Vol.4, Extra 1, P.2
“Come on,” said Sigmund. “Out with ’em trotters.”
Obliging, Arno showed the former mercenary his aching ankle. Instead of a salving spell, however, Sigmund used what he knew: a simple ointment, applied upon the stung skin. Frigid as frost it felt to Arno, but thanks to it, the throbbing thinned and the burning cooled all at once.
He winced at it, of course. But once his eyes softened back, wonderment overcame them. “How’d you do it, Big Sig?” he then asked after a moment. “How’d you find me out here?”
“’Ow?” said Sigmund, gruff as ever. “’Cos this be where ’em herbs sprouts, innit? You’s keen on ’em, ain’t ya? Bugger.”
Herbs—to wit, the flowers that so surrounded them on this grassy knoll. “Nightsyarrow” they were called; purple perennials popular for their use in aromatics. Kindle an oil of them, and out comes a scent to soothe the nerves and ensure a good night’s rest, it is said. Arno, too, had known of this, and had come to this very knoll in quest of them.
And for why but Sigmund’s disturbed slumber. Nights there were when the man would toss and turn in his sleep, mumbling and moaning under torment of dream or memory. To the boy, it was a sight most sad and worrisome. Thus also explained his sneaking into his hero’s bedside ereyesternight, a generous gesture not lost even to the hard-boiled hero himself.
Sigmund looked to the side. There was sat a bundle of picked nightsyarrows in disarray. A shirt laid anear, one left half-tied by little fingers into what would have been a sack. “Hmph…” he scoffed. Or was it a sigh? Shaking his head, he gathered the herbs and had them all bound up as was intended. And turning his back to Arno, he bent down and bade him get on.
Boy and bundle collected, the man then began the trek back to Hensen. Under drab and dreary clouds they went. But ever as they did, Arno stayed silent and somewhat sombre, and that was very seldom of him, indeed.
“S… sorry, Big Sig,” he said at length.
“Huh?” grunted Sigmund. “’Bout wot?”
Arno made no answer. In his mind yet loomed fear… and frustration in his frail self. For yet again was he saved from harm. Yes; again. He was glad for it, of course, and just as relieved. But deep down, his powerlessness pricked away at him. Must this ever be his lot? To be saved? To be a little more than baggage? Or worse: a bother? Yet, it was not to be helped. He had to be saved, he had to be a bother. How could he survive otherwise?
It had been his desire to do some good for Sigmund, hence why he had set out in search of the nightsyarrows. But at the last, all he could do was get yet again on his hero’s nerves. And realising this, the boy steeped himself in reticence.
“Tch,” Sigmund clucked. Yet, for a while thereafter, the man himself said naught, till at length, he muttered, “Ya best suck it up, aye.”
“Eh?” said Arno, startled.
“Suck it up, I says,” repeated Sigmund, pausing again for a moment. “…When we elders come to save your bratty li’l arse… jus’ suck it up an’ be glad-like.” Once again, Arno gave no answer. “’Avin’ to be coddled an’ protected an’ all that bus’ness—ain’t bugger all wrong ‘bout it, methinks,” Sigmund said on. “Not whilst you’s an itty-bitty li’l brat yet.”
Ever is it the duty of adults to protect the young. And for their part, the young ought accept such grace as they are given; it is their very right, after all. But for little Sigmund upon the cold and cutthroat streets of Tallien, such had not been so. No, never was it so. But even then—or precisely because of it—never could Sigmund the man suffer the sight of children left forlorn, or any world that would so willingly wound them, for that matter.
“An’ when you’s all grown an’ elder-like yaself, then you can do all the coddlin’ an’ protectin’ right back, ya ’ear me?” he continued. “But till then… jus’ suck it up.”
“…But, but,” Arno objected weakly, “I want to help you, too, Big Sig. Just like how you helped me.”
Sigmund rustled the sack of herbs in his hands. “That’s ’ready done,” he answered.
“N-no, not like that,” returned Arno, shaking his head. “I want to fight, Big Sig! Fight and help you in battle!”
“Pigswill,” the man snorted. “Battle ain’t for boys.”
Besides, help was had aplenty already, Sigmund thought, just from a certain hulking cove of a rebel alone. What’s more, the battles, the war—it ought all be over and done with by the time Arno came into his own. Sigmund would make sure of it. By all that is good and green on this earth, he would.
The little boy upon his back; never must he inherit this haunted war.
“…Say, Big Sig,” Arno began again. “Why do you snarl so much? When you sleep, I mean?”
Sigmund pursed his lips. “Tch. That’s ‘snore’, ya li’l squib.”
