Cold Night

⁕⁕⁕

As Aden conversed with the others, his attention was drawn to the figure of old man Jedd, lying motionless by his side. The elderly man's body rocked gently, his movements betraying the turmoil of a restless slumber – a nightmare from which he seemed unable to wake.

"I'm sorry," the old man suddenly grumbled, the words escaping his lips in a strained murmur.

"Huh?" Aden glanced at Jedd, his brow furrowing as he registered the distress etched upon the man's weathered features.

"I'm sorry...Lororis...I'm sorry," Jedd continued to ramble, his voice tinged with anguish as he wrestled with the demons that haunted his dreams.

Concern etched itself across Aden's face as he witnessed the old man's struggle. Gently, he reached out and rocked Jedd's body, hoping to rouse him from the grip of the nightmare that held him captive. "Hey, old man, you all right?"

For a moment, Jedd remained unresponsive, trapped in the depths of his subconscious torment. Then, with a sudden gasp, his eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused as he stared up at the canopy of trees overhead.

Before Aden could react, Jedd's hand shot out, grasping the fabric of Aden's shirt with a surprising strength. "Where...Where am I?" the old man rasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and fear.

Aden held perfectly still, his own hand instinctively reaching out to steady Jedd's trembling form. "Easy now," he soothed, his voice low and calming. "You're safe, old man. We're in the Wyvern's Wood, taking shelter from the harpies."

As the fog of disorientation began to lift, Jedd's grip on Aden's shirt loosened, his body slumping back against the forest floor. A haunted expression flickered across his features, the remnants of the nightmare still lingering in the depths of his eyes.

"Lororis..." he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer, weighted with a lifetime of regret and sorrow.

Aden watched silently as the old man's gaze drifted, his mind once again retreating into the labyrinth of his memories. It was a poignant reminder of the toll that their struggle had taken, not only on their physical beings but on their very souls.

In that moment, Aden couldn't help but wonder what ghosts haunted the minds of the others gathered in this makeshift refuge. What nightmares plagued their slumbers, what demons did they wrestle with in the depths of their subconscious?

As he glanced around at the weary faces of his comrades, he saw echoes of Jedd's torment reflected in their eyes – a shared burden of trauma and loss that bound them together in their shared struggle.

With a heavy heart, Aden turned his attention back to the old man, offering what meager comfort he could in the form of his steady presence.

"Forest what? Who are you people?" Old man Jedd's voice grew increasingly frantic, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar surroundings as he struggled to make sense of his reality.

Aden watched helplessly as the old man's distress mounted, his heart aching at the sight of the once-proud engineer's deteriorating mental state. "Where is Lororis? Where is she?" Jedd pleaded, his gaze desperately seeking answers that Aden could not provide.

"Who is Lororis?" Aden asked gently, recalling the name that had tumbled from the old man's lips during his restless slumber.

"I need to go... I need to find her... save her," Jedd insisted, his words tumbling over each other in a frenzy of desperation. "I need to go to Arby lake..."

With what little strength remained in his frail body, the old man pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily as he began to stumble towards the edge of the forest. Each step seemed to sap what little vigor he had left, his movements growing more erratic as the source of light grew fainter, and the darkness of the night enveloped him.

Aden sprang into action, quickly closing the distance between them before Jedd could wander too far from the safety of their makeshift camp. "Wait, don't go," he urged, his voice tinged with concern. "It's not safe; there are harpies in the village."

But Jedd was lost in the throes of his delusion, shaking his head vehemently as he waved off Aden's warning. "No, no, there can't be harpies in the village... they are in the lake... they are in the lake."

"There are no lakes in this part of the mountain, Jedd," Aden tried to reason, his tone gentle yet insistent as he attempted to guide the confused old man back to reality.

It was then that Father Edgar arrived, his weathered features etched with concern as he moved to embrace the disoriented Jedd. "Easy, Jedd," the aged cleric soothed, his voice a calming balm against the storm of the old man's fractured mind.

"Who... who are you?" Jedd asked, his gaze unfocused as he peered into Father Edgar's face, seemingly unable to reconcile the visage before him with the memories that lingered in his addled mind.

"It's me, Edgar," the cleric replied, his tone patient and understanding.

