2031 I.R.

  The campfire crackled, throwing uneven light over the carnage. The bearded man stood over the shattered remains of what had once been the bandit leader, his chest heaving with exertion. His hammer, its rusted head slick with blood and gore, rose and fell in a relentless rhythm, pounding the skull into a gruesome pulp. Bone shards mixed with matted hair, blood pooling thickly beneath the lifeless body. Each swing sent flecks of viscera spraying across the dirt, painting a crimson halo around the scene. The other bandits watched, paralyzed by horror. Seven pairs of eyes locked onto the display, too terrified to react, too rooted in fear to draw their weapons. One man’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger, but he froze before making the fatal mistake of moving. Another gagged, swallowing back bile as he turned pale under the flickering light. None of them dared to speak. The only sounds were the dull, sickening thuds of the hammer and the distant rustle of the forest.

  The man didn’t stop.

  Even when the head was long gone, reduced to unrecognizable fragments, a bloody stump topped with what looked like a squashed pile of tomatoes, he kept swinging. The weapon hit the ground now, splattering muddy blood with each strike. His breath rasped in the cold night air, a heavy grunt accompanying every blow. When he finally paused, shoulders heaving and hammer dragging at his side, he glanced up. His bloodshot eyes scanned the remaining bandits, daring them to make a move.

  They didn’t.

  They stood frozen, the firelight illuminating their slack jawed and pale faces. One of them, barely more than a boy, dropped his knife with a metallic clink and stepped back. The man wiped his face with a bloodied hand, streaking crimson through the tangle of his beard. He glanced down at the remains, his lip curling in a faint grimace. The body was hardly human anymore, just a mangled heap of flesh, bone, and blood, soaked clothing. Steam rose from the gore in the chill night air.

  He turned away, dragging the hammer behind him. Its head left a streak of blood and viscera in the dirt, marking his path back to the fire. The flames danced as he collapsed onto a nearby log. He sat there, staring into the flames, his expression unreadable as the scent of blood hung thick in the air. The bearded man turned toward the remaining bandits, his hammer still dripping with gore. Firelight danced across his face, deepening the hard lines etched into his features. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breath visible in the cold air. The bandits, rooted in place, stared at him in horrified silence. None dared reach for the weapons at their sides. The remains of their leader, a mangled mess of blood, bone, and brain, lay at his feet.

  The man’s gaze swept over them, settling on two boys standing slightly apart from the others. The taller one, perhaps fifteen, had an awkward build, all angles and long limbs, his face pale but his jaw set. The younger, no more than thirteen, was smaller, his shoulders hunched, his face a mixture of fear and shame. Aged apart, they still looked very similar, twins, but spaced by distance. Both looked utterly out of place among the hardened criminals, their youth stark against the blood, soaked backdrop.

  “Marc,” the man said, his voice like gravel. His eyes shifted to the smaller boy. “Thom. It’s time to come home now.”

  Marc hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. He glanced at Thom, who kept his eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look up. A heavy silence stretched between them until Marc finally nodded, the fight draining from his posture. He reached out, gently gripping Thom’s arm, and led him forward. The rest of the bandits stood frozen, shifting uncomfortably but not daring to speak. The bearded man turned away from them, striding to his horse. He swung the hammer onto his saddle and mounted. Without another word, he gestured for the boys to follow. Thom’s gaze darted back to the group of bandits, his lip trembling, but Marc gave him a slight shove toward the tethered ponies. Together, they mounted the thin, bony animals. The man urged his horse forward, and the boys followed, their heads bowed low.

  The ride back was silent save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the frost, hardened path. The older man didn’t look back, his broad shoulders rigid as his horse plodded steadily through the woods. Marc and Thom trailed behind, their small ponies struggling to keep pace. Neither boy spoke, their breaths puffing in short bursts in the crisp night air. When the small farm came into view, its outline dimly lit by the pale glow of the moon, the man brought his horse to a stop. Marc and Thom halted behind him, their ponies shuffling uneasily. The modest house and barn stood as they had always been, simple, and unremarkable.

  The man swung down from his horse, his boots crunching softly on the frost, covered ground. He stood there, staring at the farm, his expression unreadable. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney. Marc dismounted first, wincing as he landed stiffly on the ground. He turned to Thom, who remained frozen atop his pony, gripping the reins tightly. After a moment, Marc reached up and placed a hand on his brother’s knee, murmuring something too low to hear. Thom slid off, his feet hitting the ground awkwardly, and clung to Marc’s side.

  The man’s gaze never left the farmhouse. “Go on,” he said gruffly, his voice breaking the silence. “Get inside.”

  Marc hesitated, glancing up at the man as though searching for something in his expression. Finding nothing, he nodded and led Thom toward the house. Their steps were hesitant, the crunch of their boots loud in the stillness. As they reached the door, Thom looked back over his shoulder, his face pale in the moonlight. The man stayed where he was, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle. He watched until they disappeared inside, their shadows swallowed by the dim light of the farmhouse. He went to the horse trough, dipping his hands and head into it, cleaning at least some of the blood and gore away before going inside.

  The wooden chair creaked under his weight as he settled at the head of the meager farm table. Marc and Thom sat across from him, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, their dirty hands resting awkwardly on their laps. A single lantern burned in the center of the table, casting flickering shadows that seemed to stretch the cracks in the rough wood walls. The man took a long, measured breath, his hands resting heavily on the table. He looked at them, his face lined with weariness but not devoid of warmth. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

  “You want to see the world,” he began, his voice low but steady. “I understand that. When I was your age, I did too. There’s nothing wrong with it.” He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table. “But not like that. Not that way.”

  Marc shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but neither boy spoke. Thom stared at a knot in the wood of the table, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “That way,” the man continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, “is ruin. It’s blood and hate and dying at the end of a sword, or worse. It’s living every day wondering if it’s your last. That’s what those men are about. What that life is about.” He paused, his gaze steady, waiting for his words to settle. Thom risked a glance at him, then quickly looked away.

  “I want better for you,” he said, his tone softening. “Your mother… if she were here, she’d want better for you too.” His voice caught briefly, but he pressed on. “She didn’t work herself to the bone in this place for you to throw it all away chasing something that’s only going to kill you.”

  Marc opened his mouth, then shut it, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. Thom fidgeted with the frayed edge of his sleeve, his breathing shallow.

  “I’ve seen that life,” the man continued, his voice growing quieter but no less intense. “I’ve lived it. I’ve seen good men, better men than me, cut down because they thought they could outrun that life. You can’t.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. The lantern light caught the lines of his face, deepened by years of hardship. “You want to leave? Fine. You want to see the world? Good. But you do it right. You do it with your head on straight, not with a sword in your hand and nothing in your heart but fear.”

  Neither boy responded. Marc finally lifted his eyes, meeting his father’s for a fleeting moment before looking down again. Thom’s lip trembled, but he bit it hard to keep it still.

