SHARDS OF CHIVALRY

Theobald

For chivalry. For honor. For selflessness.

Things my former self thought were pathetic and suicidal. Now I'm clinging on to the same things as reason, and fuel, to be able to take a step forward, from one bad news to another. Darian puts a hand on my shoulder for comfort, before getting on his horse and riding away to spread the news. Him and five others. The rest of us go back to work hoping we die in our sleep tonight.

The wind doesn't howl, it scrapes. Like a blade dragged over old stone, thin and cold, cutting low across the field where we stand. Torches have been jammed into the ground in long rows, their flames trembling in the gusts. It's pitch dark so the're not for warmth. I wish I didn't have to see everyone's faces, hollow-eyes, stubbled, tight-lipped. We are thousands tonight, and still the field feels too wide. I'm guessing the only ones here are the ones off duty.

I've never experienced silence like this, not even in the forest when I train, when the birds go quiet like there's danger approaching. This silence is heavier, and it sits in my chest like a stone. It's a creepy reminder that soon, very soon, most of us, if not all of us might meet our maker, and unfortunately, there won't be people left to hold services to put us to rest.

The only bodies that were brought back were those of two knights. The others were left on the battle ground to complete the circle of life.

The shrouds lie at the center of the field, resting on thick wooden planks. A crimson cloth covers the bodies completely, drawn tight over the shapes of arms crossed over chests, legs straightened in death. Their swords have been placed beside them. Their helms perched atop two iron pikes dug into pikes dug into the dirt. The flames catch on to the metal and then the cloth, and then their bodies.

As we watch them burn, the Prince steps forward. He's wearing black, no insignia save the Grendale crest pressed into the clasp of his collar, no gold, no crown. His boots crunch softly over the gravel as he walks towards the bodies. There is a tiny leaf hidden in his golden hair, probably fell on him as he stood beneath a tree earlier. How do I know? I'm standing in the front lines.

"We lost Harrowgate." He starts, bitterly, "We also lost hundreds of men, and two of our beloved knights. Sir. Corwin Vale, and Sir. Emeric Greaves. They will always be remembered, and their sacrifice will not be in vain." He continues, "These men saved more lives than we can count over the course of their lives, and as much as I regret not being there for them at the gates, I cannot dwell on regrets. From this day forward, all armies will be led by me. Tomorrow, Sir. Lorn will divide you into groups. Some of you will stay here, and some of you will come with me to Draymere."

"Aye!" we all respond.

"Let's make sure their sacrifices were not in vain, for Grendale."

"For Grendale!" we respond once more in unison.

He nods once, sharply, and steps back, and that's when I shift my attention from him to the men around me. Some look like they're already perking up, but some of them look scared to death. I have come to terms with myself that this sort of thing is going to happen a few more times. After that, so much will have been lost and I will be more terrified than I am now. And so, knowing this, I have also come to terms that when the time comes, I will die, and there is no man in the world that can prevent that from happening. I just hope that by then, I will have served Grendale and died an honorable death.

The crowd begins to break. One by one, everyone leaves. I keep my hands clasped behind my back as I watch the torches sway. I watch the shadows stretch across the dirt where we just trained two mornings ago chasing banners in the sun. I am trying to keep happy memories on the surface of my mind, but it is very, very hard.

"When I was twelve years old," his Highness starts and I jump. I hadn't even realized I'm still lingering. "Sir. Vale caught me trying to drown a civilian child into the lake outside the castle."

I stare at his back that's facing me, completely stunned. I think I might be the only one left on the field, spare the men who are now collecting the ashes of Sir. Vale and Sir. Greaves.

"I was angry about something stupid that I cannot even remember, and that boy had just tried to steal from me." he continues, "He smacked the hell out of me."

I start to laugh but quickly suppress it. His royal Highness might be built like me, might be tall like me, but he could still waste me if we fought one on one. And even if by the slight chance I waste him, it would be an 'off with my head' situation.

"Must have been some good smacking, if you still remember it to this day," why can't I just shut my big mouth.

"It was," he lets out a light laugh, "I went to cry to my father and everything, and the next time I saw him, he smacked me again."

I laugh, and then he turns around to face me, "George," holding out his hand.

"Ugh, duh," I shake his hand, "Everyone knows you."

"Right," he smiles.

"I'm Theobald," I say and he pulls a weird look.

"Really? I must say you do not strike me as a 'Theobald'."

"I get that a lot." I pocket my hands and mentally question myself why it is that I'm still lingering and talking to royalty. His royal Highness asks me a couple of questions and I answer them, and after a little while, he decides to go back to the castle.

The castle where he sleeps.

The castle where he eats meat and drinks wine.

Alright, I've had my fair share of wine but I'm sure he drinks a lot of it. I'm not going to lie, every man, including me, wishes they were him. I've always wondered what it's like to have immeasurable wealth. What it's like to live without worrying about what will be eaten when. Part of that is my fault, and the fault of my rod for needing women. Anyway, it's not like it matters now. Although it sounds sick, I will allow myself to be comforted by the thought that we are all mortal and are all going to die.

War is inherently cruel.