What keeps me going? I don't think I do this for myself. So, who am I doing it for?
Something whistled as it flew past Milo's ear.
A bird? No—
The boy's eyes locked onto the knight in front of him. The knight lay close to the ground. His stomach was curled as his head dangled above the ground.
I need to...
"Kill... him..." Milo muttered.
His fingers slowly peeled away from the sword's handle.
*Chk*
The shortsword fell from his grip and dug deep into the soil. His knees followed. Black splotches grew in his vision, and his mind muddied.
Fingers and limbs refused him as he tried to keep himself upright. The ground rushed up. Chest first. Then his head.
The... knight...
Milo looked up at his opponent. Fired from atop the castle walls, an arrow burrowed deep into his skull.
Something was wrong. Milo's body felt light. His mind did not.
The boy heaved as the strain of his throat made an audible wheeze. A mix of air and dirt was sucked into his lungs.
The gash in his shoulder burned, hot and wet.
Screams and swords clashed somewhere above him. Boots thundered past him.
*Thud*
A knight of Broxonlec collapsed beside him. His eyes were peeled open. He didn't blink. His mouth hung slack, as if he'd forgotten how to close it.
Blood pooled around the knight's helmet and drained toward Milo. A small river of red collected at the boy's cheek. His tongue tasted copper.
Milo's fingers twitched, but nothing changed. His chest rose in a broken breath.
He could not turn away.
The world blurred into smears of color and motion. Shapes collided and bled together until nothing made sense.
Broxonlec's line broke as the soldiers fled. In the distance, a white flag drew in the remaining forces.
The white burned into his mind as he finally saw black.
...
Milo woke up with his back against the castle wall. His tunic was torn open, and his upper body was exposed. Bandages wrapped tightly around his wounds. His eyes fluttered, but refused to open.
Adrenaline flickered through him as he tried to move. His limbs answered slowly—like chains were tying him down.
"S— Sword," he mumbled.
His left hand grazed the dirt as he felt around for the sharp steel.
"Whoa whoa whoa!"
Someone called as they ran over to the boy. He was dressed mostly in white with a pin of Lady Vespus on his chest. Milo tried to squint to see, but his eyes lazed around.
The boy's head began to fall over, but the man caught it.
Small hands.
He propped Milo back up straight against the wall.
Strange green mush coated the man's fingers as he rubbed it across Milo's forehead, chest, and shoulder.
Instant relief washed over the boy. He had almost forgotten the constant pain radiating throughout his body. The surge of adrenaline began to wear off. Vision began to creep back in as he gained more control of his body.
"T— Tha— Thank—"
The man hushed him and nodded.
"No need," he smiled.
The muddiness in his ears began to clear, and Milo started to realize that the person treating him had a younger voice.
As Milo sharpened his vision, he saw a boy in front of him. Milo couldn't guess his exact age, but knew it was somewhat close to his own.
About fourteen. Maybe.
Milo turned his head slowly as he looked for his weapon. The knife he once had was nowhere to be seen. His shortsword rested against the wall next to him.
As he looked to his left and right, Milo noticed the sheer number of soldiers lined against the wall. Frantically, he looked to the battlefield, only to see no one fighting.
"It's over," the older boy said.
"It ended about an hour ago."
He paused.
"Only the bodies remain..."
The boy clasped his hands and whispered a prayer that Milo didn't catch much of.
Milo planted his hands beside himself.
"W— What are you doing?!"
"Humph!"
Groans tore from Milo as he pushed himself upright. The older boy looked on in disbelief.
"You— You shouldn't even be able to move right now."
As Milo reached a balanced position, he dropped his head back against the wall and let out a deep breath.
"Wha—"
Milo's breath choked.
"What's your name?"
"D— Damian, sir."
Milo began to stumble away as he held his shoulder.
"Drop the 'sir,' you're probably older than me."
"W— What's yours, then?!" The boy shouted.
Throwing his hand above his head and waving it side to side, Milo called back.
"Milo!"
He found his way to the same gate he left from. Other soldiers seemed impatient in their trek back to their homes. Maybe to see loved ones, or to escape the bloodshed.
Milo was hungry.
At the partifold's gate, the same small man he first saw when he arrived stood outside with a piece of paper.
"Name?" He asked the soldiers as they crossed back over into the training grounds.
Milo waited until it was his turn.
"Name?"
"Milo."
The man looked up from his paper, hesitant to mark the boy off.
"Well, I'll be damned."
His focus shifted back to the pages.
"Captain Fowler wants you in his office."
*Knock knock knock*
"Come in."
Milo crept the office door open as he walked in slowly. Fowler sat at his desk with his back turned to the door.
"So... you survived."
The man stood and walked around to the front of the table. A warm smile rested on his face.
"..."
"How was it?"
Milo didn't know how to respond.
All of the memories surfaced at once. He looked at his hands to see that the blood had been washed clean.
But they still shook.
Tears fell to his palms as he looked back up.
Fowler waved him over.
The boy stumbled forward and broke. The tears came without warning. Sharp, uneven breaths tore through his chest.
Fowler stepped into him before he could fall. Strong arms wrapped around the boy's shoulders. A steady hand patted his back, slow and rhythmic, as if calming a frightened animal.
"Easy," Fowler murmured.
Milo buried his face against the captain's chest. Snot and tears soaked into the leather.
"It's alright."
The smile on Fowler's face didn't falter.
After a while, Milo told him about what had happened. He spoke of helping some of the knights and of his one-on-one battle with the young Broxonlec soldier.
Throughout the conversation, Fowler simply nodded in response.
"You did well, son."
Milo flinched at the words, and a soft smile formed on his face.
"You've proven yourself."
Milo looked up.
"I've... what?"
"In one month's time, you'll join a couple of soldiers on a mission. Between now and then, you will continue to fight, just like you did today."
"F— Fight who? Didn't we win?"
Fowler sighed.
"The war is far from over, son. That was simply one attack."
"Well... how many more of those do we have to do before we win?"
"War isn't so simple. Even I can't give you an answer to your question. Could be one or two, could be hundreds."
Fowler lifted his hands in a small shrug.
Milo sat in silence and listened as all the thoughts he had of the battle being over vanished. Fowler placed his hand on Milo's shoulder and looked at him.
"I will make you strong. You will survive this, son."
The words seemed to make Milo's shoulders relax.
Strength. I need strength.
"Missions."
Fowler's head twisted to the side as he raised an eyebrow.
"Missions?" he repeated.
"I need to go on more missions to get stronger, right? I'll train here, and you send me on missions in between fights."
Fowler's hold on Milo's shoulder tightened. Pain flared in his wound, but Fowler quickly released his grip.
"No. You will only go on missions I deem necessary. And that will be after you learn to fight properly."
Milo nodded.
"Good, now go downstairs and help prepare."
"Prepare?"
Fowler walked back around to his desk and shuffled some papers.
"Yes. You will help prepare the funeral."