The soldier
Not a fully self contained story, but the experience of a soldier following a battle
A fox flew across the boughs of a mossy oak in pursuit of a fleeing squirrel. Its mad dash causing a fair bit of commotion, small branches and acorns fell from the limbs of the gnarly oak. One of those acorns happened to hit a dozing soldier who went by the name of Kalig.
At this point, Kalig was only a soldier in name only, as he looked more like a monster of this thicket, covered in mud and dirt and blood. The only clue for an outside observer that he was a living being was the rising and falling of his chest. Some might call him a deserter, but he would consider himself more a lucky survivor of a hopeless situation. Few, if any, of his legions banners would ever be kissed by this world’s winds again.
Upon being hit by the acorn, Kalig bolted awake, adrenaline coursing through his veins out of fear that he had somehow been found by the adversarial army that was camped nearby. After checking his surroundings in a panic, he was reassured by the quiet of the hollow that he was still alone. He sighed and closed his eyes with relief, but that feeling was short-lived as he soon began to vomit.
Kalig was surprised at how long his stomach emptied, as he had not eaten anything for days other than a few bits of dried meat. He felt clammy and unwell after vomiting, and he feared his blight may not be easily put to rest. He valued valor and bravery, but there was nothing valiant about escaping from a battle by pretending to be dead while face down in the mud, hiding away from the enemy, and fleeing weaponless from the battlefield only to contract and die from a common virus. Finding a doctor or village physician could save him from such a pitiful death, so he set out across the murky brook and walked onward, away from the battlefield and towards an uncertain future, emptying his stomach along the way for good measure.
He continued wandering aimlessly through the wood, believing he was going straight, but never really certain. The occasional call of a crow or rustle of a rodent was the only proof of life he found on his trek. Crows had once been his favorite bird, but now he just saw them as an omen of death. By the time of the sun’s peak, Kalig could feel his symptoms were worsening. A cold sweat had broken across his body, and his legs felt marginally stronger than pieces of hay. He had only had a fever this bad one other time, when he was only eleven or so summers along. Kalig and his brother Honnor had both contracted a severe illness which lasted multiple weeks and came with a debilitating fever. Kalig and Honnor had both been bedridden for almost half of a moon cycle before Kalig started to get better. Honnor did not.
His condition slowly worsened, giving Kalig time to reflect on his life up until this point. Kalig wondered if he would succumb to the same fate as his brother, delayed by eight years. Kalig thought it ironic that Honnor’s death had brought his brother respite from the darkness and evil that came soon after his passing. Honnor never knew of the war that would follow, the invasion, the murder of their parents, Kalig’s drafting, or the violence, disease, and death. Kalig’s knees gave out as he tried to scramble up a small embankment. He could barely stand at this point, let alone keep walking. He sat there, collapsed, long enough to come back to his senses. He felt his vitality draining, but death’s onward march pushed him to keep moving. Taking it one painful step at a time, he advanced his feet just enough to get over the embankment, and found himself on a decently trodden road.
It was not such a busy path that he saw anyone traveling along it, but it was more than just a hunting trail. With a renewed sense of hope, he took a left on the road and pushed on. As Kalig’s body waned, his mind held strong with the hope that he could find at least one home or village on his way. A second bout of nausea hit him with such strength that he almost collapsed, and he knew his body could not continue much further.
Wagon ruts increased in prominence, leading him to believe he must be getting close to at least a small town. He worried that his ragged appearance and sickly features would get him killed for being a spirit of the undead, or worse, a [opposing army name pending]. Kalig imagined finally coming across someone that could help save him, only to be killed for being one of these monsters. War and violence had changed people in recent days. Where once, anyone would let you into their home for food and hospitality, now everyone shut their doors and pretended not to notice a stranger passing by. Maybe Honnor had been blessed for not having to live through this.