Yet Arno meant what he said, and Sigmund understood as much; the boy simply wished to know more of the man and his troubles. Bridging that gap, however, required both questions hard-asked and answers sore-given. But Sigmund, being ill-prepared, found himself cornered, and could merely mumble out his reply.
“…Growin’ up,” he began at last, “I ain’t ne’er ’ad a ’ome meself. No ’ouse, no mum, no dad—no nothin’.”
“…Oh.”
“So, I buddy’d up with the other ’omeless lads an’ lasses. Snuck an’ stole an’ all that. Jus’ to live. Jus’ to survive. Shiv’rin’ out in the chill… sleepin’ ’neath the rain… bein’ beat black an’ blue jus’ for nickin’ a slice o’ stale… ain’t bugger all good or glad ’bout me li’l years.”
As Sigmund slowly recounted those uncaring winters of his life, Arno kept wholly quiet. The boy knew the crux of the matter was yet to come, and so patiently waited now for his hero to continue. Sigmund himself sensed this, and so, whilst wending his way down from the foothills with Arno on his back, he took his time to collect his thoughts. And after a long hush, he spoke again.
“An’ me lads…” Sigmund said, quiet. “…They… they died on the daily, they did. Left an’ right. One after ’nother. Ain’t so easy a world, after all, this, where a bunch o’ brats can make a lick o’ livin’ ’gether, no.”
Arno listened on, and as he did, the boy next perceived in Sigmund’s voice a bitterness never witnessed before.
“’Ad me a good mate once,” said Sigmund. “Stood at death’s door one day, ’e did, the poor fella. But not ’cos ’e were starvin’ like the rest o’ us. No—’e were green ’bout the gills, as they says. ’Ad no fight left in ’im. ’Ad no breath. Not ’nymore.”
Pitter. Patter.
Sting. Stab.
The man heard it again—felt it. And there, he saw what he had seen so many winters ago: a scene, old as dust and fresh as snow.
…A night, dark as coals and cold as death.
Afore him was his friend, lying limp upon the ground; a boy not much older or younger than he, but oh so very weak and oh so very gaunt. But somehow, by some dusking strength, the boy raised up his pale hand to little Sigmund. It was taken, and more than ever before, the fingers felt in Sigmund’s like a thing of only skin and bone, gripping weakly as would a ghost of a breeze.
And there, the boy begged Sigmund to end it—to set him free. From all the anguish. From all the suffering. From all the world.
How vanishing that voice of his was. And yet, how clearly it cried.
‘…please… please…’
And how dry his body seemed, thinned by thirst through and through. But even so, there started in his unseeing eyes a rill of tears, as though wrung right out of him. Amongst all the other waifs huddled about, however, the only one to answer was little Sigmund.
Sigmund the kind. Sigmund the strong.
Such respect did the sick boy have for his fellow orphan. Indeed, that was precisely the last flame to burn in the boy’s bosom: not a loathing for this unloving world, no. But rather, a pure and profound respect for Sigmund, who was ever so strong and ever so staunch—and ever so dear a friend.
One might even say that such was the boy’s long-due windfall: a small miracle earned at the end of a meagre life.
“An’ so…” Sigmund said to Arno, “…I kill’d ’im.”
There were softer ways of wording that, certainly, especially to a child’s ears. This Sigmund understood well enough, for though a hard-hearted man he may have been, he was scarce divorced from diction more mete and delicate. Only, by now, he saw in Arno a friend as sincere as he was small. And so, in token of honest friendship, Sigmund had chosen to say exactly as he meant, and to mean exactly as he said. The little boy himself hardly saw things that far and deep, of course. But even if he could, still would he not have thought any dimly of his hero. This, too, Sigmund understood. And as though to prove this, Arno, sensing Sigmund’s own fears and frustrations, embraced the man from behind.
“…Don’t worry, Big Sig,” he said. “I’ve got lots and lots of fight left in me.”
“Aye,” said Sigmund. “Ya better.”
∵
Rree. Rree.
The night was quiet. The rains had passed. Only crickets now were in chorus.
Sigmund found himself wakening. It was not another nightmare he was having. No; in fact, he felt much at ease, and like to drift off to another peaceful slumber. Pleasant it all was, though he knew not exactly why. Perhaps the nightsyarrow candle was doing the trick, or that finally having spoken his heart about the bitter nights long ago had unburdened it. Whichever the way of it, he took a long breath and found the burning scent most soothing.
Looking to the side, however, he found Arno deep in drooling sleep.
“Tch,” Sigmund clucked quietly. “Sneak’d in ’nyways, ain’t ya. Li’l bugger.”
And there, he pulled the rumpled blanket back over the boy. And the hands that did the kindness were indeed very kind and very gentle.
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“A Warmth to Soften the Sleet”
Volume 4
End
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