  “I know you’re angry,” the man said after a long silence. “I know you think I don’t understand. I know you think what I did was too much. But I know, I know the promises of men like that. I know how they use you. I’ve been where you are, and I’m telling you, there’s a better way.” He stood, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushed it back. “Think about it, please, before the next time you run off chasing glory.” he said simply, his voice carrying no judgment, just a quiet plea. He rested his hands briefly on the table, then turned and walked toward the door. The boys sat in silence long after he left, the faint sound of his footsteps fading into the night outside. The lantern flickered, its light stretching across the table like a fragile bridge between them.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The wagon rattled along the dusty road, pulled by their sturdy old mare, Grub. The cart was loaded with goods: bundles of wheat from their small farm, barrels of potatoes, and a collection of simple forged tools, plowshares, nails, and a few hunting knives their father had crafted in the evenings. The morning air was crisp, the promise of a lively day at market hanging in the air. Thom and Marc sat on the bench beside their father, their faces alive with anticipation of the day. Thom had a nervous energy, his leg bouncing as he stared down the road ahead. Marc, on the other hand, leaned back, his arms draped lazily over the edge of the wagon, trying to look calm but failing to suppress the grin tugging at his mouth.

  “Tonight’s the festival,” Thom said, glancing at Marc, then their father. “Think Lia will be there?” He tried to sound casual, but the hope in his voice gave him away.

  Marc smirked, elbowing his younger brother. “Of course, she’ll be there. Probably waiting for you, all moon, eyed and swooning. Oh Thom!”

  “Shut up,” Thom muttered, his ears reddening as he pushed Marc’s arm away.

  Their father chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Lia, huh? You’ve been talking about her more and more lately, Thom. You going to ask her to dance this time, or just stare at her from across the bonfire again?” Thom groaned, burying his face in his hands. Marc burst out laughing, the sound echoing over the road. Their father shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. His boys were growing up, he thought, and maybe sooner than he expected.

  “What about you, Marc?” he asked, giving him a sidelong glance. “Still sweet on Kina?”

  Marc shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “Maybe,” he said. “If she’s there, I’ll… you know, talk to her.”

  “Talk to her,” Thom mimicked, rolling his eyes. “As if she’d even notice you.”

  “She notices me plenty, runt,” Marc shot back, grinning. “Notices me just fine.”

  Their father chuckled again, shaking his head. “Good,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Good. It’s time you boys started thinking about settling down. A man needs roots, and a family. Life’s hard, but it’s better when you’ve got someone to share it with.” Both boys fell quiet, the teasing and jabs giving way to a moment of reflection. The road stretched ahead, winding through the rolling hills toward the bustling market town. The thought of the festival filled the air with a lightness they couldn’t quite name.

  “Almost there,” their father added, breaking the silence, “I’m just looking forward to picking up some good tobacco. Been out for a week now. I swear, the only reason I’ve stayed patient with you two is because I haven’t had the energy to yell.” He grinned, and both boys laughed. As they crested the last hill, the town came into view, its rooftops clustered tightly together, with colorful tents and carts sprawling out into the open fields. The sounds of the market reached them faintly, carried on the breeze, the clatter of hooves, the chatter of merchants, the faint notes of music as the festival preparations began.

  Thom and Marc exchanged a look, their excitement barely contained. Their father smiled to himself. His boys were on the verge of becoming men, and with luck, they’d soon find the kind of peace and happiness he’d always wanted for them. If they could just hold onto the good things in life, he thought, maybe the hard lessons of the past would finally fade into something softer. There had been the hiccup with the bandits, almost a year ago now, but besides that, they were good boys. The market was alive with noise and motion, a swirling tide of colors and smells. Marc and Thom moved through the main square, their pockets a little heavier from the morning’s sales. Merchants hawked their wares from carts and tents, spices, bolts of fabric, tools, and fresh, baked pies filled the air with their rich aromas. Children darted between stalls, chasing each other with carefree abandon, while musicians tuned their instruments in preparation for the evening festival.

  “Think they’re here yet?” Thom asked, scanning the crowd.

  “They’ll be here,” Marc said, though he was craning his neck just as much, searching for Kina’s familiar face. They had barely turned a corner when a scene caught their attention. Near the edge of the square, a man stood surrounded by a loose circle of young men. His half, plate armor gleamed in the sunlight, well, kept but worn enough to show it had seen real use. A longsword hung at his side, and a dark red cloak, pinned at the shoulder, marked him as someone of authority. Around him were other hard men, some in brigandines and chainmail, each armed and looking no less dangerous. They stood at ease, but their eyes roamed the crowd, sharp and alert. The man in half, plate was speaking to the group in front of him, his voice carrying just enough to reach Thom and Marc over the market din.

  “An honest day's work for honest coin,” the man said, gesturing expansively. “Protect our borders, learn real skills, stand for something greater than yourself. Preonia has need of stout hearts and strong arms.” The young men he addressed listened intently, some nodding, others exchanging uncertain glances. After a moment, the man clapped one of them on the shoulder and said something with a friendly laugh, before turning and scanning the square. His eyes landed on Marc and Thom.

  “Young men!” he called, his voice warm and inviting as he strode toward them. His gait was easy, his armor clinking faintly with each step. Up close, he looked older, perhaps in his late forties, with streaks of gray in his well, trimmed beard. His face was weathered, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested a man who smiled often, though there was a sharpness in his gaze that hinted at the something else beneath the charm.

  “You’ve got the look of young men that I’m looking for.” he said, stopping a few feet away. “Looking for adventure, perhaps? A chance to make something of yourselves?”

  Marc and Thom exchanged a glance, unsure of what to say.

  “Who’re you?” Marc finally asked.

  The man smiled broadly, spreading his arms. “Captain Harl Edrick, of the Preonian military, I’m captain in these parts of the auxiliary.” he said. “I’m here on behalf of the republic, recruiting fine lads like yourselves for a noble cause. You’re strong, no doubt, and I wager quick with your wits too. What are your plans, eh? What dreams do you have? Because I can tell you, Preonia offers more than farm fields and market stalls.”

  The other men behind Edrick watched silently, their expressions neutral. Around the square, a few more onlookers had begun to pay attention, some drifting closer to listen.

  Marc frowned slightly, crossing his arms. “We’ve got a farm. We work it with our dad.”

  “Ah, farmers!” Edrick said with a nod, as if that were the best thing he’d heard all day. “Good, honest work, that keeps our great nation fed. But you’ll forgive me for saying, it doesn’t seem like you’re itching to stay in one place forever.” His eyes flicked between them, sharp and knowing. “What if I told you there’s a place for lads like you in the Preonian forces? Pay, camaraderie, respect, brotherhood. And not just that, adventure. Battles won, victories celebrated. The kind of stories you’ll tell your grandchildren one day.”

