Chapter Text
September
Erik's head throbbed as he came to. He wasn't sure if he'd been hit or slipped in the mud. That was where he lay now, looking up at the smoke that choked the stars out. Night had fallen at some point and with it, some quiet. Flames still crackled and he heard footsteps squelch in the mud farther off, but there were no longer screams or sounds of fighting. He groped around and found his mother's spade still in reach, now slippery from the mud. It hadn't done her any good, but it was the first thing he'd seen, so he'd taken it. For his part, his father had trusted his bare fists until the end. But for all they could crack skulls, they could not stop steel.
He gingerly lifted his head and saw a bandit not far off, bent over a body. A wild plan presented itself and he found himself rising before he could think it through. He moved as quietly as he could. If he could get to the bandit before he was heard, while the bandit was still hunched low, he could beat him over the head with the spade. The man had no helmet. If he hit him right, he'd go down. He'd seen his father do it once, though he couldn't remember where the blow had landed to do it. He held his breath and took a step forwards.
And was pulled backwards.
An arm wrapped roughly around his neck, trapping him against the body behind him. "Don't be stupid, boy," the body said, with odd softness, as if it did not want anyone else to hear. "You won't achieve anything by doing that."
"Fuck you," he said. He wanted to sound rough, the way his father did when he'd had too many drinks at the tavern and someone looked at him funny. He didn't think he succeeded, because the bandit laughed at him, still at that low pitch.
"I'm not going to let you strike him." The arm tightened around him. Not choking him, not yet, but close. "Drop the spade."
Erik tried to bite down on the arm to break its hold, but couldn't get through the layers of padded armor. The bandit chuckled again. "Good instincts. But think again." The bandit Erik had meant to strike had finished stuffing his loot into a sack and was moving on, taking any chance Erik had of pulling off his surprise hit with him. He let the spade fall.
"Good." The bandit loosened his grip considerably in reward. "I'd like you to live, boy. Would you like that?"
Erik looked out over the village, still lit by fire, strange shadows cast from buildings that had collapsed at odd angles. By morning, he expected it would all be gone, bent inward and collapsed. When he made no answer, mesmerized by the sight, the bandit released him entirely, then turned him around, looking at him. Erik didn't raise his face, just looked straight ahead at the man's chest, at the layers of dark armor that had thwarted him. At last, he said: "There isn't anything left, is there?"
The bandit was quiet for a long time. Erik could feel his gaze boring into him, trying to pull his attention upward. "Not here, there isn't."
"Why did you do it?"
"Because someone paid me to do it."
Erik supposed that was the same reason anybody did anything. Sometimes he heard people talk about lords and sometimes God, but mostly groschen. "My parents are dead," he said, gesturing behind the bandit, towards the barn where he'd found them.
"I am sorry for you." The bandit sounded like he meant it. Not for killing them, Erik thought; just for where it left him. And his head began to swim, maybe because he'd hit it, maybe because the more the bandit spoke the more fair and reasonable he seemed. "I understand more than you might think." Erik stared up, finally taking in the man's face. He didn't seem nearly as rough as he'd imagined he would. His dark eyes, wide and round, caught the light of the fire and reflected it. "If you come with me, I'll provide for you."
As if on command, Erik's stomach chose that moment to remind him he hadn't had supper.
"You're bleeding, boy." A gloved hand tilted his head to give the bandit a better view. "Or were. Might have caked enough mud into it to do a decent job of staunching it."
The impulse to fight faded. He didn't want to die. Not for nothing, not when it was already all over. Hands that could kill him so easily now touched him gingerly, pressing to find the exact dimensions of his wound. It throbbed worse, either because of the pressure or because he'd become aware of it again. His father always hated the sight of tears, so he bit down on the inside of his lip and tried to tamp down the wave of helplessness that swept through him.
"You'll live," the bandit said approvingly, withdrawing from his examination. "Come. Don't starve here to prove a point."
A stubborn part of Erik tried to make a stand against his imminent surrender, wanted to protest that he could run still. He was a good runner and he knew the woods, knew the trails that would take him to the brook. He could follow that south nearly all the way and make it to Lipova even in the dark. He nearly considered going for it, but hesitated.
In Lipova, it'd fall on him to explain what had happened. In Lipova, there was no promise anyone would provide for him. In Lipova, even if they did, he'd be pitied as some poor unfortunate thing. And that he couldn't stand more than anything.
The bandit wasn't doing that. He was regarding him evenly, waiting for an answer. As if none of the other bandits or the flames or all the death he'd dealt existed at all. As if Erik's answer was worth waiting for.
He didn't know why it should be, but something about the man made it feel easy to give in. On the basis of nothing but blind instinct, he didn't think the man meant to hurt him. Which didn't make sense if he'd been paid to spread death, unless he'd already taken enough.
But somehow, it was enough.
Slowly, he nodded, careful to meet the bandit's gaze as he did, because he thought it important not to show fear or weakness.
And like that, let himself be led away.