1 - War is Over (3)

It was surreal, how quickly the camp they had called home for the past three weeks was taken down. Hundreds of tents had once stood on this ground, the grass trodded and muddied down until it became nothing more than barren ground. Gone were the neatly laid out paths from one tent to another, the food lines from one fire to another, all those things that had made it feel like home. 

A couple of wagons were sent from the nearest outpost to help collect the surplus. The soldiers were invited to take whatever was left, supplies for the road home. Several groups of men formed, each with a wagon of their own. They would travel together as they traveled to their hometowns and regions before splitting up. The men laughed and joked as they worked and played while gathering their things and filling the wagons, thinking about their wives and maidens, their sons and their daughters. 

A large funnel of smoke rose high into the air, about three hundred meters out from where the campground used to stand. The acrid smell of burning flesh and a lingering smoke permeated the air. A grim tableau lay before them as lifeless forms lay in somber repose, their stillness accentuated by the macabre sight of bodies piled together. A few men had gathered together to pay their respects to their fallen comrades and officers, sending them off with a salute.

Among the carcasses was a hand with a red handkerchief tied around it. Joon's eyes turned away after having spotted it, unable to look any further. He toyed with the red kerchief on his own arm, twisting the thin material in his fingers. He felt numb.

He hadn't anticipated the day when a treaty would finally be declared, when it would be decreed for them to drop their weapons and join together with the enemy, hand in hand. He knew that all the men were burning to do something, anything, to satisfy the itch of restlessness that fighting had once carved into their beings. The war was over, there should be no need to fight and make busy.

But now, seeing the remnants of carnage before him, he couldn't muster any kind of emotion or energy. His limbs were leaden, his thoughts sluggish, even though his body was screaming at him to start doing something. He wasn't sure if he wanted to run, throw his sword on the ground, or if he wanted to cry and drink until the morning sun would rise. 

What am I going to do? he thought to himself, looking down at his feet. It was an uncomfortable sight to stare at for so long, yet he couldn't bring himself to move. The only response was a soft huffing sound coming from beside him, where a man sat, staring blankly ahead. Joon glanced over his shoulder at him.

"It should've been me," the man whispered. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn't spoken or had a sip of water in days. His eyes were glazed over with a strange emotion Joon couldn't identify. "That man with the red kerchief. He saved my life. If he hadn't pulled me aside, if I'd done something…" His shoulders hunched forward slightly as if in a hug of despair. "This shouldn't have happened."

Joon remained silent, unsure of what to say. 

"You're one of the mercs, right? The Crimson Band. That man was your leader." He trembled, kneading and wringing the tunic in his hands. "How can you stand it? How can you stand looking at me?" he said loudly, almost shouting at Joon. The men around them glanced at each other, watching him break. The man threw back his head and let out a guttural laugh. "I killed him. Gods, I killed him." He stared at the blazing fire, oblivious to the stares and murmurs behind him. "How can you stand looking at me?"

There wasn't much time to think. Joon knew that the moment the man would stop talking, he would do something irrational. Something rash, stupid, and potentially dangerous. So, without saying a word, Joon reached out and put a hand on the man's shoulder. The gesture seemed enough to calm the man's nerves a little, enough to pull him out of whatever pit he had slipped into and back into reality. He looked over at Joon, his gaze wild and frightened, as if he was seeing him for the first time. 

Joon shook his head, holding onto the man, who looked like he was about to bolt at any second. "He may be dead," Joon told him quietly, as if speaking to a child. "But you are alive. You owe him your life. Do not waste it rashly."

The man didn't respond, frozen as if he were petrified, his breath caught in his throat. Then, slowly, he nodded as if the mysteries of the world had been explained to him, and looked back toward the fire. Joon gave him another squeeze on the shoulder before letting go. There was nothing more to say. He walked away, making for the rest of the crowd.

"Wait!" the man cried out behind him. "What is your name, Crimson Mercenary?" he asked.

Joon halted. "Joon," he responded simply.

The man nodded again, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Eodwin," he offered in response.

Joon nodded, then resumed walking toward the group of men gathered near the campfire. 

***

As night fell, the surviving men of the Crimson Band gathered around the campfire, many of them drunk or staggering. A few were accompanied by crates, some held their belongings. The Duke and several members of the Knights of Suneo had joined them, sitting nearby with cups of ale in hand, conversing and laughing.

"I can't believe it's really over," Arlan said, looking around at the men.

"I don't know about you fine gentlemen, but I'm ready to return to my home and family," a soldier added. "This war has been bloody and exhausting. We'll need some sleep, too."

Arlan laughed. "I don't know if I'll be able to sleep," he joked. "I might wake up at the crack of dawn, anticipating the horn call. But I think we've earned some rest."

"We have," another man replied. "Let's celebrate, shall we? Crimson, give us a toast."

A Crimson Mercenary with braided hair grinned widely, thrusting his mug into the air. "To peace! To victory! And to booze!" he said enthusiastically. A cheer erupted among the men as they began drinking and singing songs. Their joy was infectious. Not even the threat of death could dampen their spirits or distract them from the euphoria that came with the end of the war, at least for now.

As he polished off his dagger, Joon couldn't help but feel at odds with the group. His memory drifted back to the Crimson Band leader. His name was Balch, a man from the southern territories of Gyeowon. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jawline, strong brow, and strong nose. He was a good fighter and had commanded the band for years. Joon had only known him for two years before the war had begun. His wife and daughter lived in the village of Oromis further south of here, with the rest of their tribe. He sighed and let the blade fall from his hands. Someone would have to tell his family of the fate that met him. 

"Your Grace," a man asked the Duke. "What shall you do now that the war is over?" 

The Duke downed the contents of his mug and wiped his mouth. "I'll be going home. I haven't seen my precious Serin in years. It will take me a while to set the castle into good condition again, I imagine," he said with a shrug, leaning on the log behind him. 

A smile broke out across the face of one of the older Knights seated on the other side of the Duke. "Lady Serin?" he said incredulously. "I remember when she was just a toddling child, struggling to walk. Such a shy lass. I can't imagine why." There was laughter in the man's voice.

Another Knight nodded. "Ah yes, that poor girl, so small and frail. Always afraid of anything bigger than her."

"And you, Joon?" the Duke asked, setting his mug down. "Are you returning with the Band?"

He hesitated. "I'm not sure yet, my lord." 

The Duke raised his eyebrows at Joon. "You don't plan to stay here, do you?" he teased.

He shook his head. But the truth was, he had nowhere to go. As welcoming as the Band had been, as safe and comfortable as they had been, the painful lack of their leader's presence weighed upon him, reminding him that things had changed. Everything was different now. 

"Then it appears you will have to stick with us," the Duke announced, clapping him heartily on the arm. "I'm sure we could use another Knight in our ranks. You fought valiantly, Joon. In fact, you've made yourself quite an asset." There were murmurs of agreement coming from the other Knights surrounding them, which Joon found both flattering and unnerving. He didn't deserve such praise, after all. "In any case," the Duke continued, resting his head on his propped-up elbow, "you may travel with us until you decide where you wish to go."

Joon bowed his head and mumbled a thanks, trying his best to hide his relief. The dagger on the ground laughed at him.