Caesaria

XVI

The village was, as Lucy would've called it, a shit-show. And all of it, every broken bottle, every pile of puke, every cuddling couple, was in honour of her survival.

Most people had the good fortune to make it to their beds, but there were still a few who'd passed out in the streets. In the old fountains, on the old brick paths, in the alleys, backs against walls. Puke, mugs, rubbish, scraps of food -- the dogs were having a heyday, eating up whatever they could find. In some cases, right from the face of some passed-out youngster. Jackson just nodded silently to himself, lips pursed, hands in his pockets.

The sun was just beginning to rise, although he'd left the house when it was dark. He hadn't wanted to risk running into his parents.

There were couches, dragged outside around the charred firepits, with half naked warriors dozing on them. There were shards of broken windows, broken plates, a stain of blood on the ground -- hopefully, nobody got seriously hurt. But it wasn't unheard of. They were Georgian, after all. Anything else would've been considered dull.

He managed to avoid most of the the death-traps set by drunken Georgians the night before, although the trip to the Barrows was a long one. They held prisoners in the heart of town, in what had once been the lodge's temporary holding cells. There were only a few cells to be had, small, cramped and damp. Normally, they were empty; most crimes were settled with a blood price. But Jackson easily guessed they'd be full of the drunks who'd caused just a little too much trouble the night before.

The building was tucked between a couple of the other towering, paint-chipped townhouses, although it's colouring was flat and grey. The eaves the roof had been blue before the Great Fire, but it had faded to a frostbitten hue. The cells were in the basement. Two guards stood inside the front office, before the door, stopping their conversation when the Chief's son stepped through the door. Thomas and Hazel, distant cousins of one another, were two of the younger men of Mitra's hird, her battle party. All the Circle and the chief had one, and all Georgian's with half their tattoos belonged to one.

"Morning, Jackson," Thomas greeted. The brawny man's eyes were tired, but thankfully, not the hungover kind. Jackson and he had used to train together, back when they were children; he was always the standup kind, one of the tougher young warriors. The same couldn't be said about Hazel; the shaggy beanpole looked as if he'd topple over his spear, putting all his energy into keeping his bloodshot eyes open. He said nothing, only gave a weak bob of his dirty blonde head.

"Glad to hear Lucy's alright," Thomas said.

Jackson nodded, flashing a quick glance at Hazel. "Yeah. Me too. You alright, Hazel?"

"Oh. Yeah. Good," he mumbled. The boy had all the belt buckles of his armour twisted. His russet leather chestplate was crooked, and he didn't even have his knee pads or gloves on. One of his boots was untied, his shoulderguard was backwards, and he had a fresh bruise on his cheek. Jackson was willing to bet he probably had his trousers backwards too.

Thomas gave his cousin a gentle shove, and that was all it took to send him off-kilter. At least Hazel had the wall to catch his stumble. "Kid had a little too much fun last night."

Jackson snorted. Hazel leaned against the wall, eyes growing heavier as his head flopped against it. It was a wonder he still clutched his spear.

"Yeah. Been there," Jackson sighed.

"I remember. The night before the Battle of Bearing Pass, when you killed Hakan Blood-Raven. You were pissed that whole battle. I remember Litsa had tried to stop you from going into battle, she'd told your father you were wrecked. But by time he sent the order for you to stay back, you'd already charged ahead."

"You remember that? I don't," he grinned.

Tom scoffed. "Oh, I know you don't. You cleaved his head off crooked, like this," he held his hand on a diagonal. "But still, you cut right through. Clean death. And then you passed out right after, in a snowbank. All bloody."

"Okay, yeah, I remember that part."

Thomas chuckled, looking back to his now snoozing cousin. "Hey. You," he elbowed him. Hazel jerked back awake. "Up. You're here until sunset," he barked. "Anyways, I take it you're here to see our special guest?"

He crossed his arms, nodding."How is the Outlander?"

"Still down there," he sighed. "Got a message from your dad?"

"No, actually. Here to convey some thanks from my sister."

Thomas cocked his head, thick brown brows furrowing. Scratching the stubble on his sharp chin, he asked, "So it's true then? He saved her?"

Jackson hesitated. "That's up to my father to say."

He nodded. "Right. Sorry." He turned, grabbing his key from his belt. "I'll take you downstairs," he said, fiddling with the lock. "Hazel, you just... stay here."

His cousin nodded, clutching his spear against his reddening cheeks.