Day 1 of the Fifth Punitive Expedition

My dearest Camellia!

I cannot apologize enough for how things have turned out! Certainly, I could blame circumstances far outside of my control, but I think that would do neither of us any good. The simple truth is that you two would have anticipated my arrival back home weeks ago, yet I am nowhere to be found. By now, news of the previous expedition’s fate must have reached your ears, which no doubt worsens your worries about my absence. I wish I could tell you right this instant not to fret, that your faithful husband yet again held firmly onto the hems of Fortune’s robes, and lived where so many others met their end. But I’m afraid it will be some time yet before I get to knock on your door and allay your fears with a warm embrace.

No, instead, here I am, sitting at the edge of our camp, staring into the nocturnal wilderness, trying to imagine the days ahead that hopefully leads to our ultimate reunion. Glancing at the carts accompanying us, we have about seven days’ worth of supplies for this journey that should no doubt last at least until next month. That is the soonest the Marshall expects us to meet the army we fled not too long ago. What happens beyond that, no one knows, nor anyone is willing to speculate. Be that as it may, there’s little hope of me returning before the end of summer.

Truth be told, my darling, the murkiness of the forest past the hills pales in comparison to that of the future I’m seeing. I know, I know, many times it has been this way since we tied our lives together. You must be growing weary of all the doom and gloom I keep bringing to you. Believe me, that is not intentional, I simply cannot help myself. But I shall endeavor to fix this bad habit! Indeed, by the time we see each other again, you might hardly even recognize the man full of hope and sunshine before you! How about that? And who knows, maybe a bright presence like that is what our pallid company needs, too!

Because unfortunately, the grimness that has taken up residence amongst us is one that ought to be remedied sooner rather than later. You see, we’ve set up in a village within earshot of the Capital, and somehow, it already feels like we’ve fallen off the map. Feasting around the fire is a silent congregation, compared to whom the rustling bushes and the swaying trees are the liveliest dinner companions one could ever ask for. In the case of those who have just returned from the last campaign, such as Sir Lavender and I, with our clothes still stained with the dirt from our march home, it would be more understandable. But I can see the same in the eyes of the freshest of recruits. Even they understand the reality of our expedition. And they’re scared for their lives. Either it’s us old dogs infesting them with our poor attitude or they are much, much smarter than I was at their age.

If I were in their shoes, I would still be drunk on the sense of promised glory extolled on us during our departure. For even though this would be our fifth go around, or perhaps exactly because of that, no expenses were spared for our send-off. It was a grand proper celebration, the sort I’ve only ever seen from afar, and only upon generals of the highest fame returning victorious.

In the early morning, they had us gather at the square before the grand cathedral in full armor, as though we were to do battle right there. By first light, the audience became so vast, there was hardly any room for us to line up. Right when the sun’s rays pierced through the columns of the church, the Royal himself emerged from within to read aloud the decree sanctioning our expedition. He spoke each word into existence, and everyone listened, not daring to so much as breathe, lest the spell he conjured upon us be broken. As he spoke, we were mere paces away from His Majesty and his entourage. Us. Not just the noble progeny leading us, but even the title-less foot soldiers of our ilk. And let me tell you, my sweetest, it is true what they say about royals; they have the sweetest, most elegant scent you’ve ever tasted. And you can catch whiffs of them from afar, too! Anyway, at the end of his speech, he told us that we were His Agents of Light and Reason, the fingertip at the ends of his hands, reaching into and turning over the dark corners of this world until all is cleansed of evil and sin. Much as I’d like to claim that I’m long past appreciating such frivolities, I have to admit that I felt strong as a bull and righteous as an angel in that moment.

Next was His Holiness’s turn to bless our troupe. Would you believe me if I told you that the rite unfolded much in the same vein as any Mass conducted by our Father Ambrosia? But it really did. Well, I suppose it was perhaps more akin to Mass on one of the Holidays, adorned with more songs and conferring blessings for which our priest likely lacks the divine authority. Yet the aspect that felt the most unlike the Masses I’ve gotten used to was the sermon delivered by His Holiness. We were worlds away from Ambrosia’s usual anecdotes about going fishing with the children and admonishments for the congregation’s everyday mischief.