Kalig’s fever seemed to suddenly worsen. His head throbbed, his muscles quivered, and he collapsed in the road. He had hoped to make it farther, but it looked like he would end up finding his fate in the middle of the road in some blasted forest. He closed his eyes and finally gave in, the rest of his family already had, it must just have been his turn.
A blessed ray of sun hit Kalig’s face. Looking around, he sighed with relief. It was finally over. No more fighting, no more pain, no more hunger; he had been sent to the hall of the goddesses. Barefoot and in white linen braies and a shirt, Kalig noted his hall of rebirth was a tad more plain than he had imagined. He had expected a great mausoleum of marble and fine filigree. Instead, he was in a mundane appearing cottage, heavenly yes, but still... normal. Garlic, Thyme and Rosemary hung from the ceiling in the kitchen adjacent to his bedroom. A heavenly aroma permeated throughout the kitchen, the source of which being the central hearth. In the hearth, a stew simmered in a black weathered cast-iron pot. Kalig’s stomach growled. Clenching his gut, he tried to sit up. A sharp grimace shot across his bruised face as his mortal body wheezed to life.
He hastily took a chipped aspen bowl from the counter and grabbed the ladle. Too hastily apparently; some of the scalding stew splashed onto his left hand, and it took all his willpower not to drop the bowl. With a ravenous stomach and a stinging hand, Kalig began to eat. After three servings of stew, Kalig was reprieved of his stomach’s desire. Shortly after exiting his cottage, a sharp rock reminded him to put on boots. Oddly enough, his boots were piled by the light paneled front door. Although his ragged boots may let in the occasional pebble, they were better than bare feet.
His cottage sat on the edge of an aspen forest which crept up the hill behind him, the door of the cottage opened into a large pasture and beyond that rolling hills rippled across the landscape. In the far distance, Kalig could make out a small range of short, treeless mountains, not quite high enough to have frosted peaks. Four or five houses similar to his were placed within walking distance, all of which were single story thatched cottages. To his left, a small square garden connected to Kalig’s house. He estimated it to be roughly twenty paces wide and deep. The garden primarily housed herbs, with a few carrots and radishes planted in small patches. A gravel path marked a road across his pasture and towards the next. He glanced back at his cottage as he set out towards the next. Kalig shivered as cool gusts whipped through his light garments. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet reminded him too well of his company’s ill fated march. All of them unknowingly marching straight to their deaths, too naive to predict their future. Kalig walked on the grass.
Kalig’s heels ached as he passed through the gate of an adjacent property. The sun still had yet to reach its apex, and Kalig was appreciative of the warmth it gave to his chilled skin. He laughed, it had been a while since he had been able to appreciate something as simple as sunlight. He had forgotten the bliss of peace. He had once thought life in the countryside was boring, but he had been a fool.
A fox flew across the boughs of a mossy oak in pursuit of a fleeing squirrel. Its mad dash causing a fair bit of commotion, small branches and acorns fell from the limbs of the gnarly oak. One of those acorns happened to hit a dozing soldier who went by the name of Kalig.
At this point, Kalig was only a soldier in name only, as he looked more like a monster of this thicket, covered in mud and dirt and blood. The only clue for an outside observer that he was a living being was the rising and falling of his chest. Some might call him a deserter, but he would consider himself more a lucky survivor of a hopeless situation. Few, if any, of his legions banners would ever be kissed by this world’s winds again.
Upon being hit by the acorn, Kalig bolted awake, adrenaline coursing through his veins out of fear that he had somehow been found by the adversarial army that was camped nearby. After checking his surroundings in a panic, he was reassured by the quiet of the hollow that he was still alone. He sighed and closed his eyes with relief, but that feeling was short-lived as he soon began to vomit.
Kalig was surprised at how long his stomach emptied, as he had not eaten anything for days other than a few bits of dried meat. He felt clammy and unwell after vomiting, and he feared his blight may not be easily put to rest. He valued valor and bravery, but there was nothing valiant about escaping from a battle by pretending to be dead while face down in the mud, hiding away from the enemy, and fleeing weaponless from the battlefield only to contract and die from a common virus. Finding a doctor or village physician could save him from such a pitiful death, so he set out across the murky brook and walked onward, away from the battlefield and towards an uncertain future, emptying his stomach along the way for good measure.
