Nameless Thoughts of an Onlooker

2

"Your nick still didn't heal yet?" Niles moved his hands from his knapsack, tapping his arm with a nod towards me. 

I rolled up my left sleeve to examine my own forearm, brushing off a blade of grass stuck to the bandages wrapped around it. Their initial pale color had darkened, dust from the trail likely passing through my uniform and coating the cloth. 

"No, but it has stopped bleeding through the wrapping."

"Yeah? Mine's already closed. Look," The black-haired guy took a step closer, lifting a hand to show off a small, neat line crossing two of his knuckles. Its pink color could still be seen past the specks of grime coating the newly-healed skin. 

"If my injury was a nick, I think yours could have barely been called a scratch."

Niles shot me a smirk with his bottom lip slightly protruding as he shifted to his original position. A small group of soldiers passed us, although their low murmurs were easily swept away by the wave of sound produced by our unit's marching. 

"Maybe it was just a scratch, but it was a scratch I gave myself. I didn't have to struggle with some old man for a long-ass time just to block a blade with my arm. You didn't even manage to kill him in the end!" 

I narrowed my eyes as I gave a half-hearted shrug, swiftly unfurling my sleeve back down to my wrist. 

"We're both embarrassments, then. You tripped and ripped your hand open on a rock while I couldn't kill an old man."

Niles silently repositioned an elbow back on the hilt of the saber on his waist. I wiggled my knapsack's straps before prodding at my shoulder, attempting to alleviate the dull ache in my muscles. 

"Must be hard, being such a shitty fighter. You were lucky this time. At least you haven't become one of those...," the man made a small gesture towards the back of our unit. 

I easily acquiesced; I really was lucky. 

Being part of the Ikthar meant I had to join raids, but my rubbish ability barely allowed me to survive each invasion. Even then, I can't hang at the back for too long too often - my obedience and effort must be demonstrated, lest I get killed for being utterly useless. 

Such a dangerous occupation truly violates my central principle. Regrettably, I can only console myself with one certainty: there are hundreds of ways to die, and being slaughtered in battle is simply one of many. And, arguably, death granted by a sword is much more merciful than one provoked through slow hunger - something that is not particularly uncommon during the winter. 

But, if I were not a bandit, and did not receive food and lodging and occasional coins, how would I survive? Learn some sort of trade and become a village handyman? Live as a peasant, serving some lord? Had those been a possibility for me at the time, I would have gladly taken either job. Unfortunately, I was forced to make a different choice, and now...it was inevitable now. Ikthar will spread its palm and cover this crumbling kingdom, and leaving its ranks would label me as a traitor that must be killed upon sight. To date, I have never heard of any deserters successfully escaping and living well. I have survived this long; to die now would be a disgrace to all of my past efforts.

A familiar, high-pitched whistle rang through the air, the same shrill noise echoed by numerous soldiers as our unit ground to a stop. 

"Halt! We rest here for the night."

I couldn't see him past the crowd ahead, but the captain's domineering voice was unmistakable. Sighs of relief filled the crowded trail as everyone began to settle down, finally resting after a day of near-nonstop marching. I was no different, of course. 

"We should have...about a week left until we reach base," Niles released a long exhale after speaking, tilting his head back as he sat on the ground. 

I responded with a noncommittal hum, finding a comfortable position nearby as I watched the setting sun on the horizon. Voluminous clouds covered the top half of the sky, their fiery red color seemingly close enough to touch as they packed together into a thick blanket. We were halfway up a dry mountain, so only craggy bushes and the occasional tree blocked the view of the valley below. Thin trails of smoke could be seen far, far away, and if one looked closely, the tell-tale signs of a small town could be spotted. It was the only sign of civilization I could find. I briefly attempted to detect the village we had recently destroyed, but upon scanning the valley once more, I decided that it was unlikely; two weeks had passed since then - two weeks' worth of distance walked - and the only thing we left behind was ash and rubble.

A sudden commotion had me turning to the side, the angry jeers grabbing my attention. It only took a few snippets of conversation to understand what was going on, and the recognizable words reminded me of the rumor going around the unit. 

"Is it him?" Niles asked.

"Probably." 

He likely thought of the same thing. Apparently, one soldier has been making rounds every evening recently, asking for pieces of people's rations. Tonight was the first time he's come so close to the center of the march. 

"Did his buddies at the back get tired of him?" I muttered. 

"I wouldn't be surprised. Those guys are usually a step away from keeling over. If I were them, I'd be pissed if someone tried to take my shit at my death bed."

We quietly watched the beggar interact with a nearby group. He was standing at the side of a circle of seated men, giving subservient nods and meek little bows as they conversed. A question came to mind at Niles's comment. 

"If you thought you were going to die, would you really not give up your rations?"

Niles snorted, giving me a mild sneer of disbelief. 

"Never. They'll have to pry them from my cold, dead hands. I'm sure you of all people understand." 

I understood, of course. Why would I give up my only source of nourishment if I myself were in such a wretched state? But, it is important to make the distinction between thought and knowledge. If I only thought that I would perish, I would nonetheless desperately cling on to the last traces of life for as long as I could; relinquishing food would only worsen my chances. If I absolutely knew that I would die, then perhaps...Naturally, that was almost never a possibility. Who truly knows how fate will play out? 

The group ultimately laughed, shook their heads, and waved the beggar away. Seeing the somewhat short man glancing around, I immediately whipped my head away from his direction. It was better not to make eye contact with those kinds of people. 

Luckily, my efforts seemed to pay off. He approached a different crowd, this time situated close enough for us to hear most of their exchange. His profile acutely revealed his anxious smile and wavering brows. 

"...injury is worsening, he needs all the food he can...." 

"How'd he walk if he's in such bad shape?" The interrogative side was much louder.

"He...been. I've been carrying...Can't let him die. He's my dear friend...." 

I eventually looked away, ignoring the conversation as I ruffled through my knapsack to find my own rations. That expression...was clearly not meant for a mere "friend." 

"Oh, look, he's coming this way," Niles lowly exclaimed. 

Unexpectedly, I didn't even have time to curse, the beggar speedily freezing before scuttering away as someone new joined the fray. 

"Hey, you two!" Ryder's voice cut through the nearby mumbling, the blonde waving us over and flashing a smile after grabbing our attention. "The captain's calling for you guys." 

My previous dissatisfaction was almost instantly swept away by confusion, then trepidation.