He told us about a dream he had the previous night, wherein a messenger from the Heavens descended to the side of his bed to regale His Holiness of the struggle ahead. According to the divine being, our fortitude in faith would be put to the test in the coming days. Hardships around every corner, be it the inconsiderate wilderness, the callousness of our fellow men, the dark servants putting blades to our throats or the corrupted in our midst hoping to drag the rest of us down into the mire of doubt with them, would be awaiting each and every one of us. But the angel’s words to the Father of All weren’t mere warnings, but a promise as well. For when we see our duties to the end, in whichever way fate has intended for us, it would surely spell the banishment of the darkness, bringing about the ultimate victory for good in this world and a millennium of peace and prosperity. And so, our sins would be forgiven and our service forever remembered and glorified, our names resounding through the centuries in joyful song.

In the wake of such bold declarations, the likes of which I doubt anyone of our standing has ever been offered in the past, I could see contending with tears, many of them warriors of great renown. For them, this might look to be the final reward for all they had endured in this life. Truth be told, I too was reminded of you, my Camellia. Right about now, I have little doubt in my mind that you’d rather curse your foolish husband’s name for bowing to the whims of men more powerful than him, letting them deprive you of half of what should rightfully be yours. But I pray that a day comes when you could be proud of the good I’ve done for all of us.

The next step of the rite was our sanctification with holy water. Two dozen or so deacons stepped forth, young boys in the purest white robes, their cheeks as red as ripe apples, bearing silver vessels that were just a tad too large and heavy for their budding frames. Each was accompanied by an older peer whose plain garments were adorned with colorful stoles slung over their shoulders, carrying a sort of dipper for the vessels. Tools in hand, the pairs entered our group, walking between our rows and splashing us with the purified dew.

It was at this point, that I might have incurred yet another sin of which this ordeal must cleanse my mortal heart. For you see, when it was my turn to be blessed, I turned to the young boys acting on His Holiness’s behalf and thanked them with a smile. As it turned out, neither of them expected anything of the sort. Or perhaps my intonation was not one with which they were familiar. The scars on my visage might have frightened them too, for all I know. There could have been many explanations, but none could make up for the fact that I made them flustered, unable to respond or move along. Another deacon standing by had to hurry over and tell them off. Dearest, I fear that in my attempts to show gratitude, I might have brought undue punishment upon those children.

Nevertheless, the ceremony continued. Upon the last of us having been blessed, His Holiness began another chant, for which the entire square joined him. As one, we sang praises of our Creator and all the good with which we’ve been bestowed. While the song continued, our leaders told us to turn around and start marching down the Royal Highway.

To my knowledge, the travels you undertook before you and I came together as one have never brought you to the Capital or any other city of such grandeur, which leads me to worry that my words would prove inadequate to impart the experience on you. You could transpose our entire town onto the cathedral square and still have some room in each direction, the church itself being about as tall as if you were to stack everyone’s houses on top of one another, while the Royal Highway, starting from the square and ending at the city gates three or four leagues a-way, is twice as wide as the Slumbering River on along the road to the folks living on the east. It’s a road paved with smooth black stones set in the times ancient, beset on both sides by stone houses of two or more stories tall, some of them serving as the foot of towers that reach far into the skies. Many years back, when I was first brought to the city as part of the Lord Edelweiss’s retinue after Scorched Hills, I thought that all of these had to have been of the Royal House’s lodge for how monumental they seemed, only to be laughed at by one of my superiors, proclaiming, if memory serves, that only a “tactless wildling of my litter” could mistake the house of a carpenter for the king’s offices. On this day, however, I walked that road not as a shamed outsider, but as one to be celebrated and adored by the residents of this magnificent place.

