Hastily, I empty out its contents—uninterested in dealing with an argument from anyone down the line about how I’d stolen their sentimental items—and lug the empty sack over my shoulder before catching up with the rest of the group.
The short reprieve has livened some among us. The lighthearted conversation of strangers getting to know one another returns, met with the boisterous and squirrelly nature of those walking dangerously close to the Shadowthorn’s edge.
“It’s jokes you want, eh?” bellows one of the recruits. “Have you heard the one about the brave mage who fought valiantly for his country?”
“No,” a few of the others muse.
The first recruit taps his chin thoughtfully. “Oh right, that’s because there are none!”
Laughter trickles throughout the group, not the rich and hearty kind that often fills the dining halls of post-battle feasts, but the slight amusement of people warming up to the idea of laughing. It’s hard to laugh for too long when we’re all shuffling through the miserable snow.
While what little mirth we possess is still fresh, another recruit opens her mouth. “How do you tell the difference between a mage and a demon?” When the brief silence is filled with only the chittering of our teeth, the woman finishes. “One of them is pure evil, and the other is the spawn of Qaeus.”
A rumble slips past my curved lips, carrying out through the wind with the others.
“A demon, a mage, and a Crusader walk into the Shadowthorn…” the next recruit starts. “Oh wait. There’s no blighted way a mage would quit pissing himself long enough to venture across the dark border!”
More laughter dances around us, robust and corpulent. One after another, the recruits share their unflattering puns and witticism, discovering a bond over a common hatred for the magic-users who abandoned our people so long ago. The laughter becomes so infectious that even some of the Crusaders, perched atop their horses, join in.
“What’s a mage’s favorite pastime?” one of them calls.
Many among us offer their answers.
“Tucking their tails between their legs.”
“Leaving millions of people to die.”
“Pissin’ themselves!”
The uproar becomes so loud that the Crusader can’t even finish his joke. Instead, we find solace in the warmth we find in comedy, if we can find none from the brutal winter environment.
“I’ve got one!” Maxwell sticks his finger in the air in declaration. “What do you call an ageless mage?” A brief interlude of silence passes, his eager eyes scanning us all. When none know the answer, and he can contain himself no longer, he shouts, “He’s just called M!”
The recruits and Crusaders groan. The one nearest Maxwell, a big blond fella who looks as if he could swallow the young man whole and his stomach would still growl afterward, gives Maxwell a hefty shove in the shoulder.
He staggers sideways, bumping into the horse flanking him, before staggering backward and bumping into me.
“S-sorry,” he mutters.
My logic and reasoning still stands. Babying him might be a comfort in the moment, but in the long term, it can only mean his death.
And yet… I still find myself grabbing his elbow to steady him. “It’s all right. The joke was…”
He ducks his head, embarrassed. “It was pretty bad. I know. I was never really any good with jokes. People tend to be more likely to laugh at me, rather than with me.”
Dimitri slaps his shoulder heartily. “Don’t worry. Spend enough time with this lot, and something tells me you’ll be cracking jokes as good as any of them by the time we’re through.”
“You really think so?”
Dimitri turns toward me so that Maxwell can’t see him and winks. “Sure! I don’t see why not.”
It doesn’t take long for the solemn, wearied hush to reclaim the group once again. If anyone had known that transportation wouldn’t have been provided, I’m sure most of the others would’ve brought horses and mules with them, if not to ride themselves, to at least bear the brunt of hauling the lives they packed into their bags.
It seems cruel to force us to wear out the soles of our shoes while the actual Crusaders sit atop their steeds. They could’ve easily brought a carriage, and I’m sure they have horses at the castle that they could’ve spared. It’s like they’re doing this just to torture us, like hiking through this grueling weather is supposed to do anything but piss us off.
Not that I needed any more reasons to scowl at Alphonse’s backside; I have a lifetime of childhood memories to choose from:
Alphonse shoving me down to the ground and rubbing my head into mud to see if he could “wash away the tainted white” of my hair.
Alphonse claiming that when my parents die, he will inherit everything they own because me and my siblings are heathens and no heathen can own Arcathainian property.
Alphonse telling me I should go back to where I came from, even though I was born and raised in Arcathain, not the Forgotten Forest of Eyve.
Alphonse spitting in my face.
Alphonse spitting in my food.
Alphonse—
“You better watch the tone of your eyes.” Dimitri’s warning startles me back into the present.
I shift my scowl to him only to meet his glare and rise to the challenge he’s laid out for me.
“You don’t know what he’s like,” I argue, sounding petulant even to myself.
“Not this again.” Dimitri throws his head back with a throaty groan. “I already told you, Halira. It doesn’t matter what he was like, or what he is like, what he did or didn’t do. Arcathain is full of assholes, and sometimes those assholes have more power over you. It doesn’t matter how much we hate them or want to see them suffer for the way they’ve made us suffer. There are rules and we must abide by them.”
Without even needing to mention the specifics, I know exactly who he’s talking about, the rules he’s thinking of, and once more do I feel the pang in my chest for his losses. When his mother died, he and his sister both decided to enlist in the Shadow Crusade together to avenge her. But unbeknownst to them, the Magistrate had recently set a new age requirement for recruits, after seeing one too many young souls be lost to the Shadowthorn.
Since Dimitri was still only fourteen at the time, he was denied signing his name on the log, but his sister had already written hers down. To this day, he still blames himself for her death most of all, if not his entire family’s.
He’d wanted to enlist with her, even then, but the rules stated he needed to be nineteen first, and so he waited, long after his mother’s death, long after his sister’s, and a few more years after his father’s, until he was finally of age and the Shadow Crusade recruits were paying another overdue visit to Gravenburg.
“Stand alive!” Alphonse calls over his black, gleaming shoulder plate, startling every last one of us to stillness.
If the hairs on the back of my neck could stand any more on end, they’d fall right from my skin, but the snow froze them days ago. My heart still pulses with warmth though, and so it has no problem leaping into my throat, pounding so fervently that I can’t even swallow, can barely breathe.
“We are approaching the Shadowthorn,” Alphonse informs us. “The Blight continues to spread; it blocks the path up ahead. We have to cross through if we are to reach the Castle of Nigh as planned.”