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The mass of Hyzantian soldiers shifts like dunes of sand, reaching as far as the eye can see. Serenoa has long since given up on maintaining order. The battlefield is one pile of dead bodies and soldiers fighting for their lives alike. The knowledge that they have spilled their fair share of Hyzantian blood is of little comfort when their own troops dwindle by the moment.
The Hyzantians are pushing deeper into the Rosellan Village, closer and closer to what Serenoa and his friends are fighting so direly to protect. He cuts a spearman down and another takes his place. His breath comes shorter by the minute. His gaze flits over the battlefield, finding less and less of his comrades. He has seen some of them go down – young Narve cut down when he became too daring smiting the Hyzantians, Julio crumbling in the wake of a spell. Some are simply gone without a trace. Serenoa wishes he could find them later – bury them, mourn them – though he knows that will not be possible. All he can do now is keep fighting, keep making the Hyzantians bleed.
Most of his comrades he knows to be alive are packed into a tight group: Roland, Erador and Benedict brace against the onslaught with him. Frederica and Geela stay close behind, aiding them with their magic. Hughette flies overhead, picking off one enemy after the other with her arrows.
Benedict blocks the brunt of a strike with his cane, though he is not quick enough to dodge the follow-up attack. The sword slashes through his leather waistcoat, making him draw in a sharp breath. Before even a drop of blood can fall, Geela’s healing magic has closed the gash. How much longer can she keep up?
Serenoa finally spots Anna amidst the chaos just as he blocks an incoming strike. She is rushing into enemy lines, breaking formation. Serenoa can’t even tell her to retreat without drawing the enemies’ attention towards her. He is barely able to keep his eyes on her himself as she sneaks around with quiet steps. Her dagger hushes forward like a snake lurching for a bite, stabbing an enemy in the back before he realizes what has befallen him.
Serenoa attacks his opponent with the same ferocity, cutting down another Hyzantian. The ground beneath his feet is tinted rust red as the soldier draws his last breath. Another life taken. Maybe Hyzante will remember this day if they just keep taking from them. Roland and Frederica too have slain countless enemies by his side with the support of the others.
Serenoa’s eyes flit back towards Anna, seeing the enemy reaching for her retreating figure just a moment too late.
“Watch out!” By the time the words are past his lips, the man’s hand is already wrapped around Anna’s throat, yanking her back. His knife follows the path of his fingers, cutting a thin, red line. Anna thrashes as blood streams down her throat in dark rivers. The struggle is nearly silent. The soldier holds her in place until her body goes limp, drained of life, before he tosses her aside. She drops like dead weight, vanishing behind the enemy lines like countless others before her.
Serenoa’s hands shake. His grip nearly slips during the next strike.
If they could get to her, maybe Geela could work her magic. Anna is cunning, he knows it well. She doesn’t tend to display her intellect openly like Benedict does, though she has learned much from him. Perhaps she is merely feigning defeat for a chance to slip away.
If they could only get to her –
“Damn it all!” Erador exclaims over the blaring noise. He is already rushing forward, throwing himself into the fray of blades and spearheads that fail to pierce his armor. Roland is close behind, thrusting his spear into an enemy’s chest before slipping out of reach again. He is quick on his feet, his horse long since joined with the pile of bodies. That Roland did not get dragged down with his steed when the spear impaled it was a small miracle. Or rather, a result of his quick reflexes.
Neither of them hesitates. Serenoa mustn’t either. He needs to hold the line with them. No matter how many soldiers he must cut down, no matter how tired he gets, or how many enemies happen to draw blood, he must keep going.
“Hold the line! Don’t let them surround us!” He declares, his voice clear and ringing over the chaos.
Hughette swoops down from above. Maybe it is the line of shield bearers pushing them back, maybe it is that Roland gets caught between a pair of swordfighters, though she does not hesitate to come to their aid either way. Flugie’s wings beat overhead, swooping a current through Serenoa’s hair. Hughette’s bow is drawn taught, her body tense with focus.