  Thom shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Marc, who said nothing but seemed intrigued despite himself. Edrick leaned in slightly, his tone softening. “I’ve stood where you stand now. Young, full of questions about the world, wondering if there’s more out there. Let me tell you, there is. And it’s waiting for you, and no better way to see it than as a soldier.”

  For a moment, neither brother spoke. Around them, the market continued its cheerful chaos, but the man’s words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with possibility. As the brothers stood silent, grappling with Captain Edrick’s words, their father appeared, stepping out of the bustling crowd like a storm cloud rolling in. His heavy boots thudded against the dirt as he closed the distance between them, his broad shoulders and weathered face unmistakable even in the throng of market, goers. His presence alone seemed to shift the atmosphere, and when Edrick turned and saw him, the captain’s expression flickered with recognition.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Edrick said, his voice carrying a note of surprise and respect. “The Bulwark of Astin Field. Didn’t expect to see you here, old friend.”

  Their father’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed into a cold glare. “I’m no friend of yours, Edrick,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel. “Step away from my boys. They don’t need to speak with no sword chickenhawk.”

  Edrick raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his demeanor polite but unshaken. “Easy now,” he said, his tone measured. “I didn’t mean any harm. Just talking to some fine young men with potential. Same potential you must’ve seen in yourself, once.”

  “Step. Away,” their father said again, his voice a growl. He was close now, towering over the captain despite being unarmed, and the veins in his thick forearms pulsed as his hands clenched into fists.

  “I can see that famous stubbornness hasn’t changed, has it?” Edrick said, his tone dropping just slightly.

  “Step. Away.” Their father said, his tone low and threatening now.

  Edrick held his ground for a moment, his smile thinning as he studied the man before him. Then, with a slight nod, he took a step back. “No disrespect meant. I know when I’m not welcome,” he said smoothly. Turning to Marc and Thom, he gave a courteous bow. “Think it over, boys. The offer’s still open, should you ever change your minds.” With that, Edrick strode off, his men falling into step behind him. The brothers watched him go, confused and a little awed. Their father stood still, his chest heaving slightly as he glared after the retreating captain.

  “Who was that Pa?” Thom asked after a moment. “And what’s the Bulwark of Astin Field?”

  Their father turned to face them; his weathered features hard as stone. “Nothing good, and,” he said sharply. “It’s nothing you need to know.”

  Marc frowned; his curiosity piqued. “We know you were a soldier, Pa. And… we remember the bandits. You can’t just tell us nothing.”

  “I can, and I goddamn will,” their father snapped. His tone softened, but his eyes were still fierce. “What I’ve done, what I’ve seen, it’s not your business. You’ve got your lives ahead of you. You don’t need to follow in anyone’s footsteps, least of all mine. That road ain’t nothing but ruin.”

  The boys exchanged uneasy glances, but they knew better than to push him when he was like this. With a grunt, their father turned back toward the market, leaving them to trail behind in his shadow.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The warm glow of the afternoon sun bathed the fields in golden light as Marc leaned against the doorframe of his modest farmhouse, watching Kina bustle about in the kitchen. Her belly was rounded with their first child, and her movements had taken on the careful grace of an expectant mother. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to him with a smile.

  “Marc, don’t forget to check on your pa,” she said gently. “I know he’s been working that forge less and less. He might need help with the winter prep.”

  Marc scratched the back of his head, glancing out at the fields. “I’ll grab Thom and do it tomorrow. He’ll just grumble at me for fussing if I go alone.”

  Kina smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s slowing down, Marc. You know he won’t ask for help even if he needs it. You boys should go before he wears himself out.”

  Marc nodded, though his expression was tinged with guilt. Their father had always been a figure of strength, a presence so solid it felt strange to think of him as anything else. But Kina was right, he had noticed the way their father’s steps had grown slower, his once iron grip a little less firm. The forge didn’t sing as often these days, and the smoke rising from the chimney was thinner than it used to be.

  “I’ll go,” Marc said finally. “Tomorrow. Thom and I will head over after the morning chores.”

  “Good,” Kina replied, her voice soft. “He’s been through a lot, your pa. He deserves to have his sons look after him now. Your ma passed way too young.”

  Marc didn’t reply, but he gave her a small smile before stepping out into the yard. Across the way, Thom’s farmhouse was visible, a mirror of his own, its fields alive with the harvest. He squinted, wondering if Thom was already planning to swing by, or if he’d need to drag him away from Lia and their own growing family. As he turned back to his own chores, Marc couldn’t shake the image of his father standing alone in the forge, hammering away at something unseen. Slowing down or not, he was still their pa, and tomorrow, they’d make sure he knew he wasn’t alone.

  The next morning, Marc hitched up the wagon early, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of dew, soaked earth. He rode over to Thom’s place, where his brother was already waiting outside, tossing a bundle of firewood into a neat stack. Lia leaned against the doorway, her hands resting on her own swelling belly, smiling as she waved them off.

  “You’re late,” Thom teased as Marc pulled up.

  Marc rolled his eyes. “Blame Kina. She said I couldn’t leave until I had breakfast.”

  Thom smirked and climbed into the wagon. “Let’s go before you start talking about how Kina’s breakfasts are better than Lia’s. I don’t want to hear it.”

  The brothers chuckled as they made their way across the fields, the familiar path leading them to their father’s farm. The forge stood quiet, its chimney cold, and the sight brought a pang of sadness to both of them. When they reached the house, their father was already sitting on the porch, sipping from a clay mug.

  “Well, if it isn’t my two lazy sons,” he greeted them with a grin. “Took you long enough.”

  Marc and Thom exchanged looks, shaking their heads as they climbed off the wagon and stepped onto the porch.

  “Good to see you too, Pa,” Thom said. “We figured you’d need a hand, with winter coming.”

  Their father waved them off. “Winter? I’ve been through more winters than I can count. I’ll get through this one just fine.”

  They all shared a laugh, and the brothers followed their father inside, the warm, rustic scent of the old house filling their noses. At the table, their father poured mugs of water for them, settling into his chair with a groan.

  “So,” he began, his sharp eyes flicking between them, “Pregnancies going well? Your wives hale?”

  Marc and Thom both nodded, smiles creeping onto their faces.

  “Good,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Real good. That means you’re doing your jobs right.” The brothers chuckled, but their father’s face grew more serious as he leaned forward. “But it also means you’ve got more to protect now. Families change things. You don’t think about yourself anymore, you think about them.”

  They fell silent, listening as he stood and walked toward the back of the house. He returned a few moments later, carrying a bundle wrapped in thick, oiled cloth. He set it on the table with a heavy thud and unwrapped it, revealing a pair of simple, functional swords, a set of spears, and some worn but sturdy leather armor reinforced with light plate.

