(1866-02-07) Going Home
Going Home
Summary: Late at night/early morning, Henric wakens from his day of recovery slumber to contemplate and issue an order to his regiment.
Date: 1866-02-07
Related: Tagged Goldhollow or Henric
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Henric  

The flicker of fire echoed in the reflection of the mirror, bathing his body in a warm orange glow. He stood before the mirror, in the merchant’s villa, bare chested, regarding the battle scars gracing his torso – the fresh and the old.

Fingers of his right hand traced over the disfigurement of his left shoulder; large puckering scars from the numerous attempts to reset the dislocated bone and the actual removal of the scorpion bolt that caught him just under the armpit. Green eyes stared pensively at this reflection, recounting the pain, and then, his fingers glided toward his neck. A reaction occurred when he touched the self-made scars. Anger. Resentment. Unbearable shame.

Henric glared at his own reflection as he stood tracing the wretchedness of his own person. His sight continued to move down his form, noting each plane on his body that had been subjected to injury, such as the new one down his left forearm. How many others weren’t so lucky to be considering their reflections? How many were dead? And why wasn’t he?

The One knows he had more than his proper share of coming back from the brink of death than was fair. He had been so certain, riding the lead of the cavalry charge, that this time, he wouldn’t. He had expected it would be his moment of redemption, a death well deserved, respectable, and such that his siblings could be proud of.

Instead, there he was, standing in front of the mirror, very much alive and well, while many of his men, including his sergeant, were not. The One had a sick humor. Why was he so deserving? What had he done to gain these chances that others hadn’t? Why… What purpose had he yet to fulfil?

The One wouldn’t answer, no matter how many prayers he made, the One was always silent.

His little sister was with him, however. His eyes flickered over to where her letter and gifted bonbons rested. That was enough to shake him from his self-loathing, enough that as he looked again at himself, he thought of the words he shared with the Priest of Sherfield.

He fought with all he had and he had done what he could in the moment of battle. From the beginning of the siege, he had tried to act with valour and the strength that had once made him a pretty damn good Royal Lancer and now selfless commander.

He charged straight at the enemy in a frontal charge, a dangerous and often deadly tactic for a cavalryman to be a part of. Those who had ridden with him paid dearly for the cost of Goldhollow, but he got them back, alive or dead. They made a great sacrifice, it was all he could do to see their bodies taken care of properly and letters sent out via the Priestess before rumors could reach their families. He had carried out the orders he was given with precision and skill, for that, men and women died hard.

But those soldiers were to be forever embraced by glory in their final battle. “Ivo, Barret, Myghell, Tylona…” the names continued to rattle off his tongue, recalling forth to himself the men and women who didn’t make it back alive, from the first battle to the last.

When he was finished with the list of names, 21 from his own regiment, a number he had initially despaired over, he went to retrieve a full bottle of whiskey that he had asked to be brought to him when he had awoken from his day long slumber. It was the middle of the night now, as it were. He had been exhausted beyond belief after the hard last battle and fire brigade thereafter. He ensured not a damn soul was to wake him, not even his beloved sister was allowed admittance and as soon as he was awake, he demanded a few things, including the whiskey.

Once he finds a short glass and he cracks the bottle open and splashes a shot into it. Silently, he carries the open bottle and the single glass to the hearth side. The list of the dead he had folded and left on top. With some significance, he places the bottle next to it and hoists up his glass, “My fallen comrades, I will see you not forgotten, by living well and honourably.” Down the hatch, he swings the whiskey fast, gritting his teeth against the burn, respecting the fallen with a clink of his empty glass on the mantle next to the bottle.

“Time to go home.”

A swift movement pivots him as he strides to the door, flings it open, sticks his head out, and bellows down the two storey building, “GUSTAV, DUNCAN?!” There’s some sound of rousing coming from down below, as Henric steps toward the railing and looks down, and a man whose tugging on his pants comes one foot hopping to rush toward the stairwell. Henric laughs, “Hurry it up man. Get your damn pants on. I need you to run a message to the Duke.”

“The Duke?”

“Aye! Tell him, we’re taking our sorry asses home first light, unless he has different orders for us!”

“Truly? Griffon Point?”

“With a stopover at Ironhold. But home! Tell the lads! Get them packing up!! They're to home to see their families!”

There’s a half assed salute made from the sleep weary Duncan, whose still trying to not fall out of his trousers, completely excited by the news. Henric flips a dismissive gesture toward him, before Duncan could spill over himself. The Cassomir then returns to the room he had 'assumed' for the siege, to begin the chore of packing.

The One knew he needed some rest. The last six months had been hell.

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