The enemy finds his mark before her.
The arrow punches through her chest, sending a lurch through her that sets her own shot off aimlessly. With the blink of an eye, her body plummets to the ground, swallowed by the sea of enemy soldiers. Serenoa recoils at the sickening crunch of bones breaking against the earth. Flugie follows her but moments later, letting out an ear-piercing shriek as another arrow strikes true.
“Give them no quarter!” Serenoa forces his voice to raise over the turmoil – screams of soldiers and steel alike. “We must keep fighting!”
If any of them have doubts, they do not show it. Frederica’s fire swallows a group of enemies in a bundle of blazes and screams. Roland impales another rogue, barely flinching when the enemy buries his knife in his arm in one last desperate attempt to retaliate. There is something wild in his motions. He tears his spear free with a quick jerk, leaving the Hyzantian to bleed out at his feet. The knife follows soon after, torn free from his flesh and thrown aside with a dull clatter. He doesn’t even pause as the faint glow of Geela’s healing magic wraps around him, his eyes already on his next target. Has he seen Hughette fall?
Erador is quick to step to his side, protecting Roland from the Hyzantians’ retaliation. The enemies’ blades clank uselessly against his shield. Benedict sticks close by his old friend, steeling his defenses with a short incantation. It can only be thanks to that Erador is left standing after the next hit; the air around him crackles for but a moment before lightning strikes him down.
He convulses, spits out curses beneath his breath. Serenoa jumps in to slay the next enemy that dares target him. The rogue must still be looking for a weak spot in Erador’s armor when Serenoa strikes him down.
“Thanks, lad,” Erador croaks, leaning heavily against his shield. He is quiet, still, barely a trace left of his bravado that usually fills out an entire room by itself.
“Geela…” When Serenoa turns to look for her, he finds her wrecked by the same paralysis. Her fingers cramp around her staff as her legs buckle beneath her, hitting the ground. The way she grits her teeth through it sparks hope for her to get up, though before the convulsions even die down, a blade seals her fate where magic came short.
Her neck tears open under the blunt sword strike, blood sputtering freely. Her robes are drenched in an instant. Frederica freezes beside her, the red blood splattering over her ashen pale skin. Her wide eyes are fixed on her friend, pupils small like pinheads.
For a moment, Serenoa is certain the sword will cut Geela’s head clean off. Even when it comes short of it, there isn’t much to be done. Geela collapses a heartbeat later all the same, dropping into a pool of her own blood.
“We – We need a healer.” Serenoa’s gaze flits over the battlefield. Friends and foes blend into one mass through the chaos. The bodies underfoot are trampled without care. He can’t make out a single one of their faces. If Hossabara is still up for a fight, he would most likely spot her steed over the crowd. He does not. What about Medina? Where did she go?
Serenoa is torn from his thoughts by a blood curling scream. His head whirs around, his gaze stuttering over the scene before it finds Erador again. A gust catches Serenoa’s hair and clothes, like the start of a heavy storm. Wind magic?
It must have been. Bits of Erador’s armor are torn off, thick leather ripped to the flesh. Cuts are littered over Erador’s body, spilling fresh blood. Yet, he remains standing.
Has Erador shielded him from the attack?
“Erador!” Serenoa rushes to his side. The Hyzantians flock to Erador like vultures, perhaps waiting for him to succumb to his injuries and leave the rest of them vulnerable, perhaps wanting to abuse a crack in his defenses to finish him off themselves. Benedict is already blocking attacks for him, swatting at the enemies, though there is only so much he can do when soldiers press in from all sides. Serenoa forces one of them to retreat with a swift swing of his sword. Another man advances in his stead, driving a spear into Erador’s gut.
“Gods, please…” Serenoa’s voice trembles. His hand’s follow suit. “Forgive my carelessness.”
