Valadel

Chapter XL

The frosty chill from Farrenhelm's winds nipped at the scout's nose. He sat huddled next to his fire, and his fur armor had been slowly soaking from the snowfall. Upon the hill where their small camp rested, the scout looked upon his comrade, the messenger, galloping back on his horse.

The messenger's brown furs and dark leather armor was now splotchy white, stained from the unrelenting small flakes of snow. He trotted up to the camp and dismounted, sinking into the soft, compacted snow. He trudged into the camp and shook loose the clingy frozen rain, and collapsed next to the fire, removing his face covering. His cheeks were red and warm, steam arising in the cold winter air. He took small deep breaths, rasping from the cold that stuck to his throat.

"I hate the north," said the messenger finally, brushing his matted, longer black hair out of eyes.

"Here here, friend. Here here," said the scout, perched along the hillside. His furs had warmed thanks to the reaching heat of the fire. "What took you so long?"

"Stopped at a tavern for a drink. Mead isn't all to bad when its a little warm," the messenger said with a smile.

The scout grunted. "Lucky you, huh? So," he turned to face the fire, "any idea of what was in the letter?"

The messenger shrugged his shoulders. "Could be anything. Something about land, trade, hell, the king could be wishing him a happy birthday. Not like I give a shit anyway."

"You should," said the scout.

"Yeah? And why's that?"

"Those letters shape our world. A war could be coming," said the scout grimly.

The messenger propped himself up on his arm. "A war? How do you know that?"

The scout turned his back to the fire, and spoke over his shoulder. "I've heard things. People talk. And hallways echo."

The messenger shrugged carelessly. "If a war does come, bothers me none. I'm just a messenger."

"The messengers are always first to go," said the scout.

The messenger scoffed. "I bet you are a fun one at feasts and tourneys." He took a drink from his canteen. The mead had gone from hot to lukewarm. "Be it as it may...I'm not dying anytime soon."

The scout grunted in acknowledgement. A silence settled between them as the messenger drank his ale and the scout kept is eyes on the flag pole. The messenger swallowed his last drink and made a scene of finishing his canteen.

"Let me ask you a question," said the messenger. "Do you fear dying?"

The scout's eyes went to the side of his head. "Do you?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I don't," said the scout.

"Why?"

He stared ahead at the flagpole. "I suppose because I know where I would go if I were to die."

The messenger snickered. "And where's that?"

The scout didn't answer the messenger's rhetorical question. He just kept his gaze focused upon the flagpole. Soldiers were gathered around now, carrying a parcel wrapped in white. His eyes had difficulty making out the scene, but his answer would come soon enough.

"Everrund?" said the messenger, breaking the scout's concentration.

"Hmm?" 

"Everrund. The heavens...is that where you think you're going?"

"I do."

The messenger scoffed. "There is no Everrund. The Gods are a lie. There are no Gods, just men."

"You say so with certainty," said the scout.

"Aye...cause I know."

The soldiers had now unwrapped their flag. The blizzard had made the color of the flag difficult to make out.

"There are no absolutes in this world," said the scout.

"Well then, if there are Gods up there, they're shitty Gods. I wonder what they're doing up in the heavens, leaving us down here with the Kings while they play their war games. Seems the gods do lots for them, but not shit for me." 

The scout rolled his eyes. "Those who give receive," he said to the messenger.

The messenger grunted. "Hmmph...well I haven't received nothing."

The scout left the conversation. He could see arguing with him was a pointless matter. The guards down in the city of Farrenhelm began hoisting, raising the flag in the horrible weather conditions. The scout kept his eyes glued to the action. Finally, after slowly crawling up the frozen pole, the flag blew out, it's color unmistakable. It flapped in the wind, peppered by the clingy snow.

Hmmm...suiting, the scout thought. "The flag is as red as the blood that will be spilt."

The messenger rolled his eyes. "You are such a damn killjoy, you know that? I should have stayed at that tavern. Good company there. Men of great humor and women of great beauty."

The scout took his dagger from his side and stood over the fire. He cut his palm with the knife and dripped the blood into the flame.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" said the messenger.

The scout didn't respond. He left his position from the fire and went to his tent. After rummaging around for some time, he came out with his bag.

"Where in the abyss are you going?" Asked the messenger as the scout strode past him.

"You've done your job...now I need to do mine." He heaved his pack onto his steed's rear and saddled himself.

"You're just going to ride off in this blizzard? Your bravery is something friend, I'll give you that. Either that or you're stupid. Where did you find this courage?" asked the messenger with some sarcasm.

The scout shrugged. "I gave...now I have received." He whipped the reins of the horse and galloped off.

The messenger shook his head, pulling out salted meat from his satchel and placed it over the fire. "Cheeky bastard," he muttered to himself.

*****

(Thanks for reading, and I'd love to know what you think! Sound off in the comments! Your feedback is always appreciated!)