  “These aren’t much,” he said, his voice quieter now, “but they’ll do in a pinch. Put them in a chest. Keep them dry and hidden, just in case.”

  Marc and Thom exchanged uneasy glances. “Pa, we’re not, ”

  Their father held up a hand. “I don’t expect trouble. But trouble has a way of finding folks, and I won’t have my grandkids left defenseless. You got hunting bows, now you got something else, case trouble comes. Keep em stowed, keep em away unless ya need em. Promise me.”

  The weight of his words settled on them, and they nodded. “We promise,” Marc said.

  “Good,” their father said, his face softening into a small smile. “Now, let’s get this stowed away before your wives think I’m teaching you to be swordswingers.”

  Marc leaned back in his chair, eyeing the bundle of weapons now resting in his lap. "So, Pa," he began, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the curiosity in his voice. "Do we get to learn about it? Your past, I mean. It’s obvious you know things.”

  Thom nodded, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, you’ve always had us wondering. You know how to use these things way too well for a simple farmer. We’re men now. We ain’t run off.”

  Their father sighed deeply, running a hand through his thinning hair. For a moment, he stared at the table, his weathered face clouded with something neither son had seen before; regret. Without a word, he rose from his chair and walked to the corner shelf, grabbing a small bottle of brown glass. He uncorked it, poured himself a measure of the strong spirit, and downed it in one smooth gulp. Setting the bottle down, he sighed again, pulling his chair closer to them.

  “Alright. Fine. I was a soldier,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual. “For Preonia. That part was fine and proper. It was honest work, mostly, defending people, fighting for a cause, even if it was a small one. Wasn’t always grand, but, it wasn’t bad. But after I left the army…” He paused, rubbing his jaw as if weighing how much to say. “I was a mercenary. A sellsword. And that wasn’t fine. That wasn’t good. I killed for coin. Not for honor, not for country, just for a purse. I won’t romance it, or coat up in sugar. I was not a good man. You name it, I did it. There are things I’ve done…” His voice cracked slightly, and he steadied himself. “Things I see every night when I close my eyes. Faces. Screams.”

  Marc and Thom glanced at each other, silent as their father continued. “When I met your mother, she gave me another way. Showed me there was something worth fighting for besides coin and blood. She saved me, boys. If it weren’t for her, I’d be long dead. Maybe by the sword, maybe by my own hand. But she gave me life again. Her love took me from that life. And I thank the gods everyday for her.”

  His eyes grew distant for a moment, and then his face darkened. “When she died, and you two ran off that next season with those bandits, it broke me up hard. I promised her, when she found out she was pregnant each time with you all, I’d never let you live that life. I promised her when you took your first steps, both of you. I promised her when you both spoke. I promised her, when she was sick, and the pox took her. I promised her again each night in my prayers.” He sat for a moment, letting the earnestness of his words hang in the air, as both of his boys bowed their heads.

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  “When you ran off with those travelers. When you cussed me, and took the pain of her death, and ran with it. I thought I’d failed her. Failed you. I couldn’t lose you both. Couldn’t let you end up like me.” He shrugged and sighed. “So I did what I swore to myself I’d never do again. I killed that man that honey, kissed your ears and took you to the road. I knew men like that. What they worm in boys heads. Tales of glory and adventure, just to use you as a body to take a sword meant for them. So I killed him. I needed you to know then, you couldn’t go down that road, and sometimes words fail.”

  Marc set the bundle down and leaned forward, his voice steady. “We’re grown now, Pa. We’re not running off to join bandits or any other foolishness. We’ve got wives, families on the way. We’re not those boys anymore.”

  Thom nodded in agreement. “We promise, Pa. Nothing like that, ever. You don’t need to worry about us.”

  Their father’s face softened, and he gave them a small, weary smile. “I know.” he said simply, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m proud of you both. Your ma would be, too.”

  The three of them sat in the quiet house for a moment, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. Then their father reached for the bottle again, poured a second measure, and raised it toward them.

  “To your ma, and promises kept.” he said gruffly.

  Marc and Thom raised their mugs of water in response. “To ma, and promises kept.” they echoed.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The late afternoon sun cast golden rays across the farmstead, bathing the simple homes and fields in a warm glow. Marc sat back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, a content smile on his face as he watched his wife cradle their son. Across from him, Thom sat with his own wife and daughter, laughing softly at something she’d said. Their father, weathered and slowing but still sharp, sat nearby, carving a piece of wood into what looked like a small bird, a toy for when one of his grandchildren came of age. The rhythmic scrape of his knife was soothing, a melody to the peace they all enjoyed after dinner.

  Marc’s gaze wandered lazily toward the horizon. He squinted, his posture straightening. “Riders,” he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the relaxed hum of the evening. Thom turned, following his brother’s line of sight. In the distance, a group of twelve men approached, their horses kicking up faint trails of dust. As they drew closer, the Preonian flag became clear, fluttering brightly against the fading light. The brothers rose instinctively, setting down their mugs. Their father put aside his carving, his lips thinning as he followed their movements. The wives exchanged nervous glances, clutching their infants tighter.

  The riders came into the yard, their leader a man in his early fifties, his silver, streaked hair tied back. His armor was practical and well, worn. He dismounted with ease, scanning the group before his eyes settled on the father.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “The Bulwark of Astin Field.”

  Their father’s jaw tightened, his grip on his whittling knife white, knuckled. “Edrick,” he said flatly.

  Edrick’s smirk grew, and he removed his gloves as he stepped closer. “Still alive, I see. Still keeping to yourself. Can’t say I blame you. Peaceful little place you’ve built here.”

  “What the hell do you want?” their father asked tersely, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

  Edrick glanced at Marc and Thom, then back to their father. “Raiders,” he said simply. “To the south. It’s bad. They’ve hit four settlements already. Burned two of them to the ground. The garrison’s stretched thin, and we need every able, bodied man we can get. I’m the garrison commander for this region now, and I’m calling conscripts. The republic needs it’s sons.”

  Marc and Thom exchanged uneasy glances. “Conscripts?” Thom asked. “You mean us?”

  Edrick nodded. “You, and every man of age within riding distance. You’re of the age, and no infirmities I can see. It’s your duty to Preonia. The republic, she needs you.”

  “No,” their father said sharply, stepping forward. “They’re farmers. They have families to care for. You’re not fucking taking them.”

  Edrick’s expression darkened, though his tone remained calm. “I understand your concern. But to be clear, this isn’t a request. We need fighters, or more towns burn. More women and children slaughtered. Women and children like the one’s here. You know what that’s like, Bulwark. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “These boys aren’t soldiers,” their father growled. “They’re not equipped for this.”

  “You know damn well we’ll train them up. And I know damn well they’re better equipped than most.” Edrick countered, his gaze flicking to the forge and toolshed where the swords and spears their father had once prepared for them still rested. “And they’ll be better off under my command than some of the green recruits we’ve got. This isn’t just about them, old friend. It’s about everyone. The republic calls it’s son’s to defend our liberty.”