Feeling sorry will not help either of them, will it? He cannot falter. His friends look to him for guidance.
How did his father bear such a heavy burden, all those years back when the last war had torn their nation apart? Serenoa wishes he could ask him, even when he knows deep down that he won’t ever see his father again.
“Don’t you worry about me, lad,” Erador insists. His voice quiets, quiets. “It’s my job… Protectin’ you… Ain’t it nice that I could stick with you until the end?”
The end.
The words drop into Serenoa’s stomach like a stone into a dark pond.
He knew. Of course he knew. There is no prevailing against Hyzante all by themselves. A stubborn part of him has still clung to hope all this time like that would save them, save any of them, though that hope chips away piece by piece as Erador collapses into a clattering pile of armor, joining the mass of bodies.
“Serenoa.” Frederica’s voice cuts through the chaos so cleanly that Serenoa thinks he imagined it for a moment. Her fire devours another mass of enemy soldiers, clearing the path in front of him.
She is right by his side. Gloved hands wipe at the blood staining her face. It clings to her, smeared over her fair skin, tinting her rose hair deep red. Yet, she pushes forward. Her gaze seems to reach for his very core, only for a moment before her attention returns to the enemies ahead. It clings to Serenoa’s spirit all the same.
“Keep fighting, my love.” Another blast of fire dances through the air. Her fingers are charred ashen in the aftermath, shaking. The determination keeps burning in her eyes. “No matter what, keep fighting. We swore to.”
For a brief moment, her conviction lights something in Serenoa as well. He swings wildly at the enemy, if just to protect her from the next incoming strikes. The strength that surges through him is more than just determination, however; Serenoa has fought enough battles by Benedict’s side to recognize his aid in an instant. Roland is the final ally he can still spot over the chaos, all four of them packed into a tight group.
Where are the others?
Are there still others left?
Another enemy down. Dozens upon dozens left to take their place. If they were not surrounded, Serenoa would beg his friends to run. Not that they are likely to try, seeing as they all insisted on joining the fight. Still, he can’t help but imagine a different ending for them.
Benedict back at home, watching over their people. Roland reunited with his sister at last. Frederica tucked away somewhere safe and sound, free of the blood and soot that stains her. She has always been fighting for peace. Why does faith have to deny her that wish?
Serenoa knows deep down that there was no way to convince her otherwise. Frederica would never abandon her people, never turn her back on those in need. That fierce flame of conviction is one of the many reasons he fell in love with her.
Serenoa tries like a man possessed to lend her his strength, to protect her from the onslaught. He cuts down man after man, ignoring the sting of cuts and bruises that pile up as he stands between her and the worst of it. It matters naught. He would rather bleed himself dry than see her hurt. Serenoa wishes – prays, gods, please – that he could keep her safe forever, but there are only so many enemy lances he can break and blades he can block before he gets overwhelmed.
A throwing knife whirrs through the air beside his head. Serenoa tries to swat it away, but it has already flown past since then.
A dull thud. A sharp gasp.
Serenoa’s blood freezes in his veins at the sight of the knife buried in the center of Frederica’s chest.
“Frederica –“
“Eyes ahead, my love.” Her words shake, though not from hesitation.
Serenoa’s body follows the instruction before his mind catches up. He raises his sword, blocking an incoming sword strike in the nick of time. Roland ends the clash before it can get out of hand, his spear claiming another victim.
Focus.
A sphere of fire swells overhead, bright like a second sun. Serenoa battles the urge to turn and look at Frederica. She is right, of course. He must keep his attention on the enemy. Any distraction will leave them both unguarded.
“Now,” Benedict’s voice cuts through the air. The flames surge with renewed power, quicker than anyone unfamiliar with his set of skills can expect. “It is time to strike.”
