I put down my sword and take the fruit out of the young king’s arms. I busy myself for a short moment washing the food in the running water. As the current washes over my fingertips it begins to take the dirt with it. I carefully lay the clean meal down before rinsing the entirety of my hands and arms. Old dirt and mud disappear into the crystal waters until only scarred skin remains.
Leaning over the small rocks, I catch a glimpse of a stranger. A man looks back at me, his hair is curled and dishevelled and unkempt bristles creep around the edges of his jaw. His lips are dry and cracked and small dark cuts draw random lines across his face. Dirt and grime have been ingrained in every crevice of the man’s beaten skin, darkening around patches covering one side of his face. His eyes, or rather my eyes, are all that remains untouched by our travels. Somewhere in there is Dale, a child of Avlym, but he hides behind this mask.
I remove Jaq’s shirt and lower both hands, cupping the water and bringing the stranger closer. His face ripples and is distorted as the mirror is disturbed within my palms. I bring my hands to my face, allowing the iciness to embrace me, cascading over my cheeks and running down to the crevice of my neck. I cannot help but sigh, relishing the feeling. I repeat the process several more times until finally I being to recognise my reflection.
I have still changed; the stubble is a new sight and I will carry my scars with me for a lifetime. My hair has grown out and poor feeding has tightened the skin around my bones. A boy no longer looks back at me, instead is someone who has travelled the world, but also someone who has seen too much. I have lived and experienced more than perhaps any other villager, yet young features remind me that I am still some way off from resembling it.
I dry my face with the hem of the undershirt before draping it over myself again. I collect up the fruits and head towards where Orrian and the others sit. Throughout the night we had kept our swords close by our sides in paranoia that the colony will appear at any second, but they have all finally let them down onto the grass.
The wounded man has allowed himself to pass out on the floor and I watch as Ryfon begins tightening the vines around the man’s bleeding leg. The man is pale, too much has been drained from him over the course of the last few hours. His eyelids open slightly, squinting against the harsh morning light.
“What? Where-” the man asks confused. Sweat beads his forehead and his eyes move unfocused. He tries to raise his head, but the movement causes him to pass back into oblivion.
“His pulse is weak,” Ryfon informs us from his crouched position, “I don’t know if he’ll-”
Ryfon doesn’t need to finish his sentence, we all know where it ends. We all bow our heads towards the resting man.
“Is there anything we can do?” Orrian asks, his voice is thick with pity.
“He’s lost too much blood, his fate is in the gods’ hands now,” Ryfon replies with a heavy voice.
I had never found time to get to know the man at our feet, I still don’t even know his name. If Ryfon can’t do much for him then he can’t have long. He’s come all this way. He survived the Great Fire, he made the journey through the mountains, fought in the battle of the beach, and escaped from within the colony itself. All to come to an end at a single blow from another, one unfortunate strike that managed to slip through his guard. He had been right beside me, what if I could have blocked the attack? I know these are only the woes of survivor’s guilt, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering if I could have managed to deflect the blow that had felled him.
The man dies a few hours later. We haven’t moved as the sun has curved across the sky to where it now pauses above our heads.
The man had never reawakened, he had peacefully drifted away in his sleep. I am at least glad that he died a free man, amongst the trees where he belongs. His last sight could have been the cells, or the wall, or the moat. Instead he got to enjoy one last picturesque morning of the golden light reflecting off the leaves as he is surrounded by his people, not a pavestone or iron bar in sight.
The seven of us wordlessly dig his grave at the base of an old oak tree. We break the ground with branches and our swords, using our bare hands to tear up the loose turf. The dirt works its way beneath our fingernails and sweat drips into the pit as the sun reaches its peak. I don’t mind. This man made it too far to be abandoned now. The work is slow going but eventually we are left with a hole big enough to accommodate him.
Orrian lowers the body, throwing the first of the dirt over him before stepping back so that the others may finish the job.
“What was his name?” I ask gently.
“Thyon,” Orrian replies.
Thyon. I silently thank him for serving his king and his people well, until the end. I crudely scratch his name into the old trunk, it’s not neat, and I slip and earn another couple of light cuts as I try to handle the tip of my blade, but it’s something. Even when we have all joined him in the afterlife this oak tree should still stand. He will not be forgotten.
We walk in mourning as we continue our journey, we