  “They’re not fucking going,” their father said firmly, his voice cold as steel. “Take your conscripts elsewhere.”

  Edrick sighed, shaking his head. “I hoped you’d understand. You know how this works. Unless you’re a rich merchant who can buy their way out, they serve. I’ll give you until dawn to reconsider. I’ll be back around then to collect them.” He glanced to Thom and Marc. “Say your goodbyes tonight. Won’t be long. We think we can handle this within a month.”

  Without another word, he turned and remounted his horse. The riders pulled their reins, circling back the way they came. Edrick cast one last look over his shoulder before riding off, leaving a heavy silence behind him.

  The brothers turned to their father, who stood rooted in place, his face a mask of anger and fear. “Inside,” he said after a long pause. “We’ll talk.”

  Inside the simple farmhouse, the air was tense and stifling. Marc and Thom sat at the table, their faces serious, while their father paced back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The wives stood near the hearth, their babies in their arms, silent but distressed. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the floorboards under their father’s boots and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

  Marc was the first to speak. “Pa,” he began cautiously, “maybe we should go.”

  Their father froze mid, step, his head snapping toward his eldest son. “No.”

  Thom shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable but nodding. “He’s right, Pa. If the raiders are burning towns, they’ll come here next. What if we don’t fight and they make it this far? What happens to Kina and Lia? To the kids?”

  The older man’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as he loomed over the table. “What happens to Kina and Lia if you don’t come back?” he snarled. “You think Edrick will keep you alive? He’s a butcher, and idiot. He’s made his name on the backs of poor boys like you. He’ll march you to your deaths.”

  “We’re not children anymore,” Marc said, his voice steady despite his father’s intensity. “We can fight. How can we say no to call for conscripts?”

  “You just fucking say no!” their father growled, jabbing a finger at them. “I know what it means to fight. I know what it does to you. You don’t come back the same. If you come back at all.”

  “Pa, ” Thom started, but Lia cut him off, her voice trembling as she cradled their daughter closer.

  “He’s right, Thom. You have a family now. You can’t just... you can’t just leave.”

  “And what happens when the raiders come here?” Thom shot back, frustration creeping into his tone. “Do you expect Pa to hold them off alone?”

  “I’ll hold them off with my last goddamn dying breath before I let my boys march off to die for some damn fool.” their father snapped. His hands were shaking now, though his voice was steel. “You don’t owe Preonia a damn thing. When was the last time Preonia did anything for us out here? They’re calling you because it’s convenient, not because it’s right.”

  Kina stepped forward, her face pale. “We don’t want you to go. Neither of you. But if they’re going to come for you anyway... what choice do we have? Wont they just make them?”

  “We have a choice,” their father hissed, slamming a hand on the table. “We send that bastard packing in the morning, with or without his conscripts. You can hide in the woods, wait it out. Hell, I’ll cave his head in if I have to.”

  Marc’s gaze dropped to the wood grain of the table. “And then what? He’ll come back, Pa. He said it himself. And you can’t cave his head in, they’ll just hang you.”

  Their father opened his mouth to argue but stopped short, the weight of their words settling on his shoulders. For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft whimper of one of the babies, and Kina rocking her child gently to soothe her. Finally, their father sank into a chair, his shoulders slumping. His face was a mask of grief, anger, and helplessness. “There’s always a choice,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The brothers exchanged a glance, their resolve hardening, but neither dared to speak. The wives stayed silent, their faces a mixture of fear and quiet resignation. The fire burned low in the hearth as the long silence stretched on. Their father leaned forward in his chair, his weathered hands gripping his knees tightly. His voice was quieter now, but no less firm.

  “Marc. Thom. Listen to me,” he said, his gaze shifting between his sons. “You’ve got something worth more than any cause, any fight, or any glory. You’ve got families. Wives who love you. Children who need their fathers. Don’t throw that away for some stupid cause.”

  Marc frowned, his jaw tight. “But Pa, what if they come here? What if they burn everything we’ve built?”

  Their father slammed his hand down on the table, making the dishes rattle. “Let them! I’ve seen farms burned, cities sacked, men butchered. You can rebuild a home, but you can’t rebuild a life cut short. I’ve buried enough friends to know what I’m talking about.”

  Thom looked down at the floor, torn. “But... people will call us cowards.”

  “So? Let them,” their father said fiercely. “A strong man can live with that. You are strong men! You can live with that. You can’t live with your children growing up without a father. You think they’ll care if some stranger calls you a coward? No. They’ll care that you’re here to teach them to walk, to talk, to live. That’s what matters.”

  The boys exchanged a glance, their resolve wavering. Their wives, standing at the edge of the room with the children clutched in their arms, looked at them with tearful hope. Finally, Marc spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You really think we should stay?”

  Their father softened, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I don’t just think it, Marc. I know it. I’ve walked that road, and it’s a dead end. Stay here. Be there for your wives, for your kids. Do better than I did.”

  Thom hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright, Pa. We’ll stay.”

  Marc let out a shaky sigh, his own nod following. “Fine. We’ll stay.”

  Relief flickered across their father’s face, but it was short, lived. He knew there was still one more hurdle to clear.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The next morning, the brothers stood with their father outside the farmhouse as Edrick and his men rode up. The Garrison commander dismounted, his freshly polished half, plate catching the morning sun. His eyes scanned the three of them before he stepped forward, his expression expectant.

  “Well?” Edrick asked, his voice cold and clipped. “Ready to ride?”

  Marc swallowed hard but held his ground. “We’re not going.”

  Edrick’s expression didn’t change. He stood silently for a moment, then gave a low chuckle. “Not going, huh? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Thom said firmly.

  Edrick chuckled darkly. “Well, I’ll tell you what that means. It means your farms are forfeit. I’ll burn them to the ground before nightfall. And I’ll have you all arrested for failure to stand when called. Maybe your wives and kids can make a living in the debtor’s camp.”

  Thom’s hands curled into fists. “You can’t do that.”

  Edrick stepped closer, towering over the younger man. “Watch me,” he hissed. “You think you’re special? You think your little families mean anything to me? You’ll march south and fight, or you’ll lose everything you’ve got.”

  Their father stepped forward, placing himself between Edrick and his sons. “Leave my boys out of this,” he growled. “If it’s blood you want, you can have mine.”

  Edrick smiled cruelly, his eyes narrowing. “Generous offer, old man. But I need soldiers, not relics.” He turned to his men. “Round them up. Burn the fields.”

  Marc and Thom exchanged a desperate glance, their father glaring at Edrick as the soldiers moved to obey. Their father stalked back into the house, and returned with his hammer, Edrick chuckling.