Frederica’s fire falls upon the mass of enemies – a devastating, final judgement. The ones caught in the center barely have time to scream before their skin burns away, leaving only charred flesh and bone behind. The fallout of the flames spurs up a moment of chaos, men stumbling and flailing in an attempt to extinguish themselves, only succeeding in spreading the fire to their comrades. For a small, merciful moment, Serenoa is allowed to catch his breath.
“Frederica, my love…” Serenoa’s words catch in his throat. Frederica is shaking, her focus flickering like the last embers of a bonfire.
He is running out of time. There are too many words he wants to get out, so much more that she deserves. They are nigh impossible to fit into the moment they have left.
“Thank you…” for staying by my side, for letting me into your heart, for showing me strength I could have never imagined, for –
Her fire extinguishes. A soft exhale, fluttering lids. For a moment, Serenoa swears she is smiling at him. His wife’s body hits the ground like any other.
Keep fighting.
How is he supposed to keep moving when she goes still?
No matter what.
No matter what.
They will all die here. No matter how hard they fight, they will die. Hyzante will claim the Roselle, and their bodies will be left to rot and crumble to dust.
“My lord, you must keep moving,” Benedict urges him on.
Serenoa stumbles back, barely dodging the strike of a sword.
“How…” Serenoa’s breath shudders. “Why?”
“Serenoa, you’ve heard Frederica!” Roland exclaims. He is covered in blood – painting dark blotches onto fine fabric, staining his golden hair rust-red, dripping from his weapon. “Keep fighting. Let’s make sure these Hyzantian dogs never forget this day!”
Serenoa remembers. He remembers setting out with that very goal in mind – not glory, not even victory. None of them ran, knowing they would face certain doom. None of them, for no other reason than that it is right.
They will leave their mark. Frederica has already left hers, burning so brightly that it was impossible to miss. Serenoa doubts he can match her fire, though he owes it to her to try. They will show Norzelia that Frederica’s people – his people – are worth fighting for.
“You’re right, my friend.” Serenoa’s blade is heavy in his hands, heavier than ever. His blows land like strikes of an iron bell. One. Two. Three.
“Raging Beast,” Benedict mutters, granting his tired muscles another surge of strength.
Roland seems near delirious with it, blending into a whirlwind of blood and steel. It is only when a sword slices at his chest that Serenoa notices the cuts littered over the leather and linen and realizes some of that is his own.
Serenoa rushes to his friend’s side, determined to strike down anyone that dares to draw near. One. Two. Roland likewise heaves his body into motion, driving his spear into another gut.
“Keep fighting,” Roland repeats like a mantra, low and muttered beneath his breath – to himself more than anyone, Serenoa concludes.
The exhaustion is apparent in Roland’s every motion, every strike and parry that lands just a touch too heavily. It might have been lost on another man, considering the devastation he yet brings, but Serenoa has gone up against Roland in sparring matches enough times to know his usual fighting style. A nimble dance, swift strikes that land a heartbeat before he slips out of his opponent’s reach. It is nothing like the unwieldy blows he musters now.
“We shall,” Serenoa assures him. His own strikes are sluggish, allowing the enemy to evade him. “You’ve fought well. We’ll have nothing to regret if we keep at it like that.”
Roland’s eyes spark at the recognition, a wavering smile spreading on his lips. Serenoa braces himself for a cocky remark, one last back and forth.
The blade comes forth faster than their words, slicing across Roland’s stomach point blank. Roland’s spear slips from his grasp as the strike connects. A choked cry escapes him, then quick, shallow breaths – Roland’s whole body shakes with them. His hand clutches at his stomach as fresh blood gushes over his legs. He barely keeps his innards from spilling out, trembling fingers pressing up against the red mass.
Serenoa cuts down the swordsman that sealed his friend’s fate, swallowing against the nausea. The stench of blood and death is overwhelming, filling Serenoa’s lungs with every labored breath.
“Thank you, my friend.” Roland’s knees hit the ground first. The rest of his body follows, crumbling forward like a puppet without strings. There is so much blood – spilling out in all directions, soaking into the already rust-tinted ground. Serenoa can’t look away from it. He mustn’t.
