26 – Willowdale
The bearded historian nodded, “Exactly. Next thing they know, they’re getting pounded into the dirt with rolling thunder artillery and an army of peasants is fighting and winning against their trained martial artists using mundane blades and glorified muskets. No wonder they pulled out all the stops, to them it must’ve been like Ikesia climbed onto the table of international affairs and pissed on it to claim it as territory.”
Makhus chuckled spitefully at that. “And they’ll just keep tryin’ to stomp us down to make sure we don’t threaten their rule,” he said, losing control of his voice and dropping into something approaching a growl. “War reparations for the crime of what, losin’?”
“For the audacity of fighting back, more like,” Sigmund replied. “And I’d wager they’re more than willing to kick us while we’re down if we start rebuilding a little too quickly. Maybe incite some extremism to justify further occupation, who knows. Not much stopping them with the Sage dead.”
Somehow, none of them had any more to say. Zelsys was more than happy to learn about different points of view before forming her own opinion of the world at large, whilst both Zefaris and Makhus were simply not particularly eager to poke at the open wound that was the possible future of their homeland. And so, they just continued to walk, the silence looming over them like the shadow of the very war they had hidden from in the Exclusion Zone.
And indeed, soon enough they reached the edge of the forest, greeted with fields of green and rolling hills as far as the eye could see. They walked the gravel road between the fields, the three soldiers’ eyes lighting up as they looked about and saw distant groups of people, plowing their fields and sewing seeds.
Zelsys felt the warm winds of summer blow through her hair, the wide open countryside stretching out entirely unlike the confines of the forest. She couldn’t help but smile, finding a strange sense of reassurance in the toil of these distant people - a proof of life’s continuation, of struggle for recovery in the wake of a great catastrophe that she knew she lacked context for.
Fields of grass and weeds soon turned to fields of wheat, the roadside ditches filled with blood-red poppy flowers. Zelsys stepped toward a spot in the ditch with many of these crimson blossoms, and saw that they grew amidst the sun-bleached ribs of a long-dead soldier. With her feet squarely in the ditch, she could feel the death that dwelt just inches below - it was unlike the disgusting feeling of rot and decay, it was a peaceful resignation of life in the face of entropy.
Wishing the soldier a peaceful rest, she plucked a handful of the flowers and got back on the road before the others walked too far ahead. She stuck them into her braids by the stems as she walked. When she was nearly done and had but one left, just as she wondered which braid had more flowers, she caught Zefaris looking, hands raised as she counted.
“Which one’s got more?” she asked.
“Both have three,” came the answer.
Beaming with her usual ear-to-ear smile, she handed the last poppy flower to the markswoman, “This one’s yours, then.”
A smile briefly turned to an amused grin when she saw the snow-white face turning a shade of pink as Zefaris threaded the flower’s stem into her ponytail.
“Y’done over there?” chimed in the swordsman in his rugged manner of speech. “The town’s s’posed to be just over this hill.”
As they crested the hill they saw that he was right, at least partially.
Over the hill, there stretched yet more fields, mountains reaching high into the sky over the horizon, and a line of trees dividing the fields to suggest the presence of a river. But down that hill, there stood a town… Or at least, what was left of it. To Zelsys, it looked to have at some point been a well-to-do farming town, perhaps a few thousand people strong, but now, it looked like some sort of perverted rorschach. They stopped at the top of that hill, observing what awaited below.
What Makhus had described as a town was just a vaguely circular layout of half-collapsed buildings, with perhaps a little more than a third of the town’s houses still in outwardly good condition. There stood the remnants of a wall around the town, huge holes blasted into it at multiple points, those visible barely covered over by planks or piles of rubble. Even so, a brick gateway still awaited them at the end of the road, a pair of people stood outside leaned against the wall.
Makhus’s face twisted into a grimace, his veneer of stoicism utterly melting away in a deluge of grief and rage. She heard his joints pop, his fists clenched tightly as he broke into an aggressive stride down the hill. “Fuckin’ animals,” he growled. Howling to the heavens, his voice became hoarse as the swordsman vented his fury. “Willowdale was meant to be untouched!”
The sense of optimistic levity that Zelsys had managed to cultivate evaporated in a manner of seconds, and as they ran after him to catch up, she could do nothing but allow herself to be dragged into the murk of melancholy. He didn’t look like he was going to calm down, and so she did the first thing that came to mind.
She took a breath and tackled him, using the exhalation of Fog to instantly get on top of him before he could regain his bearings. The swordsman struggled, but surprisingly, he failed to get out from under her, doubly so after she pinned his wrists to the ground. She was relieved that none of the seal-bottles broke.
His murderous glare pierced through her, his teeth flashing in a snarl like a mad dog. “You’re in no place to call anyone an animal, you rabid dog of war,” she admonished with no undertone of humor or nonchalance.
For a moment it sounded like he was growling at her, but a second later, Makhus turned his head and coughed up a glob of bloody spit. When his eyes met hers again, he was calmer, but barely-restrained fury still burned behind his glare.