He continued wandering aimlessly through the wood, believing he was going straight, but never really certain. The occasional call of a crow or rustle of a rodent was the only proof of life he found on his trek. Crows had once been his favorite bird, but now he just saw them as an omen of death. By the time of the sun’s peak, Kalig could feel his symptoms were worsening. A cold sweat had broken across his body, and his legs felt marginally stronger than pieces of hay. He had only had a fever this bad one other time, when he was only eleven or so summers along. Kalig and his brother Honnor had both contracted a severe illness which lasted multiple weeks and came with a debilitating fever. Kalig and Honnor had both been bedridden for almost half of a moon cycle before Kalig started to get better. Honnor did not.
His condition slowly worsened, giving Kalig time to reflect on his life up until this point. Kalig wondered if he would succumb to the same fate as his brother, delayed by eight years. Kalig thought it ironic that Honnor’s death had brought his brother respite from the darkness and evil that came soon after his passing. Honnor never knew of the war that would follow, the invasion, the murder of their parents, Kalig’s drafting, or the violence, disease, and death. Kalig’s knees gave out as he tried to scramble up a small embankment. He could barely stand at this point, let alone keep walking. He sat there, collapsed, long enough to come back to his senses. He felt his vitality draining, but death’s onward march pushed him to keep moving. Taking it one painful step at a time, he advanced his feet just enough to get over the embankment, and found himself on a decently trodden road.
It was not such a busy path that he saw anyone traveling along it, but it was more than just a hunting trail. With a renewed sense of hope, he took a left on the road and pushed on. As Kalig’s body waned, his mind held strong with the hope that he could find at least one home or village on his way. A second bout of nausea hit him with such strength that he almost collapsed, and he knew his body could not continue much further.
Wagon ruts increased in prominence, leading him to believe he must be getting close to at least a small town. He worried that his ragged appearance and sickly features would get him killed for being a spirit of the undead, or worse, a [opposing army name pending]. Kalig imagined finally coming across someone that could help save him, only to be killed for being one of these monsters. War and violence had changed people in recent days. Where once, anyone would let you into their home for food and hospitality, now everyone shut their doors and pretended not to notice a stranger passing by. Maybe Honnor had been blessed for not having to live through this.
Kalig’s fever seemed to suddenly worsen. His head throbbed, his muscles quivered, and he collapsed in the road. He had hoped to make it farther, but it looked like he would end up finding his fate in the middle of the road in some blasted forest. He closed his eyes and finally gave in, the rest of his family already had, it must just have been his turn.
A blessed ray of sun hit Kalig’s face. Looking around, he sighed with relief. It was finally over. No more fighting, no more pain, no more hunger; he had been sent to the hall of the goddesses. Barefoot and in white linen braies and a shirt, Kalig noted his hall of rebirth was a tad more plain than he had imagined. He had expected a great mausoleum of marble and fine filigree. Instead, he was in a mundane appearing cottage, heavenly yes, but still... normal. Garlic, Thyme and Rosemary hung from the ceiling in the kitchen adjacent to his bedroom. A heavenly aroma permeated throughout the kitchen, the source of which being the central hearth. In the hearth, a stew simmered in a black weathered cast-iron pot. Kalig’s stomach growled. Clenching his gut, he tried to sit up. A sharp grimace shot across his bruised face as his mortal body wheezed to life.
He hastily took a chipped aspen bowl from the counter and grabbed the ladle. Too hastily apparently; some of the scalding stew splashed onto his left hand, and it took all his willpower not to drop the bowl. With a ravenous stomach and a stinging hand, Kalig began to eat. After three servings of stew, Kalig was reprieved of his stomach’s desire. Shortly after exiting his cottage, a sharp rock reminded him to put on boots. Oddly enough, his boots were piled by the light paneled front door. Although his ragged boots may let in the occasional pebble, they were better than bare feet.
