Harow, Beacon of the Kingdoms (If only I had a blessing for field tilling)

They had to build a small fire for the lodge’s fireplace. Too much kindling, and the lights of an “abandoned vacation home” would catch too much attention while they were behind enemy lines for now.

Presently, the embers of the fire pit at the center of the dusty, dark, and formerly ostentatious cabin were providing just enough illumination for Harow and Gottfried to ruminate over the map on the table that had been pushed next to the flickering flames.

“So the Fifth Army will march up the valley tomorrow, and that’ll tie up the Archhag’s monsters long enough for us to get in behind her,” Harow surmised, tracing the map with a knife, while Gottfried nodded in acknowledgment.

“She’ll be formidable, but untrained and drunk off a power high. No matter how strong she is, she can’t deal with the kingdoms’ five strongest fighters rushing her.”

Gottfried, even though he quietly despaired at forgoing the comfort of the sturdy steel protection of the Spirit Knight corps in order to make the perilous mountain trek, still cut an imposing figure, with his broad shape and impeccably trimmed blond hair. Even with just padded and studded armor, the large sword and shield he carried was unmistakable.

“Without her, the monsters and followers will lose cohesion and a major source of power, and we’ll get another route northwards to relieve the other armies,” the knight reiterated.

Staring down at the sketches of the area, Harow couldn’t help but murmur. “It’s strange to think that defeating a single person can affect the whole area…”

Cutting through the dark room was Lissandra’s retort.

“Normal armies have chains of commands, but it’s not the same here. The Menace doesn’t care about its sycophants, and the Archhag here is just lapping at its power. She’s merely a monster sitting at the top of the horde. Once she’s gone, the rest are easy pickings.”

The spiritualist from Belzac was making the most of the sumptuous interior, laying lengthwise against one plush sofa, while a bottle of wine she had discovered in the cellar was being hoarded by her. The large, wide-brimmed hat she fussed over rested on the corner of the chair, freeing up her face to bite at a stray levitating globule of alcohol that she moved over from the larger floating sphere of liquid – an audacious show of power, like so many things she liked to do.

Lissandra smirked as she fixed her gaze on Harow.

“Besides, aren’t you the one people people say got a direct line to the Great Spirits? The one who proved that they’re actually helping us in this war against the Menace? And you’re the one talking about the worth of a person?”

Harow choked, and then gave out a quick laugh. “I don’t think it’s the same. After all, I’m working in a group with you guys. No matter how many blessings I received, I’m still just working on very small missions handed out by the army.”

“Trust takes time.”

Lissandra and Harow turned to look at Yulien, who remained cross-legged and deep in meditation at the base of the fire. On his lap was the Oar, still cursed and still suppressed for as long as the monk kept vigil and trusted no one else to keep the weapon – which was already bloodthirsty before its tainting from Malevolence – locked away.

“You aspire to be the one to fight the Menace itself, even after all this time?” The Easterner asked, one eye open knowingly.

Harow’s mouth quirked as he considered the answer. “It’s not that I want a one-on-one fight… but if the Spirits gave me all these gifts… it’s worth expecting, right? I just hope that I’m here because it’s the right choice for the war, and not because they don’t trust me.”

“Trust takes time,” Yulien repeated firmly. “The Menace is past the point that the leaders can ignore it. If they still have wisdom, they’ll know to use all of us, here and now, the correct way. They know the consequences otherwise. Harow, the time to face the Menace will come. Rather, we should consider immediate problems.”

“Tactics?” Gottfried suggested.

“Parties?” Lissandra snickered.

It took Harow a second’s pause, before he realized something was off. “Where’s Sylvat?”

“Last I saw her, she was moping on the roof,” Yulien answered, something of a smile tugging at his lips as he resettled back into meditation.

Lissandra rolled her eyes. “The damn lady bristles up the moment she touches anything remotely chiseled or carved, I swear.”

“That just shows how attuned she is to this world. I find it admirable,” Gottfried hummed with another nod of approval

“Of course the Spirit Knight would…”

Harow, however, had stood up, so as to let his companions enjoy their own company while he took the stairs, and then a ladder to the attic, so as to check on the last of his team.

