The stars were plentiful and beamed brightly against the backdrop of the night’s sky, though they brought no joy to Barristan as he gazed upon them through the hole in the Sanitarium roof. Though it pained his chest to do so, he gave way to a coughing fit as his lungs could take no more of the dreadful air which had grown thick with the scent of smoke, sulfur, and blood.
“At least the Hamlet is safe,” he grumbled to himself softly so as not to wake Missandei who was fast asleep on the bed to his left. She was badly wounded, even moreso than he; the nurses and Paracelsus had spent the better part of the past two hours carefully extracting shards of shrapnel and debris from her flesh, and her face was a host to unsightly burns that they had quickly hidden away with bandages. To his right was Amani, whose leg sat in a splint courtesy of a crumbling rooftop. Sharing the room with them, he recognized a bandaged Reynauld and a scorched Bigby alongside a few others whose names he did not know, perhaps some of the brave but foolhardy townsfolk who’d fought alongside them against the Vvulf’s men. The old man sat up, and found that all of them had resigned themselves to slumber.
Barristan felt uneasy looking at all of them, almost nauseous, though he would not allow himself that indignity as his comrades laid beside him far worse for wear than he. Still, the sight of the wounded in their beds was like a specter to him, a buried corpse that had emerged from the earth time and time again to haunt him no matter how deep he dug its grave. These few were merely the newest among a cohort of bloodied faces with names he half-remembered or worse, stripped from his memory by the cruel hand of Father Time. Their cries for directive echoed in his mind, and so did his commands from all those years ago.
Missandei and Amani had followed his orders too. While Dismas and a handful of others faced the Vvulf, those that remained were tasked with dispatching the rest of the brigands and rescuing those helpless denizens who had not been able to flee the Hamlet in time. It was he who had decided to search that damned house; maybe a second eye would have allowed him to spot the trap laid by those damned raiders. Now, Missandei was grievously injured and the doctors feared the possibility that Amani may never dance again. It was the fool Sarmenti who emerged from that house with naught but a few gashes and helped him carry the others to safety; now he was with the others helping to rebuild what the bandits had torn down while he wasted away atop a bed.
My age and my misfortunes have begun to mount, perhaps it is time.
The old commander had spent nearly two thirds of his life on the battlefield, from the petty squabbles of feuding lords to the greater war for the fate of humanity itself. His shield had been the rock upon which many a fiendish blade had been broken, and he was proud to know that he had been a savior to many; he had also seen countless men and women die, many by his mace and far too many by his foolish words. Soon he was to be sixty years of age, and he feared his wits would only dull and his joints would grow stiff with the passage of time. How long before a careless order sees to the death of one of his comrades? Or worse, that he should burden an expedition and some well-meaning sap would throw themselves between Barristan and his assailant, taking a killing blow so that the old commander may live another day to bark death at the warriors of the Hamlet. It was decided: by the morrow he shall speak to their employer and arrange for his retirement, perhaps aid them in finding a suitable candidate for his replacement before taking leave of the Hamlet so that he may see to the end of his life in peace. There was no place here for a crestfallen old sod like himself.
Barristan did not dream that night, and his slumber was broken just as abruptly as it had taken him in the first place. It was a scream from outside that had woken him up, the shriek of a young child. He looked around and the room was nearly empty, save for two townsfolk fast asleep and far too injured to be of use had they been awake. The old man leapt from his bed, grabbing only his shield as he made for the stairs. Soreness be damned, he was not to stand idle while a child is being hurt. He slammed into the door and knocked it open, shield raised and his free hand drawn back to deliver a mighty blow. There were no brigands, no ghouls, no creatures of the dark waiting for him: instead, he saw William and Fergus chasing down a gaggle of youngsters with wooden swords in their hands, smiling and screaming as they tried to avoid the playful hound and her master.
“Calm down old man, I know it’s been centuries since you were a child but they do tend to be loud when they play,”
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to find himself facing a grinning Sarmenti. He seldom saw the man in plainclothes, but that mocking tone was unmistakably that of a court jester’s. Barristan stood, flummoxed and slack-jawed. He had questions, and Sarmenti had sensed this as he interjected before the old commander could respond.
“Missi and Mani are training the new arrivals. To your surprise, you’ll find Reynauld and Bigby in the abbey. Not quite sure ‘bout the others, but I am not their keeper so what do I care?”
Barristan remained where he stood as he took in the scene around him; he could scarcely recall the last time the Hamlet was this busy, as what seemed to be all but the incapable among its denizens lending themselves each to its reconstruction. Each group that passed him by seemed to be carrying wooden planks, stone bricks, or some other construction material. He noticed that a small crowd surrounded the tavern, each soul on the roof or on its walls working their hardest to see the Hamlet’s most beloved institution standing proudly once again.
Seeing that all was well, the rush of battle faded from his mind and the pain of his injuries began to set in. He placed one hand over his knee and the other on his abdomen as he hunched over, wincing in pain. Without hesitation, Sarmenti ducked and took the arm on Barristan’s knee and slung it across his shoulder.
“All right, let’s get you back to bed before the nurses—or Light help me, Paracelsus—find out you’re out and about playing hero,”
It was only a small flight of stairs, but it felt like an eternity had passed when he finally reached his bed. As Sarmenti went for the door, he turned around once more.
“Y’know, I’m not a praying man Barry, but maybe Junia and them folk are onto something there? Don’t know if you heard, but yesterday was nothing short of a miracle: nary a single one of us died. Those thieves spent their blood and bombs, and they couldn’t even get a single one of the townsfolk! Heard that one of ‘em even died to that old caretaker who was in the tavern when it all went down!”
The fool erupted into a cackle as he finally left the room, but Barristan could still hear the madman from his window, still laughing as he walked away from the sanitarium. A smile formed across the old commander’s face as an immense weight began to fall upon his eyelids.
Retirement can wait, he thought to himself before the world faded once more into that sweet and peaceful blackness.