"Edd?" Jedd squinted, his brow furrowing as he took in the lines of age that criss-crossed Father Edgar's features. "Why... why are you so old? So many wrinkles... your hair... grey."

A look of profound sadness flickered across Father Edgar's face as he bore witness to the ravages of time that had stripped away Jedd's grasp on reality. "It's all right, Jedd," he soothed, his voice a gentle anchor amidst the chaos of the old man's fractured mind. "Come, let's go back to the campfire."

With Aden's assistance, they gently guided the disoriented Jedd back towards the flickering flames, the old man's steps faltering and unsteady. As they eased him down onto the ground, his eyes darted around the camp, his gaze finally settling on the sleeping form of Hjalmar.

"No, no, Ed," Jedd protested, his voice tinged with a newfound urgency as he struggled against their gentle restraint. "We don't have much time... have to save her... she is... the tavern fellows..."

Jedd's words trailed off into an incoherent murmur, his body slumping forward as the last vestiges of his strength ebbed away. As Aden cradled the old man's weight, he heard Jedd's voice, little more than a whisper, drifting up from the depths of his torment.

"...They got her."

The old man's gaze lowered, his shoulders trembling as the floodgates of his sorrow finally burst forth. Guttural sobs tore from his frail frame as he wept uncontrollably, the weight of a lifetime of regret and anguish crashing down upon him in that singular, devastating moment.

And then, as suddenly as the tempest had consumed him, Jedd's body went limp, his eyes fluttering closed as he slipped once more into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness.

Aden could only watch helplessly as the old man's spirit retreated into the depths of his shattered psyche, a casualty not of physical wounds but of the emotional trauma that had festered within him for decades untold.

Aden couldn't make sense of the unfolding scene before him. Ethan, Oliver, Phil, Kazama, and Gilbert all looked upon the old man with pity and concern as he raved and ranted, his words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. Is he becoming senile, or is he just in shock from the impact of the destroyed hwacha? Aden wondered. He had heard the name "Lororis" slip from Jedd's drunken ramblings a few nights prior, but never would he have imagined that this woman held such profound importance to the lecherous old man.

In their dire circumstances, with stress and trauma weighing heavily upon them all, it was no surprise that some would succumb to the fraying of their mental fortitude. A man of Jedd's age, burdened by the hardships they had endured, was perhaps more vulnerable than most.

Father Edgar stood by the old man's side, a silent guardian, his expression a mixture of concern and familiarity. The two men were of similar age, and Aden could sense a deep history between them, forged in the fires of youth long since passed.

"What's with Lororis?" Aden ventured to ask, though he held little hope of receiving a response from Father Edgar, whose defense of a killer had already cost him Aden's respect.

To his surprise, Father Edgar answered without hesitation, his gaze fixed upon Jedd's trembling form. "She was his long-lost love."

As if roused by the weightiness of the subject, Father Edgar began to feed the flickering campfire, stoking the flames with sticks and branches as he delved into Jedd's past.

"I never knew the girl," he began, his voice taking on a wistful tone. "Jedd and I became acquainted at the Regalyon Academy after he had already lost his love."

The shadows danced across Father Edgar's weather-worn features as he tended to the fire, coaxing it higher with each deliberate motion. "He was a walking contradiction," he continued. "By day, he was the most hardworking acolyte in the academy, yet by night, we would have to haul his drunken form from every corner and alleyway in the streets of Lyondyn."

Father Edgar's eyes grew distant, lost in the memories of those bygone days. "He was always calling out that name, Lororis, over and over in his drunken stupor. He never spoke of her, but someone from his hometown said that he had never touched a drop of wine until he met some crooks in a tavern. Something happened, and he started drinking to dull the pain."

The flames crackled and snapped, casting a warm glow over the pair as Father Edgar stoked the fire anew. "After we graduated, he became a sapeur, an engineer contractor for the imperial army. The mobile knockdown hwacha was his brainchild, his crown jewel. Unlike other hwachas from the Far East, you can see that Jedd's design allowed for installation almost anywhere."

With a weary sigh, Father Edgar straightened, his eyes meeting Aden's once more. "The very weapon that nearly claimed his life was the culmination of his life's work. Yet, in the end, it seemed that the ghosts of his past were what truly haunted him."

