Chapter 27: The Survivors of The Bloody War
Year 0001-0002, Month VIII: The Imperium
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An End to the War: Jonathan Ross
The bloody war had finally ended. The allied soldiers, militias, and volunteers who were sent as additional manpower and had managed to survive the war had all been sent back to their respective territories.
All except those who were gravely injured. They had to recuperate in the newly conquered City of Bastille, a fortress once thought impregnable until the Empire's forces breached its walls after months of siege.
Among those who survived was Jonathan Ross, Gel's father. His name was written in blood on the battlefield, not for glory or honor, but for survival—for the chance to return to those who waited for him at home.
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The Price of One's Freedom
A couple of month ago…
The volunteers and militia formed the vanguard of every attack; they were the first to charge and absorb the enemy's arrows and initial charges.
They were, in the cruel arithmetic of war, expendable—meat shields ensuring the Elms-Empire's main forces would remain at full strength when they finally clashed with the enemy's elite units. The Empire's generals spoke of valor and sacrifice in their speeches, but the common soldiers, militias and volunteers knew all to well the truth of their position.
It took Jonathan significantly longer to return home than most. He had been treated for life-threatening wounds after being riddled with arrows during a desperate charge against the enemy's eastern flank. Three had pierced his shoulder, five his thigh, and another had narrowly missed his heart, puncturing his lung instead. The veteran field surgeon had given him little chance to survive his wounds.
But through sheer grit, an unyielding will to survive, and the constant vision of his wife Odessa's face and his daughter Angeline's smile, he had clung to life when many others surrendered to death's cold embrace.
The journey back home stretched far beyond what any of them had expected. Jonathan though not yet fully healed along with the other wounded veterans who were still recuperating formed a slow-moving caravan of the damaged and broken. The main party waited for those heading in the same general direction, understanding there was strength in numbers on roads now plagued by bandits and creatures drawn to the scent of war's aftermath.
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The Agony of a Soldier
By the time Jonathan finally set foot on the path toward home, almost an entire year had passed since he'd last embraced his family. Though the war had ended within the six months they fought—through the bitter cold of fall and the harsh winds of winter—his recovery had consumed another two months during the gentler days of spring.
Each passing day in the infirmary had been torture, not from physical pain but from the agony of separation. Letters were scarce; communications disrupted by the chaos of war. He'd sent three messages home, but received no replies. He told himself it was merely the unreliability of messengers in these troubled times.
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The Slow March Home
When Jonathan finally recovered enough from his wounds to travel, he and the others received their well-earned rewards: a small pouch of gold coins enough to feed a family for a lifetime, a medal of service to the Empire, and permission to return to their respective homes. The coins jingled heavily in Jonathan's pocket—their compensation was tripled due to their comrades unfortunate deaths and for what they had endured, but we're these enough to heal their broken minds and spirit? Perhaps, if they waste their lives on the tavern, drinking from the mercy of ale and beer or they could use it to bring a small comfort to their families, knowing that they had returned alive.
He joined a group of survivors from Kirka, neighboring villages, towns, and others from the Principality of Ogind County, as they began their long and arduous journey homeward. The Count's party led their group, their banners still proudly displaying the heraldry of Ogind, though tattered and stained with the memory of battle.
They began traveling during the latter half of spring and into the height of summer. The sun beat down mercilessly upon them, forcing them to make camp during the day's scorching heat and move only by night. They were already halfway home when the summer reached its peak intensity, making daytime travel unbearable even for the hardiest among them.
The night journeys brought their own perils. Often they lost their way, stumbling through darkness lit only by sputtering torches. The maps they carried had been drawn before the war, and failed to account for bridges destroyed or landmarks burned. Twice they crossed the same small river, realizing their error only at dawn.
They also encountered monsters along the way—creatures drawn to the scent of wounded men or perhaps twisted by the dark magics unleashed during the war's final battles. A pack of predatory beasts with eyes that glowed an unnatural yellow attacked them three nights from the border, claiming four men before being driven off. Injuries from these encounters slowed their already crawling pace, forcing them to stop for weeks in some villages while the wounded healed enough to continue.