His cottage sat on the edge of an aspen forest which crept up the hill behind him, the door of the cottage opened into a large pasture and beyond that rolling hills rippled across the landscape. In the far distance, Kalig could make out a small range of short, treeless mountains, not quite high enough to have frosted peaks. Four or five houses similar to his were placed within walking distance, all of which were single story thatched cottages. To his left, a small square garden connected to Kalig’s house. He estimated it to be roughly twenty paces wide and deep. The garden primarily housed herbs, with a few carrots and radishes planted in small patches. A gravel path marked a road across his pasture and towards the next. He glanced back at his cottage as he set out towards the next. Kalig shivered as cool gusts whipped through his light garments. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet reminded him too well of his company’s ill fated march. All of them unknowingly marching straight to their deaths, too naive to predict their future. Kalig walked on the grass.
Kalig’s heels ached as he passed through the gate of an adjacent property. The sun still had yet to reach its apex, and Kalig was appreciative of the warmth it gave to his chilled skin. He laughed, it had been a while since he had been able to appreciate something as simple as sunlight. He had forgotten the bliss of peace. He had once thought life in the countryside was boring, but he had been a fool.
A fox flew across the boughs of a mossy oak in pursuit of a fleeing squirrel. Its mad dash causing a fair bit of commotion, small branches and acorns fell from the limbs of the gnarly oak. One of those acorns happened to hit a dozing soldier who went by the name of Kalig.
At this point, Kalig was only a soldier in name only, as he looked more like a monster of this thicket, covered in mud and dirt and blood. The only clue for an outside observer that he was a living being was the rising and falling of his chest. Some might call him a deserter, but he would consider himself more a lucky survivor of a hopeless situation. Few, if any, of his legions banners would ever be kissed by this world’s winds again.
Upon being hit by the acorn, Kalig bolted awake, adrenaline coursing through his veins out of fear that he had somehow been found by the adversarial army that was camped nearby. After checking his surroundings in a panic, he was reassured by the quiet of the hollow that he was still alone. He sighed and closed his eyes with relief, but that feeling was short-lived as he soon began to vomit.
Kalig was surprised at how long his stomach emptied, as he had not eaten anything for days other than a few bits of dried meat. He felt clammy and unwell after vomiting, and he feared his blight may not be easily put to rest. He valued valor and bravery, but there was nothing valiant about escaping from a battle by pretending to be dead while face down in the mud, hiding away from the enemy, and fleeing weaponless from the battlefield only to contract and die from a common virus. Finding a doctor or village physician could save him from such a pitiful death, so he set out across the murky brook and walked onward, away from the battlefield and towards an uncertain future, emptying his stomach along the way for good measure.
He continued wandering aimlessly through the wood, believing he was going straight, but never really certain. The occasional call of a crow or rustle of a rodent was the only proof of life he found on his trek. Crows had once been his favorite bird, but now he just saw them as an omen of death. By the time of the sun’s peak, Kalig could feel his symptoms were worsening. A cold sweat had broken across his body, and his legs felt marginally stronger than pieces of hay. He had only had a fever this bad one other time, when he was only eleven or so summers along. Kalig and his brother Honnor had both contracted a severe illness which lasted multiple weeks and came with a debilitating fever. Kalig and Honnor had both been bedridden for almost half of a moon cycle before Kalig started to get better. Honnor did not.
His condition slowly worsened, giving Kalig time to reflect on his life up until this point. Kalig wondered if he would succumb to the same fate as his brother, delayed by eight years. Kalig thought it ironic that Honnor’s death had brought his brother respite from the darkness and evil that came soon after his passing. Honnor never knew of the war that would follow, the invasion, the murder of their parents, Kalig’s drafting, or the violence, disease, and death. Kalig’s knees gave out as he tried to scramble up a small embankment. He could barely stand at this point, let alone keep walking. He sat there, collapsed, long enough to come back to his senses. He felt his vitality draining, but death’s onward march pushed him to keep moving. Taking it one painful step at a time, he advanced his feet just enough to get over the embankment, and found himself on a decently trodden road.
