A slight sequel to my previous Omake at the start of this arc.
An Ending
2342 IC
The grass is green. The sky is blue. Soldiers die.
They die screaming, set aflame by magic.
Randolf went up like so much kindling, foul magics eating through metal and leather and flesh until the flames had scorched the breath from his lungs
They die quietly, crushed beneath stone
The walls came down and tons of stone buried Ludger. The last he saw, a truly massive boulder had pulped his skull just seconds before the rest of his body was buried
They die begging, wanting nothing more than their mother's embrace.
Lying face up on the ground, Egmont can only cry bitter tears as half of his body has been torn away, an arm lying meters away and bisected at the hips. Just before he passes, he whispers mother
And the survivors pick up the pieces.
Greatsword Ingert Aach was past the immediate post-victory rush and was still days off from the quiet pride of survival. Now was the time for guilt and reflection as the remnants of the army retreated from the cursed city, none daring to stay and face the taint of Chaos. Not when its tendrils had sunk into rock and earth. Ingbert poked at his stomach every few seconds, still unable to believe he'd lived. His guts had spilled out of him and right before things went black, there had been a green light and he'd found the strength to grip his sword once more. Going back to battle with his flesh still raw and pink as a newborn's. He was lucky.
He'd come with had been one hundred and ninety-nine companions. He was limping home with seventy-four. It remained to be seen what would be done with the bodies. Would they be buried? Cremated? Stuffed into pickling kegs to preserve their bodies for the trip home? He had no idea. Ingbert just wanted to leave now that the fight was done. Normal armies were said to rout when over three men in ten were wounded. The Greatswords were elite and they hadn't broken. They'd still lost over six in every ten men and the survivors were dead on their feet.
When it came time to break camp, they all moved slowly, like new recruits. It took time, but lean-to's were made, campfire broken out, and they all supped on hot porridge with chunks of salt cod. All of the fighters sat randomly once secure. Ingbert had gravitated to some of the other Greatswords. He sighted Kraft. Just a little while ago when they'd landed on Albion, back when all of this was a sideshow, a diversion from their great work in the forests, Kraft had been in a mean mood in possession of a vicious tongue. He'd had no kind words for their hosts and to be frank, Ingbert had agreed. But that was then. And this was now.
Giants had come alive and were more than what legends had spoken of. Their great king had ended the fight with hands the blocked out the sky that came down down down unto the earth to grab the Daemon and pull it apart with the sort of effort Ingbert would use to pull apart knotted string
Kraft was wounded too of course. His face was glaring red, obviously having suffered some great burn, but the flesh looked clean. Likely, he'd been the beneficiary of some healing just like Ingbert.
"We're alive," he offered to Kraft.
The other Greatsword thought for a moment. "Aye, suppose we are," he replied quietly, in no mood for japes. Complaints and jokes sharpened the mind before combat but now that it was over, Kraft was just a tired man. Kraft looked uncomfortable. Ingbert wasn't sure if he should leave to break the awkward moment when Kraft took initiative. "Hoy! Here,' he cried to an ambling Albionese. He was a giant of a man like the other men of Albion, but he looked to be barely out of boyhood and his eyes were glassed over. He ambled in circles, quite clearly lost in thought and maybe even back to that battle just a little while ago. Ingbert wondered where his tribesmen or friends were before realizing that perhaps they'd all died. Kraft's call had jerked him out of his memories, and despite the language barrier, the man stumbled to the Greatswords.
Kraft jerked towards himself. "Kraft," before pointing to Ingbert. "Ingbert."
He got the message. "Oengus."
Kraft nodded solemnly. "Oengus my friend, you fought as hard as any in a scrap as tough as any I've been in," he said warming up to the captive audience, even or perhaps because it was one that could not understand him. "This place is godsdamned terrible, your people are so goddamned primitive I'm inclined to hate you on principle, and I'll be the first to say once I get out of here and if I never see this island again it'll be too damn soon. But damn it all what a fight. When I was a lad, my local priest used to call us village boys and girls ninnies and weaklings. Talked about how back before the Empire when Sigmar walked the land, men were
more. Bigger. Stronger. Men that hadn't grown soft with silks and steel but conquered with little more than furs and bronze. Fighting here… it's like I saw a bit of what it must have been like."
Oengus looked at him politely.
"And now you're a young hero my friend. A hero built on the corpses of all your friends. A heady victory but based on guilt. You'll remember the friends whose bodies lift you up until you die like I do… and it's a damn shame to not even present an offering."
Kraft began to dig into the mud, hollowing out a small hole before removing a gauntlet. He buried it before covering it back up and built it further into a small mound. Oengus might not have understood the full gist of it, but he knew burial mounds. The young man's face grew taut as Kraft finished. The Greatsword lifted a flask, perhaps the last of what he had on his person before pouring out half of the ostka as a libation accompanied by a prayer. Once finished, he took a sip instead of the deep swig he normally would have favored before handing it to Ingbert who did the same. Once finished, Ingbert handed it to Kraft. The two men allowed themselves the slightest laugh as the young man's eyes flew open at the feel of his burning throat but to his credit, swallowed it down. Warmed by the alcohol, things felt a little more tolerable. Oengus offered the flask back only to be taken aback when Kraft refused. Ingbert was just as shocked at the gift of steel, but hid it better.
"I'm going to have to tell Grimwald's family how he died. And Ebbo's, and Erwin's, and Dieter's and…" Kraft trailed off. "And Oengus is going to have to do the same. But he's alive and that's something at least. Years from now, this'll be a sad memory, but just a memory. It can't hurt him unless he lets it, and I won't let it do that."
Ingbert knew better than to mention the slip of the tongue. "Let's think about sleep," Ingbert offered thickly, his mouth feeling dry. "Tomorrow's a new day." He gestured towards Oengus, clasping his hands and set his head against them, the universal sign for sleep.
"They'll be nightmares," Kraft said glumly.
"You're a Greatsword. Nightmares are nothing new. What's one more?" Ingbert offered.
"…Not a damn thing."
