*(Fevin)*
I distinctly remember choking back the panic at the back of my mouth as I felt his heartbeat disappear. Fear was scary, and it was scarier when it came from someone that had just some time before portrayed theirs a figure larger than life's confines.
I remember the motions. Check for his heraldry, search for his knapsack and belongings, and search for his pockets to return what had been there to his captain, or next in command for their delivery to any next of kin or relatives. Nothing in the pockets of his pants.
I'd remembered seeing some people carrying similar attire to his, with that same crimson banner of the rebels escaping from the prison within the crowd of prisoners they had broken out. I'd have to find where they'd gone to return his items, I'd decided.
Nothing in his left coat pocket.
Thoughts of the look the rebel had given just before he'd ceased being him penetrated my willed absence from that moment. He hadn't even been looking at me. Whilst his pupils had given oblivion's fade, his stare though aimed at mine had stared straight into the distance beyond me. My breath quickened.
Nothing in his right coat pocket. I moved to remove my hand from the hole, eager to bury the deceased.
Hand stuck.
I pulled only for the shoddily-tailored seams of his pocket to latch on to my hand. I tugged, and tugged a little harder. His torso fell on my feet, the blood staining my bare feet as I stifled a scream, instinctively kicking at the corpse causing it to tilt and fall on its side, against the frantic pull of my hand. And that had been enough.
The fabric tore, the seams still wrapped around my wrist, my other wrist hitting it, as if trying to put out a fire that had caught on my hand, whimpering. And that had been enough.
"Fuck, fuck FUCK! Oh god… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I began to sob. I think it had been for the man, maybe Taylor too. It had been me hadn't it? Maybe he'd still be here if it hadn't been for me. Thoughts, regrets, luxuries for a me of another time. Not then at least.
Through lens of tears I saw a parchment that had fallen from an interior compartment of his coat. Snot-stained hand tried and failed to wipe aside the leaky discharge from my nose to minimal avail.
Shaking hands touched the parchment, retracting when they'd immediately stained it on touch. Crawling closer, I saw that it has been a letter, one addressed to a lady.
"Sound it out…"
"Lydia Galvert"
I wiped my hands away on my rags and fingertipped the letter, turning it around to inspect it. 'Galvert', that had been the surname the officer had given as his own. Family of some kind.
Lydia Galvert, that's the person I'd have to get his belongings to before… well at that point, before I'd probably wander lost for a good while.
I looked up to survey my surroundings.
Sky still dark, only vague ripples of twilight at the skyline, I'd lost my breath at the vastness of it. Last I'd seen the sky full had been those years back on the roof after all, and I don't think I had really looked at it since I'd left the prison in that rush. There, in the distance, the grey wisps that trailed and dissipated had been the plumes of smokes that billowed from the prison earlier.
'Gods,' I thought, 'how long had it been?'
Nobody had been nearby, fortunately, I was still safe. I knelt down to undress Horace, my teeth gritting in a grimace as I unbuttoned his robe and cloak.
"Sorry… I really am. But I need this more than you right now," came the guilt out of my mouth. I'd still been in my dirtied prisoner rags then. Folding his garb on a clean patch of grass nearby, trying to rub off the drying blood on it, "Just the clothes. The gambesson and blade I'll hand over to your folks later. My word is yours."
No spade, I picked up a rock and started working, getting the man I knew as Horace beneath the dirt by the time the sun had completely risen, changing into more respectable clothing directly after. It felt soft and finely-weighted, far better than the scratchy and crusty rags we'd worn before anyways.
He'd owned a grooved sword with the etched markings of several small ink circles in it. It was a shame, it seems like he'd used all of his remaining ink in the escape, leaving me with a weapon inferior to the spear, though still a weapon. I kept it in my robes, and made off for the rebels, the smoke a point of reference.
``` ```
*( Narrator )*
Ashen, sleek, oppressive. The captain's armor clanked, announcing his arrival at the scene of the breakout. Already in the room was the vice-warden of the prison – the one that actually knew and worked its operations – alongside a few adjutants of the newcomer. Their heads touched gravel on the floor as the tall man inspected the scene of the blast as he had in other wards.
He sported black hair, unruly, trimmed well, brows sharp, eyes scrutinising, walk almost mechanical. His mouth hadn't opened since he'd entered, though that resigned grim on the vice-warden's face made it seem otherwise. Had he even breathed since the man, now inspecting the glistening smithereens of glass mixed into rubble, had arrived before? It must have felt impossible; it must have felt like minutes in that time that he'd come and made straight for his handkerchief to pick a shard up, inspecting it closely.
The captain turned around, giving a nod to the men there, allowing all but the vice-warden to stand.
Voice gravel, "By emperor's decree, his majesty's office has sent a commission of soldiers under command of one, Viktor Smiroff, to investigate the circumstances of the prison break in one, Tsukigin Prison Complex, and round up and take in count, two hundred and sixty three prisoners punished for crimes not limited to heresy, dissent, assault, high treason, theft and espionage."
He pauses just enough to let it sink in for the vice-warden. Sweat dribbled down his cheek.
"Your name is Vice-warden Grigor Ivanovich, you are of the rank of an army official under command of Warden Luka Shubin. That means I am your senior officer, rank Captain Viktor Smiroff. Give in detail the events of the breakout and the action taken following the failure to curb the breach in containment."
Tremors wracked his arm, he didn't know he could feel tired this quickly from merely laying prostrate. He smacked his lips to open his mouth but no sound came. He smacked his lips to open his mouth and voice came at last.
"Yes sir, at night, rebels in the western wing of the prison must have brought a tinctures of ink to use to blow open a hole there whilst more of them came to do the same in other parts of the prison. They were organised, numbering around the same as our guard here."
Nothing happened, and it continued like that for a minute with Grigor tilting his head to check what had been happening. The captain was looking out from the hole, looking down at the field before the prison.
"One hundred and fifty two guards. That's what the report said and what I counted."
"Y-yes sir."
Another pause. "What is required of your post in such circumstances has been fulfilled. Do you carry a blade with you now?"
"Yes sir."
"Your post as an officer will warrant your family eighty silver taels to be delivered to them for your service in the name of the emperor. You will be given a fine plot of your choice you have indicated at the start of your post here. My adjutants will handle the preparation of your body for transportation and burial by the capital."
He'd exited the room, boots heavy as the man behind him grunted, plunging the blade into his abdomen, collapsing over with crimson staining his white and plain robes then, following in suit to the one hundred and fifty two bodies in red and white in the fields outside.