Crawling through the caved-in section of the roof, Harow was again blessed by the clear night sky, with its canvas of stars and moon, and only regretted knowing that something like the Menace came from it. But even with that, he could feel the faint breath of the world, still doing its best even with the toxic presence on it now.

Looking around, he saw the cat-syhee, still in the night. Her hat had been put aside, letting her ears twist freely in the air, though she kept her large bow with her still.

It had been long enough that Harow learned to be less foolish around her. He gingerly made his way over, being careful not to make much noise that could be heard by any enemy, though the flick of her ears showed she had.

Once he was close enough to sit next to her, he whispered. “All good?”

“It’s quiet. I would have preferred camping.”

“Sorry,” Harow offered meekly, for he and the other three were definitely of the opposite opinion.

Sylvat shrugged. “I’m just the one who needs the outdoors more. You’ve all done well to keep up.”

“We wouldn’t have been able to find this place without you, either.”

“If only because Gottfried wouldn’t stop complaining about mud and animal noises.”

Harow did his best to avoid grinning, and let the conversation peter off. The syhee didn’t need endless talk, and so they just sat and enjoyed the night and the silent revolution of the stars above them.

Then Sylvat spoke up.

“I’ve always wondered – why did the Great Spirits of this world chose just one person receive all the blessings they could muster?”

Turning, he looked and saw the syhee staring at him intently, green eyes shining in the dark like jade pieces.

It was a question he pondered over himself often enough. Unsure what to add, he simply gave the simplest answer he had arrived at for now.

Harow woke up.

From his sideways position, he found himself looking at the battered wooden drawers of his humble room. Bleariness only lasted a few minutes before years of habit and training fully roused him and took him to a basin of water to slap into his face to bring him back all the way.

As the ripples resided, Harow could see it was still himself in the reflection: the same brown hair, the same creases in his face, and the same sense of resigned survival lining his expression.

“Good morning, everyone,” he murmured.

Making it to the living space with a yawn, a woman’s voice greeted him.

“Hey, dig in. Breakfast is ready.”

Maer was a woman of the countryside, with a dress that was built to survive rough roads, blonde hair that had darkened under the sun, an attitude that survived cold and heat many times over.

She had been there the day Harow had left the countryside at the urging of the Spirits, and she had been there when, after all was said and done, he decided to return. She didn’t even think of marriage as momentous. He had always been a familiar face – the title of “Beacon” was an ancillary fact to both of them.

Neither Harow or Maer were the sort for niceties. It would be a full day, and they needed the food for it. The bread, the salad, the eggs – they were all poured into their plates and the silence of the morning was only punctuated by voracious eating.

“Busy day today,” Maer said, between swallows. “I’ll help with the field for a little while, but I’ll be dragged away later. Lots to do at the local temple. Is that okay with you?”

“It’s not a big field, anyways,” Harow laughed weakly. “A hobbyist’s field.”

“You’re relearning farming, it’s not a big deal. The vegetables from last season turned out well, and we made a decent mint, I’d say that counts.”

“Thankfully. I’ll probably be spending all day today just trying to dig a straight line, finally.”

That got a laugh out of Maer, who reached over the table to slap him on the shoulder. “You got me for a little while, at least. Let’s do our best, alright?”

Harow did his best to smile at the thought, and fought to keep it at the forefront after his dream, his recollection, whatever it was.

Was it a message from the Spirits? It felt cruel, like the twisting of the knife to remind him of something he was still trying to put to bed. All this strength and agility that had been given to him, but at the very end, the Menace…

Wasn’t this enough? Gottfried, Lissandra, Yulien, and Sylvat were no longer here, and it stung to know four died so one had to live, but that was why he couldn’t give up. Not here, not for the life he had finally managed, five long years later.

That was what Harow told himself on the days he started reminiscing too hard.

But even then…

He just wished they could at least tell him, somehow, that it was alright for him to be like this, just like this, with a little field, in a little village.