The still silence of the campfire was shattered by a cavernous yawn as Hjalmar stirred from his slumber. "Brrrr, it's so cold out here," he grumbled, hugging himself tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the chill.

"Serves you right," Ethan quipped, a teasing lilt to his voice. "You're the one with the smart idea to fight the muscular harpy butt naked."

Hjalmar shot him a withering look as he fumbled with the fastenings of his clothes, his fingers numb from the frigid air. "Well, I never thought we'd end up spending the night in this freezing forest," he grumbled in response.

A mischievous glint flickered in Ethan's eyes as he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Are you a homey?" he asked, his lips quirking into a sly grin.

Hjalmar's brow furrowed in confusion as he wrestled with the stubborn buttons of his shirt. "Why...how do you get that idea?" he sputtered, unable to mask his incredulity at the unexpected question.

Oliver, sensing the potential for entertainment, perked up with interest. "Only a homey loves to flaunt their sweet ass in public," Ethan explained, his tone dripping with mock seriousness.

Hjalmar's eyes widened in indignation, his movements becoming more frantic as he struggled to dress himself properly. "No, I'm a real man of man," he declared vehemently. "My dick only dips inside women's pussies, and there's only one thing that gets inside my butt, and it's not someone else's dick!"

A smattering of chuckles rippled through the group at Hjalmar's impassioned defense of his masculine pride, the reaction only serving to further ruffle his feathers.

"I bet you are," Ethan drawled, clearly relishing the opportunity to needle his comrade further.

"I'm curious," Oliver piped up, his youthful voice cutting through the banter.

Hjalmar paused in his frenzied dressing, his gaze settling on the inquisitive boy. "What?" he grunted, already bracing himself for whatever mischief was brewing.

"The imperial guards searched us thoroughly, right?" Oliver began, his tone deceptively innocent.

"Aye," Hjalmar replied warily, finally managing to fasten the last of his buttons.

"Where did you hide that tube of that extra strength drug thingy?" Oliver pressed, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Realization dawned on Hjalmar's face as he recognized the implication behind Oliver's question. "You mean the stone tonic?" he clarified, his tone taking on a weary edge.

"Yeah, that tonic," Oliver affirmed eagerly.

Hjalmar let out a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Hey, kid, listen," he began, his voice heavy with fatigue. "I'm tired and battered."

He punctuated his words with a jaw-cracking yawn, stretching his arms above his head before adjusting his now properly attired form into a more comfortable position. Leaning forward, he fixed Oliver with an intense stare.

"I'll give you some advice," he intoned solemnly. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

Oliver's brow furrowed in confusion, his youthful stubbornness refusing to be deterred. "What? What is it? Tell me!" he insisted, his voice rising in pitch with each demand.

A hush fell over the adults gathered around the fire, their expressions ranging from amusement to discomfort as they sensed the direction the conversation was heading.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the crackle of the flames, until finally, realization dawned on Oliver's face. His eyes widened in horror as he connected the dots, recalling Hjalmar's earlier assertion about the only thing that entered his body through that particular orifice.

"Eww," he exclaimed, recoiling in disgust as the implications became all too clear.

The tension broke in a chorus of laughter, the adults reveling in Oliver's discomfort while Hjalmar simply shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Sometimes, the best lessons were learned the hard way.

The raucous laughter died on their lips as the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps cut through the revelry. The volunteers exchanged furtive glances, their mirth swiftly giving way to solemnity as a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Corporal Knightly, his dark skin taking on an almost ethereal sheen in the flickering light of the campfire.

"Volunteers, gather around," the corporal commanded, his deep voice resonating with authority. "It's time to talk about a plan."

A palpable hush fell over the group as they rose to their feet, instinctively obeying the summons. Corporal Knightly's gaze swept over them, his expression inscrutable.

"Join us by the campfire," he instructed. His head tilted, gesturing towards the flickering flames in the distance.

With a collective intake of breath, the volunteers steeled themselves for the gravity of the situation at hand. The time for levity had passed; now, they would face the harsh realities of their predicament and determine the course that might lead them to salvation – or oblivion.

⁕⁕⁕