Banners of our lord and his compatriots were hung alongside those of the Royal’s. Petals of freshly bloomed flowers were tossed over our procession, kept afloat on the back of warm breezes conjured by the bands of trumpeters accompanying our every step. Men, women and children whom we’ve never met before and shall never see again in all likelihood were chanting the names of some from our company, hailing them as heroes, worthy of epithets akin to those of men from legends. Unbelievable and conceited as it may read from my pen, in the flurry of hails and hollers, my ears might have caught the voices of a handful boisterous youths here and there, bestowing the same honor on your faithful husband as well. In my present moment, as a man sitting beside men, the only sentiments I feel about these events are complicated and hardly prideful. Yet when I was there, my eyes meeting tearful gazes brimming with awe, I have to shamefully admit to forgetting about the weight of the souls that paved my way to the vulgar epithet of mine that I’d rather not repeat here.

In a state of phantom inebriation, we marched on through the gates. The maddening heat of the crowd continued to envelop us long after even the bravest and least wanted children had decided to stop following us. At some point, however, and for all the treasures held in that trove we left behind, I would not be able to tell you when, the haze vanished, dispersing across the wide grasslands outside the Capital. What was thus left for our lot would be the reality that none of us could possibly recognize under the gilded epic composed by our lieges. Such was the air that trailed us all the way to this village and dreary, silent eve it had in store for us.

Part of me truly worries that I am constructing the condemnation of our small family upon these pages, my Camellia. I ought not have thoughts of this nature in the first place, let alone possess the audacity to take ink and bring them to life. Here I am confessing treason, the very sins of which His Holiness has warned us earlier. Should anything I’ve written tonight ever leave my hands and be brought before eyes other than yours, the punishment incurred would be without equal. I am well aware of that fact. Yet, I cannot help myself. It seems that limbs have wills of their own, conspiring with my heart to bring us ruin and relief in equal measure.

Because I need you to understand the why behind these sordid matters. Hard as I may try, my imagination refuses to invent a world in which I can rest peacefully without ever having given you the reason for why you must walk alone a path meant for two. Why you would have to shower our Viola with twice the love to make up for the father who fails to be there for her. Why some would rather see you hang your head in shame as you toil away like any other respectable woman. All of these are the faults of mine and mine alone, and nothing I do now could ever correct them. Still, I have to try.

For that purpose, I intend to address this journal to you. Should Fate deem it feasible, I shall dedicate every single night of this expedition to this task, telling you about the happenings of the day or anything else that I am compelled to share with you. It would be as though we were having those conversations by the dinner table that I miss so dearly.

That is how I envision this, at least, for I am too cowardly to even consider what you would think of this unequal exchange circumstances and my doggedness forces upon you. I imagine you desire truth, certainty, and above all else, your husband there with you, not some flowery prose hidden away in a sachet far, far away from your reach. Truthfully, before happening upon this idea, I did consider simply writing letters, as you normally would, but I doubt any document I part with would ever reach you in a legible state. Thus, I have decided to simply hold on to these pages for the time being. The pitfall of this approach, I suspect, is that the time you will learn of this scheme of mine, and receive the explanation you deserve, will most likely be the time I return home and personally hand you the final results, rendering a journal of this format largely without use. It will be akin to coming back from a hunt with a satisfied belly full of freshly caught and cooked meat, and nothing to show for you. But I will do my very best to satiate the hunger that I’ve so carelessly brought upon you. And perhaps someday, when the pain I am currently causing will have long faded from memory, you might find these scribbles to be something to remember me by, or at the very least, my ramblings will amuse you.

Until that day, and until our reunion, however, I must pray that you remain strong. As mighty as you’ve always been, holding this shell of a man together while carrying a whole world of your own on your back. Also, while I am well aware that I have no right to ask anything of you anymore, and if I had another choice, I wouldn’t do so, I beseech you to keep your faith! My dearest Camellia, trust that your husband will do everything humanly possible, will even make deals with any and all devils, just to get back in your arms!