It was not such a busy path that he saw anyone traveling along it, but it was more than just a hunting trail. With a renewed sense of hope, he took a left on the road and pushed on. As Kalig’s body waned, his mind held strong with the hope that he could find at least one home or village on his way. A second bout of nausea hit him with such strength that he almost collapsed, and he knew his body could not continue much further.
Wagon ruts increased in prominence, leading him to believe he must be getting close to at least a small town. He worried that his ragged appearance and sickly features would get him killed for being a spirit of the undead, or worse, a [opposing army name pending]. Kalig imagined finally coming across someone that could help save him, only to be killed for being one of these monsters. War and violence had changed people in recent days. Where once, anyone would let you into their home for food and hospitality, now everyone shut their doors and pretended not to notice a stranger passing by. Maybe Honnor had been blessed for not having to live through this.
Kalig’s fever seemed to suddenly worsen. His head throbbed, his muscles quivered, and he collapsed in the road. He had hoped to make it farther, but it looked like he would end up finding his fate in the middle of the road in some blasted forest. He closed his eyes and finally gave in, the rest of his family already had, it must just have been his turn.
A blessed ray of sun hit Kalig’s face. Looking around, he sighed with relief. It was finally over. No more fighting, no more pain, no more hunger; he had been sent to the hall of the goddesses. Barefoot and in white linen braies and a shirt, Kalig noted his hall of rebirth was a tad more plain than he had imagined. He had expected a great mausoleum of marble and fine filigree. Instead, he was in a mundane appearing cottage, heavenly yes, but still... normal. Garlic, Thyme and Rosemary hung from the ceiling in the kitchen adjacent to his bedroom. A heavenly aroma permeated throughout the kitchen, the source of which being the central hearth. In the hearth, a stew simmered in a black weathered cast-iron pot. Kalig’s stomach growled. Clenching his gut, he tried to sit up. A sharp grimace shot across his bruised face as his mortal body wheezed to life.
He hastily took a chipped aspen bowl from the counter and grabbed the ladle. Too hastily apparently; some of the scalding stew splashed onto his left hand, and it took all his willpower not to drop the bowl. With a ravenous stomach and a stinging hand, Kalig began to eat. After three servings of stew, Kalig was reprieved of his stomach’s desire. Shortly after exiting his cottage, a sharp rock reminded him to put on boots. Oddly enough, his boots were piled by the light paneled front door. Although his ragged boots may let in the occasional pebble, they were better than bare feet.
His cottage sat on the edge of an aspen forest which crept up the hill behind him, the door of the cottage opened into a large pasture and beyond that rolling hills rippled across the landscape. In the far distance, Kalig could make out a small range of short, treeless mountains, not quite high enough to have frosted peaks. Four or five houses similar to his were placed within walking distance, all of which were single story thatched cottages. To his left, a small square garden connected to Kalig’s house. He estimated it to be roughly twenty paces wide and deep. The garden primarily housed herbs, with a few carrots and radishes planted in small patches. A gravel path marked a road across his pasture and towards the next. He glanced back at his cottage as he set out towards the next. Kalig shivered as cool gusts whipped through his light garments. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet reminded him too well of his company’s ill fated march. All of them unknowingly marching straight to their deaths, too naive to predict their future. Kalig walked on the grass.
Kalig’s heels ached as he passed through the gate of an adjacent property. The sun still had yet to reach its apex, and Kalig was appreciative of the warmth it gave to his chilled skin. He laughed, it had been a while since he had been able to appreciate something as simple as sunlight. He had forgotten the bliss of peace. He had once thought life in the countryside was boring, but he had been a fool.
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