  “Bulwark, please. I don’t want to kill you. I will. But I don’t want to.” Edrick said, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  As Edrick’s men moved toward the fields, and their father took another step forward, Thom’s voice broke through, heavy and resigned. “Stop! I’ll go. Take one of us, please, leave my brother to tend our farms.”

  Marc’s head whipped toward his brother, his face a mix of shock and anger. “Thom, no, ”

  “Marc, be quiet. I have this.” Thom interrupted, his voice shaking but steady. He turned to Edrick, his shoulders squared. “You’ve made your point. I’ll march. Please, let me brother stay. My father’s old, we got little ones. They need a man to work. Please.”

  Edrick grinned, a predator’s satisfaction in his expression. He raised a hand, signaling his men to halt. “Smart decision. But unfortunately, I need both of you. The old man will have to roll his sleeves up.” He said firmly.

  “Thom, don’t.” Their father said, his voice tremoring.

  “Enough.” Marc said. “I’ll go. Can’t let my brother go to war without me.” He turned to their father. “We have to watch each other’s backs.”

  “We leave at dawn tomorrow. Be ready.” Edrick said crisply. The commander turned on his heel, mounting his horse quickly. His men followed, their boots and hooves kicking up clouds of dust as they rode away, leaving the family standing in tense silence. Thom looked at his father and Marc, guilt etched on his face. “What else could I do? He’d have destroyed everything.”

  Marc’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Their father, his face a storm of emotions, finally stepped forward. He placed a firm hand on Thom’s shoulder, then Marc’s. “I am sorry boys.”

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The following morning came too quickly. The sun barely crept over the horizon as the brothers stood by their packed bags, their wives holding the babies close. Thom’s wife, Lia, wiped her tear, streaked face with trembling fingers. “You’ll come back, right? Both of you?”

  Thom nodded, though his eyes betrayed his uncertainty. “I will. I promise.”

  Marc’s wife, Kina, clutched his arm tightly, her knuckles white. “Please, stay safe. Please.”

  Marc kissed her forehead, forcing a brave smile. “I will. I swear.”

  Their father stood nearby, his weathered face harder than the fields, and his anvil that he had worked for decades. As the brothers prepared to leave, he stepped forward, pulling both of them into a rough embrace.

  “You come back to us,” he said fiercely. “You hear me? You fight smart, you fight hard, but you come back. Don’t be stupid, please gods, don’t be stupid. Don’t look for glory. Keep each other safe. Watch each other’s backs. Don’t be stupid. Promise me.”

  Both men nodded to their father as tears filled his eyes.

  “I’ll look after the girls and the little ones while you’re gone. You do your part, and I’ll do mine. I will keep them safe.”

  The brothers nodded; their throats too tight to speak. They mounted their horses, their hearts heavy as they looked back at their family. Their father stood tall, his arm around each of the wives as the children cried in their mothers’ arms. As the brothers rode away toward Edrick’s camp, their father called out after them, his voice strong and clear. “I’ll keep them safe. You just come back!”

  Thom glanced back one last time, seeing his father standing firm like an old oak, and whispered under his breath, “We won’t be stupid, Pa. We’ll come back.”

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The Brush, War, as it came to be known, began as a swift campaign to repel southern raiders but grew into something far larger. What should have been a series of skirmishes turned into a long, bloody, and protracted conflict. The enemy forces, underestimated and deeply entrenched in the dense woodlands and rolling hills of the southern regions, proved cunning and relentless, well coined, and well armed. Their resistance turned small, scale battles into a grinding war of attrition, dragging on year after year. For Marc and Thom, the transition from farmers to soldiers came painfully but inevitably. Edrick’s regiment was a harsh crucible. The brothers learned quickly, there was no room for mistakes on the battlefield. At first, their every movement felt clumsy, every formation foreign. The weight of their spears, the recoil of their bows, and the swing of their swords were all unfamiliar. But soon, necessity forged them into professional soldiers.

  Edrick himself was as brutal as they had feared. His barked commands left no room for defiance, and his punishments for insubordination were swift and severe. Both men took the lash in the first months. Yet Edrick’s arrogance was his undoing. During a pitched battle in the early part of the second year of the war, Edrick led his men into an ambush. He fell, a spear piercing his chest, and a bandit captain trampling him with his horse. News of his death brought some satisfaction to Marc and Thom, though they mourned the needless loss of their comrades who had perished alongside him. In Edrick’s absence, new officers stepped up, more pragmatic leaders who valued the skills of the men. For Marc and Thom, the change meant a degree of stability, though the war itself offered little solace.

  The brothers adapted, and in adapting, they thrived. They were quick learners, unyielding in battle, and disciplined when it came to their drills. Their proficiency earned them respect from their peers, and they became known not just as farmers pressed into service but as reliable soldiers. They were not the champions of their units, they were the backbones. Firm, reliable, professional soldiers. They were never stupid, and they always had each other’s backs.

  Over time, they picked up more than just the skills of war; they learned to read and write under the tutelage of a camp scribe who took pity on their rural ignorance. What began as a necessity to understand orders and maps became a small solace for them, writing letters home became their tether to the lives they had left behind. They knew their father had at least enough that given time around a hearthfire, he could likely decipher them, or take them to the village healer to be read aloud.

  But the messengers were unreliable, the southern territories hostile and vast. While they sent letters when they could, weeks and months often passed without any reply. Each silence from home gnawed at them, leaving them to imagine what might have happened in their absence. They missed their wives desperately, their children they had barely known, and their father, who had stood so steadfast as they rode away, and their whole life before. The thought of returning home kept them alive, though the path back seemed further away with each passing day.

  The war stretched into its third year, a grueling grind of raids, ambushes, and sieges. Marc and Thom were no longer the same men who had ridden out from their village. Their faces were lean and weathered, their eyes hard from the horrors they had seen. They were decent soldiers, not reckless, not cowardly, but steadfast. They did their job, fought in the ranks, and kept their heads down. Despite their growing skills and hard, earned camaraderie with their fellow soldiers, their hearts were never fully in the fight. Both brothers dreamed of the same things: their wives’ smiles, the laughter of their children, and the old man sitting at the farm table, whittling away at a piece of wood. Their longing for home made every victory feel hollow, every promotion feel meaningless. They didn’t want glory or coin. They wanted to return to the simple life they had once resented but now yearned for with every fiber of their beings. The Brush, War had made them soldiers, but they were farmers at heart, and no amount of time in the ranks could change that.

  And so they endured, sending their letters into the void, hoping against hope that someday, when the war ended, they could ride north again, back to the lives they had left behind. The war dragged further on into its third year, and the slow trickle of news from home dried up entirely. At first, Marc and Thom wrote it off as nothing more than the chaos of war. Officers grumbled about bad supply lines, blaming the Preonian Senate for skimping on resources, as always. Messengers were few, food even scarcer, and the soldiers' spirits hung by a thread. But for Marc and Thom, the silence became unbearable. The brothers shared whispered fears by the campfires at night. Was the silence truly the fault of the Senate’s stinginess, or had something happened back home? They didn’t dare speak it aloud too often, as if voicing the thought might make it real. All they could do was hold on and wait, riding out every bloody skirmish and campaign with a growing sense of desperation.

