Day after day, he prayed to God, and yet, day after day, the only answer he got was more death amongst his people. The first few battles and skirmishes were, more or less, heavily in their favor, but their luck didn't last for long. Almost as soon as the enemy fleet started making its way towards Volantis, an army of a few thousand sellswords made camp on top of the hills surrounding their small outpost.
Gerald stared at the altar as the candles flickering weakly, barely illuminating the room he was kneeling. He had been praying here for hours, hoping for a sign, any sign, that their suffering had a purpose. But the silence was deafening, even for someone like him who had seen the power of their grandmaster in action, the past days had made him question his faith.
"Why, Lord?" he whispered in a hoarse manner. "Why have You abandoned us?"
As soon as he spoke, Gerald closed his eyes, trying to recapture the fervor he once felt. The memory of his first vows, the conviction in his heart as he swore to serve God's will, seemed like a distant dream. He had believed then, with every fiber of his being, that he was part of a divine plan, that their cause was just, and that God watched over them.
But now, he could not ignore the creeping doubts that gnawed at his soul. Each day brought more suffering, more loss. The men he had trained with, laughed with, prayed with, were being cut down or shot one by one. Every night, their screams haunted his dreams, and the weight of their blood was a heavy burden on his conscience, one that no matter how much he prayed and asked for forgiveness, Gerald would never be able to relieve himself from.
As he rose from his knees, he looked out the small window at the encamped enemy. Their fires dotted the hills, making them easily seen in dark of night, but that didn't matter as Gerald didn't possessed the means to attack them, after all what could 20 trained soldiers and a few wounded alongside women and children could do against thousands of armored sellswords? How could this be God's will? What purpose could there be in this relentless slaughter?
Gerald's mind wandered to the teachings of his grandmaster. The young lord spoke of trials and tribulations, of faith being tested in the crucible of adversity yet in all honesty, so far, those things seemed more like stories. And now, as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, without respite, Gerald began to wonder if these were the words of a child grasping for hope in the chaos, rather than divine truth that would lead to their salvation.
"Mayhaps," he thought, "this is not the way. Mayhaps we have been misled. Mayhaps, Konrad Arryn is not his Angel… "
The thought was blasphemous, and he recoiled from it instinctively. But it persisted, like a thorn in his mind. He remembered the stories from the holy books, books written by a ten name days old boy, about the miracles and divine interventions that seemed so distant from their current plight. If God was as real and as powerful as the books claimed, why had He forsaken them in their hour of need?
"Are we not worthy?" Gerald questioned aloud, letting his voice echo in the empty chapel. "Or is it that He is not there at all?"
The realization hit him like a hammer. Ever since he had been allowed to see the "light", he had always believed, without question, that God guided their steps. But now, faced with this unending despair, Gerald was no longer sure. And that uncertainty terrified him.
No matter how much he wanted, Gerald knew he could not share these thoughts with his brothers. To voice such doubts would be seen as heresy, a betrayal of everything they stood for and above all, he was just some random knight of the order, not one of the first ones to take the black and white and swear themselves to the order and God. Yet, he could not banish them from his mind. Every prayer felt hollow, and every invocation seemed like a plea to an absent deity, one made… to control them.
As the days wore on, Gerald found himself praying less and less, after all, his heart no longer desires it. Instead, he focused on the tangible, the immediate. The lives of his men depended on his judgement, not on some divine intervention that would never come.
In the quiet moments before dawn, when the camp was still, Gerald would stand watch, keeping his eyes scanned onto the horizon. He no longer prayed for a miracle.
This sudden war had taken much from him, but the greatest loss was his unwavering faith. And as Brother Gerald prepared for another day of fighting, he wondered if, maybe just maybe wouldn't it be better to surrender?
As Gerald leaned against the cold stone wall, strange thoughts roamed inside his mind. The idea of surrender had wormed its way into his mind, persistent and insidious. It was an act that would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago, an act of ultimate betrayal in the eyes of his faith and comrades. Yet, as he watched the enemy fires flickering in the distance, the notion grew more appealing.
"Is surrender truly blasphemy?" he wondered out loud. "Or is it the only way to save those who still live?"
The sellswords surrounding their outpost were ruthless but pragmatic. They fought for coin, not for glory or honor. Gerald reasoned that they would gain more by capturing the outpost intact, taking its inhabitants as hostages, than by laying siege and risking their own lives. The thought of negotiating with such men was repugnant, but if it meant sparing his people further suffering, it might be the only viable option that he had left, other than dying a meaningless death.
Gerald knew the real question was whether these sellswords could be trusted. Their loyalty was to gold, and their word was as good as their payment. Would they honor an agreement if he offered them the outpost in exchange for the lives of all survivors?
He turned the possibilities over in his mind. If he surrendered, he would be branded a coward and a traitor. The order would likely hunt him down if they ever regrouped. But the faces of the women, children, and wounded appeared before him. They had no part in this war, no stake in the cause. They deserved a chance at life, even if it meant living under the rule of an enemy.
As dawn approached, Gerald made his way to the command room. Inside, the remaining knights huddled over a crude map, while most of their faces were etched with exhaustion and determination.
"Brothers," he began before he was even near the table. "I have been contemplating our situation, and I believe we must consider an option that, while difficult, may be our only chance for survival."
The men exchanged wary glances which in turn allowed Gerald to take a deep breath and continue. "We are surrounded, outnumbered, and without hope of reinforcements. To continue fighting is to condemn ourselves and the innocent to certain death. We must consider surrendering to the sellswords."
A murmur of shock rippled through the tent. Ser Vergo, stepped forward, his eyes blazing with anger at what his friend suggested. "Surrender? Have you lost your mind, Gerald? We are sworn to fight to the last man, to uphold our vows!"
"And what good will our vows do when we are all dead you fool?" Gerald retorted, his voice rising. "I do not speak of surrendering ourselves to slavery or death. I speak of negotiating for the lives of those who depend on us. The sellswords care for gold above all. We can offer them the outpost and our unconditional surrender in exchange for the safe passage of all survivors."
"And what makes you think they will honor such an agreement?" Vergo challenged him with a plausible question.
"They are mercenaries, Vergo. They fight for profit, not for the sake of killing. If we appeal to their sense of gain, they may accept our terms. It is a risk, yes, but it is a risk worth taking if it means saving lives."
"Fuck your sense and fuck them too! You are too damn blind to realize why they aren't attacking us. These past weeks, we only fought small almost pitiful parties, doesn't that give you any hints?"
Not liking the fact that one of his brothers was challenging him, Gerald put his hand on his sword prompting the other knights to glare at him while at same time, move their hands to their swords as well.
"We are only a handful of men! We have wounded, we have children and women, we are in no position to fight to the death! Fools like you are the reason stupid little shits get to held power above the masses. Detain him brothers, we can't allow someone that doesn't care about the lives of his family to compromise us."
Watching in shock, two of the knights grabbed Vergo's hands and dragged the man out of the room, all that while, Vergo kept saying the same words over and over again.
"Remember this, you doom them all!"
< Just change "3" with "e" Patr3on Link : https://patr3on.com/meatbunkun>