had commanded, as though it were undeniably true, “This Blessed man may not have been sent by the good duke, but that does not mean he was not sent by the Seraph.”

  The appeal to the Seraph seemed to sway some of the man back to a positive outlook, but it appeared that not all were convinced. Some of the group stomped off angrily, either into the village proper or around its perimeter.

  “Will you help us, Blessed one?“ the elderly man asked William kindly.

  William was stunned, and having a hard time wrapping his head around the strange situation. He debated his answer internally for some time. The whole thing made him tremendously uncomfortable - the Seraph had not so much as whispered to him, and he was far yet from being some virtuous knight that could aid them. Would they react the same to his arrival, knowing that he’d killed a man only a few days prior?

  No. I cannot let what happened change who I am, or who I aim to be. Those men would have killed me. I did not seek out their demise. Some level of acceptance of what happened began to manifest within him, and he felt his mental burden lessen just a little. It was a wonder what a difference even this small interaction with other people had done for him.

  He pondered whether the Seraph really had led him here after all, to start the healing of his mind. If that were true, then by extension he really had been sent here to help the people of the village...

  He made up his mind. He hadn’t changed, despite everything - he still walked the path of a knight, and he still aimed to serve the Seraph.

  “I will do what I can to help you."