  Finally, the war reached its breaking point at Marrowhold, a crumbling fort deep in the southern brushlands. The enemy had dug in, their forces desperate and savage, knowing this was their last stand. The battle was chaos, a brutal clash that lasted from dawn to dusk. Marc and Thom fought shoulder to shoulder, cutting down bandits and mercenaries alike. Their skills honed by years of fighting, they moved as a unit, protecting each other with unspoken coordination. By the end of the day, the enemy was shattered. Smoke rose from the ruins of Marrowhold as the remnants of the bandit army fled into the night. The war was over.

  When the brothers received their discharge orders in the next days, they wasted no time. The officers handed out perfunctory thanks, a meager handful of coin, and hollow promises of recognition from the Senate. None of it mattered. Marc and Thom were already packing their saddlebags, eager to leave the south behind forever. The journey home was a blur of restless nights and long days in the saddle. Neither brother spoke much, their minds consumed by the same question: what awaited them when they returned? The last they had seen of their wives and children was three years ago. Would their families even recognize them? Had their father held up as he’d promised? The silence in their letters loomed like a dark cloud over their thoughts.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  As they approached the familiar hills that marked the outskirts of their village, both brothers pulled their horses to a stop. Ahead, the land sloped gently downward, the fields of soy and wheat stretching out like a patchwork quilt. There, at the bottom of the hill, were their farms, or what remained of them. The air was still, eerily quiet. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys, but the buildings looked... different. Weathered. Older than they should have in just three years. Marc and Thom exchanged a glance, their stomachs tight with dread.

  “We stop here,” Marc said, his voice low. Thom nodded, dismounting slowly. He let his horse graze as he stood next to his brother, the two of them staring down at the place they had once called home. Neither moved to take the final steps forward, their hearts pounding in their chests. They had survived three years of war, countless battles, and the horrors of Marrowhold. But now, standing on the edge of what they had fought so hard to return to, they felt more afraid than they ever had on the battlefield.

  Marc and Thom spurred their horses forward, hearts heavy with dread as they rode down the hill toward their farms. The closer they got, the worse the sight became. The once orderly fields were a tangle of weeds and wild grasses, the sturdy rows of crops long gone. Their homes stood as empty, broken shells. Roofs sagged under signs of neglect, and broken windows gaped like hollow eyes. Doors hung loosely on their hinges, and vines crept up the walls as if trying to reclaim the structures for the earth.

  Marc dismounted first, his throat tight as he walked toward what used to be his front door. He pushed it open with a groan of wood, revealing a dusty interior strewn with debris. The hearth was cold, the furniture upended, and the air thick with the scent of rot and abandonment. Thom followed, his face pale as he stared at his own home in similar disrepair.

  “They’re gone,” Thom whispered, his voice trembling. “All of them…”

  Marc clenched his fists, fighting back the lump in his throat. “Maybe Pa… Maybe he, ”

  They didn’t wait to finish the thought. Mounting up again, they rode hard toward their father’s farm, their hearts pounding. When they arrived, the sight was no better. The fields surrounding the house were overgrown, the once, bountiful crops replaced by sparse rows of withered vegetables barely clinging to life. The house itself was still standing, but just barely. The roof sagged dangerously, and one of the shutters flapped weakly in the breeze. Smoke rose faintly from the chimney, but it was thin, barely visible. The brothers dismounted in silence, their boots crunching on the overgrown path as they approached the house. They rounded the back, where they found him.

  Their father knelt in the dirt, his back to them, tending to a small, scraggly garden. His shoulders were thinner, his frame gaunt, and his once, powerful arms trembled slightly as he worked. His hair, which had been streaked with gray when they left, was now almost entirely white. He moved slowly, as if the weight of the years had crushed him.

  “Pa,” Marc called softly, his voice breaking.

  The man froze. Slowly, he turned his head, and when his eyes met theirs, he let out a choked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His face was thinner, lined with deep wrinkles, but the recognition in his eyes was immediate.

  “My boys.” he whispered, his voice trembling as tears spilled down his cheeks. He struggled to his feet, swaying slightly as he reached for them.

  Marc and Thom rushed forward, catching him before he could collapse. Their father clung to them, his weathered hands gripping their arms with a strength that belied his frailty. He wept openly, tears streaming down his face as he pulled them close.

  “I thought… my boys…” he sobbed. “My boys… My boys…”

  Marc and Thom held him tightly, their own tears falling silently as they realized the full weight of what their absence had done. The strong, indomitable man they had left behind was a shadow of his former self. And yet, through his tears, there was relief, a flicker of hope that the sons he had prayed for every night had finally come home. Their father’s sobs finally quieted, and he pulled back just enough to look at them. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes red, rimmed, and his lips quivered as he tried to speak. His hands gripped their arms, as if letting go would make them vanish.

  “Boys… I have to tell you something,” he began, his voice trembling. He took a shuddering breath and sagged as though the words themselves would break him. “Last year… last year, a pox came through. I tried my best. I tried…. It hit hard, real hard. It took… it took everything.”

  Marc froze, his grip tightening on his father’s arm. “Everything?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Thom’s face drained of color. “Pa, no…”

  Their father’s eyes welled up again as he nodded, the tears spilling over once more. “It took your wives. Kina, Lia… and… and your children. I tried. I sold it all, everything for medicine… it’ didn’t work… I prayed… I tried to keep em safe…” His voice cracked, and he broke into fresh sobs. “The little ones… they didn’t stand a chance. It hit fast, too fast. By the time I knew what was happening… it was too late.”

  Marc staggered back, his legs suddenly weak, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he began to pant frantically. Thom stared at their father, his face blank, his mind refusing to process the words.

  Their father continued, his words tumbling out in a broken rush. “I don’t know why it didn’t take me!” he shouted as his voice broke, somewhere between a sob and pure anguish. “I don’t know why I was spared. Somehow, I was spared. And God help me, I wished I wasn’t. I prayed… I begged the gods to take me instead, but they left me here.” His voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with guilt.

  “I never wrote you after that. I couldn’t. healer was dead. Pox got her too. Even if I could have, I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t bear to tell you. Not when you were out there fighting. I couldn’t take the chance you’d come back… that you’d desert and be hunted for it. I thought… I thought maybe it was kinder this way, to let you believe everything was fine, and if you came back…. At least I could tell you I failed you.”

  Marc dropped to his knees, clutching his head as tears spilled down his face. “They’re gone?” he choked out. “All of them?”