He tries to help – tries. Serenoa’s sword swats uselessly against the Hyzantian’s shield as the soldier drives his spearpoint deep into Roland’s back, pinning him to the ground.
Steady now. Roland’s heaving breaths have stilled. He doesn’t feel it.
“Bulwark,” Benedict mutters undeterred, wrapping Serenoa in a protective veil. His steward has stuck close to his side this entire time. Now that it is just the two of them left, Benedict steps forward, catching the next blow of a sword with his arms.
“Benedict –“
“Think nothing of it, my lord.” Benedict readies his cane, bracing himself for the next impact. “It is my duty to serve you in whatever way I can.”
Until the very end, just like Erador has. Just like all of them have.
The Hyzantian soldiers buzz around them like flies swarming a carcass. Serenoa slays one out of the dense mass. What little mark he can still leave, he does.
Another strike meant for him hits Benedict’s chest, drawing blood. His steward barely flinches, gritting his teeth through it.
Benedict mouths another incantation. Serenoa’s body steadies itself once more. Benedict, meanwhile, is left as good as defenseless in front of him.
“Benedict, please, you’ve done enough.” Serenoa blocks a sword strike for them, barely keeping his balance through the force of it. They are surrounded now, soldiers closing in from all sides.
“I cannot allow you to fall,” Benedict presses out, his face twisted into a mask of tenacity. A spear through his chest makes him flinch after all, his steadfast stance wavering. “Not… while I still draw breath.”
“I…”
Serenoa will fall soon. They both will, like their friends before them. They know this well. Benedict must know this, and yet…
Serenoa loathes to see his friend hurt, though he cannot deny him that last wish of his.
“Thank you for staying by my side,” Serenoa says. The fright lifts, leaving his body light as air. “Words cannot express how much it means to me.”
“My lord…” Benedict sinks to his knees when the spear is torn out. Serenoa holds his breath for the next strike that doesn’t come. The Hyzantians part in front of them, halting their efforts. It takes Serenoa a moment to pinpoint the cause of the shift; Exharme directs his horse forward in slow steps, approaching with all the leisurely arrogance of a predator stalking helpless prey.
Serenoa should take the opportunity to lash out wildly, take as many enemies as he can with them to the grave. Instead, he stays by Benedict’s side, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. His friend trembles beneath his touch, his face pinched with pain. His stoic demeanor cracks, leaving him without any defenses, yet Serenoa finds himself respecting his steward more than ever.
“You’ve done all you could.” Serenoa’s voice mellows. “I’m beyond grateful to count you as my friend.”
Benedict’s lips thin, twitching into something that can almost be called a smile. He has done it, he can rest. Serenoa prays it may be so.
He screws his eyes shut when Exharme’s blade slices through the air. His lids flutter and he forces them back open again. He needs to stay present until the very end. He owes his friends that much.
It takes him a moment to recognize the shape of red and gray rolling over the ground as Benedict’s head.
Serenoa swallows against the rising bile, forces himself to breathe, fighting off the lightheadedness. Warm blood gushes over his hand, flowing freely from the stump of Benedict’s neck. Serenoa doesn’t move, not until what is left of his friend’s body collapses to his feet.
He is the last one. Once he dies, the fight will be over.
Serenoa raises his weapon, heavy as if cast in lead. He doesn’t falter under its weight. Exharme leers down at him, not backing away an inch.
Serenoa musters one swipe of his sword. One. It is easily parried. The weight of Exharme’s blade nearly knocks the weapon from his hands, but Serenoa clings on. His muscles scream for rest, but he does not listen. Not until he sees this through to the bitter end, until he earns his last breath – until he is ready to reunite with his friends.
“What a waste.” Exharme raises his blade, its jagged edges catching the harsh sunlight. “All that effort for naught.”
“Not for naught,” Serenoa replies, facing his fate with his head held high.