  Thom’s fists clenched at his sides, his body trembling. “Why didn’t you tell us?” he shouted, his voice breaking with grief and fury. “We could’ve, ”

  “What could you have done?” their father interrupted, his voice rising in desperation. “You would’ve come back and found them already buried. And then what? You’d have been deserters. They’d have hunted you down. I couldn’t lose you too! I couldn’t…” The old man collapsed to the ground, his body shaking with sobs. Thom stood frozen, his mind a maelstrom of rage, grief, and helplessness.

  “I’m sorry,” their father whispered. “I’m so sorry. Every day, I prayed for you to come home. Every day, I begged the gods to give me strength to tell you, and every day, I failed. I failed you both…”

  Marc lurched forward and wrapped his arms around his father. Like a child, he clung to him, his own tears soaking into his father’s threadbare shirt. Thom turned away, his chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from screaming. The weight of their father’s words settled over them like a crushing tide, and for a long moment, none of them could speak.

  After what seemed like ages, Thom stepped forward and dropped to his knees next to his father and brother.

  “I failed you.” His father sobbed gently.

  Thom shook his head, as the tears he had held at bay came, and he wrapped his arms around his father. “No you didn’t pa. You’re the only thing that didn’t fail us.”

  

  
• ●●●


  

  The days passed in a haze of routine. Marc and Thom threw themselves into work on their father’s farm, fixing fences, patching the roof, and planting a small field. The motions were simple, almost mechanical, and they followed them without thinking. Rising at dawn, laboring through the day, taking turns to sob at their wives and children’s gravestones, and then collapsing into restless sleep at night.

  Their father helped where he could, but his strength had long since waned. He spent more time watching from the porch than swinging a hammer or turning soil. When they urged him to rest, he’d grumble about not being an invalid, but they could see the effort it took for him to shuffle from one room to the next.

  Three weeks passed like this.

  Three weeks the men moved like puppets on a stage.

  Three weeks they toiled, barely speaking, only working and grieving.

  The farm began to resemble something living again, the field sprouting shoots of green, the house no longer sagging in on itself. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A beginning.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  That morning was like any other. The sun was high, casting a warm glow over the freshly tilled soil. Marc was checking the fence line, Thom hauling water to the garden. Their father had said he’d take a walk to the edge of the field. Said he wanted to stretch his legs, see what the boys had been working on.

  By midday, Thom returned with the water and frowned. “Pa’s not back yet,” he said, glancing toward the field.

  Marc wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “He’s probably sitting under a tree, catching his breath. You know how he is.”

  But as the minutes stretched into an hour, unease settled over them. Marc tossed his tools down, and Thom followed him toward the field. They found him sprawled near the edge, face down in the dirt. His hoe lay a few feet away, the handle splintered where it had hit a rock. Marc knelt beside him, rolling him over. His face was pale, his eyes closed, his body still.

  “Pa?” Marc whispered, shaking his shoulder gently. But there was no response. His chest didn’t rise, his lips didn’t part with breath. Marc pressed his fingers to the old man’s neck, hoping against hope for a pulse, for anything.

  Thom stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. “Is he, ?”

  Marc sat back on his heels, his hands trembling. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice hollow. The brothers stood there for a long time, staring down at their father’s lifeless body. The man who had raised them, who had protected them, who had outlasted so much pain and loss, now lay as still as the soil he had worked his whole life.

  Marc looked up at Thom, his face etched with exhaustion and disbelief. “Fuck,” he muttered, the word hanging heavy in the air.

  “Yeah.” Thom said, his voice barely a whisper. He kicked a clod of dirt absently, staring at the horizon where the world stretched out indifferent to their grief. “The world’s just shitting on us at this point.”

  Marc barked a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed his hands over his face. “And we just keep letting it.”

  They didn’t move for a long time, standing over their father’s body in the middle of the field, the sun beating down as the weight of the moment crushed them both.

  The burial was quiet, just the two of them digging into the earth behind their father’s house. It was the same patch where they’d laid their wives and children to rest, the graves marked only by simple flattened metal plaques their father had made, inscribed with their names on flat stones. They dug slowly, the silence broken only by the scrape of shovels and the occasional hitch of breath as one of them fought back tears.

  When they lowered their father into the ground, Marc paused, gripping the edge of the grave as if he could pull their old man back out. Thom placed a hand on his shoulder, and Marc took a steadying breath. Together, they finished the job, piling the earth over him and packing it down with their boots.

  Marc took a chisel, and slowly tapped out his name: ‘Pol August’. He stood and looked down at it. Thom gently took the chisel from his hand and knelt, slowly tapping out his addition: ‘The Bulwark of Astin Field’. He stood, surveyed it a moment, and Marc took the chisel back, kneeling and reverently tapping out two letters: “Pa.’.

  Marc stood over the grave, wiping the sweat and dirt from his brow. His voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the fresh mound. “What now, Thom?”

  Thom sighed, his gaze sweeping over the small plot of land that had been their entire world once. “Fuck if I know. Got nothing here.”

  “Nope.” Marc said. “Nothing at all.”

  “I don’t know, Marc. Hit the road, I guess. See what comes our way.” Thom offered, a bitter edge to his voice.

  Marc looked over at him, his face etched with sadness. “This wasn’t what he wanted for us. He wanted us to stay, build something here. Be better than, all of this.”

  Thom nodded, his eyes drifting to the graves. “No, it wasn’t what he wanted.”

  “Fuck he tried.” Marc said, his voice catching in this throat.

  “We tried.” Thom spat into the dirt. “Gave it everything we had.”

  Marc’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fists clenched at his sides. “It wasn’t enough.” he muttered.

  Thom didn’t argue. He just looked up at the horizon, where the fields gave way to the dirt roads that stretched toward places unknown. “No, it wasn’t. But maybe we’ll find something out there. Something better. Maybe not. Either way, it’s time to go.”

  They stood there for a moment longer, the weight of their losses hanging between them. Then, without another word, they turned and walked back to the house. They gathered what little they could carry, leaving the rest behind. As they hit the road, the farm receded into the distance, its quiet emptiness a reminder of everything they had lost. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows over the land. Neither of them spoke as they rode away, the hooves of their tired horses kicking up the dust of the road.

  

  
• ●●●


  

  From Plankholder Book II of the Freebooters pg. 7; 2056 I.R:

  The brothers August, Thom and Marc had been around for about three weeks, the newest of the mates, and were relatively typical sellswords. Distinct about them was their age, both men, hailing initially from Preonia to the south were in their late thirties. They had been the veterans of various campaigns, fought well with each other, listened to orders, and generally were affable men. Eruch suspected that they had just never settled down and had commited to the life of a mercenary. Sometimes they were referred to as the twins, but they were born years apart. Thom was the older of the two, by two winters, and both favored traditional soldier kit of a Braiden: longsword, spear, shield, and lamellar armor.