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Almost Home
When they finally crossed the mighty Western-Central River they had reached the Central Continent just in the borders of the Principality of Ogind, their numbers had dwindled further. The Count's party split off from their vassals, needed in the City of Germory to report their grand victory to the Lord. Jonathan watched them go with mixed feelings—grateful for their protection thus far, but eager now to make the final leg of the journey home.
The few survivors from Kirka Village continued onward, carrying not only their own burdens but also the names and possessions of those who had fallen. Someone would need to tell the families, to deliver final messages whispered by dying lips. Jonathan had promised three such men he would speak to their wives.
By the time they reached Kirka, the trees had just started to lose their summer luster, their leaves beginning to hint at the gold and crimson that would soon consume them. It was the first week of fall—almost a full year since they had marched away to war.
The village appeared before them suddenly as they crested a familiar hill. Jonathan felt his heart quicken at the sight of smoke rising from chimneys, the distant figures of people going about their daily tasks. Kirka had survived the war untouched by enemy forces, though not, perhaps, by time and circumstance.
Their arrival caused a stir. People emerged from homes and workshops, staring in disbelief at the ragged men who approached. There were cries of recognition, of joy and sorrow mingled, as families spotted loved ones—or realized who was missing from the returning group. There had been no word of their return, no chance to prepare a welcome for the brave Heroes of Kirka.
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Home
Jonathan broke away from the group, his pace quickening with each step toward home. His injuries still ached, but he barely noticed them now. In his mind, he rehearsed the moment—Odessa would open the door, her eyes widening in disbelief before filling with tears. She would rush into his arms, and he would hold her so tightly, promising never to leave again. And Angleine, his little angel, would come running, perhaps shy at first before recognizing her father beneath the beard and scars.
When he reached the doorstep of their home, nestled at the edge of the village near the small stream where Gel loved to play, he paused to catch his breath and straighten his clothes. He knocked, his heart pounding against his ribs like a prisoner demanding release.
A good couple of minutes passed while he stood there waiting for the door to open.
Silence answered him.
With growing unease, he knocked again, louder this time. "Odessa? Gel? It's me—I'm home!"
The wind carried his words away, leaving only the creaking of the door hinges as it shifted slightly from his knock. It wasn't properly latched.
He began looking around their place, stepping back to peer through the windows. Darkness greeted him from within. The flower boxes Odessa had always kept overflowing with color sat empty and dry.
Only then did he notice what his eagerness had blinded him to—the place looked dusty and abandoned from the outside. Weeds had pushed up between the stones of the walkway. A shutter hung loose, swinging in the breeze.
His wife had always been meticulously clean, taking pride in their modest home. She would never allow such neglect.
Fear gripped his heart, squeezing until he could barely breathe. Something was terribly wrong.
With a primal cry that was half rage, half terror, he slammed his body against the door. It broke wide open with a splintering crack, and he stumbled inside.
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An Empty Home
The wind followed him, stirring the stagnant air and raising small clouds of dust that danced in the rays of sunlight now streaming through the open door. The living room before him contained scattered remnants of their life together—items left behind in what appeared to be a hurried departure. A child's wooden toy horse lay on its side near the cold hearth. One of Odessa's shawls hung forgotten on a peg.
His emotions swelled and crashed like waves against a cliff—anger, anguish, confusion, and finally, grief. Tears rolled silently down his weathered cheeks, cutting tracks through the dust of long travel.
Had his wife abandoned him? Had she believed him dead and moved on? Or had something more sinister occurred during his absence?
Questions raced through his mind, each more painful than the last, none finding answers in the empty rooms of what had once been his sanctuary.
He remained standing at the doorway, unmoving for several minutes, forced to swallow the bitter draught of his new reality: his family was no longer there.
When he finally regained some composure, he began searching the house methodically, looking for clues, for some message left for him should he return. He found their bedroom partially emptied—Odessa's trunk gone, along with most of Gel's clothes. His own things remained largely untouched, as if preserved in expectation of his return.
There was no sign of struggle, only evidence of a hasty departure. Essential clothing and personal items taken, valuables missing from their hiding place beneath the loose floorboard under their bed.
The silence of the house pressed in on him, becoming unbearable. He stumbled back outside and sat heavily on the steps of their porch, head in his hands.
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A Familiar Face
*"Haah... Haah... haah!"*
The sound of labored breathing and running footsteps pulled Jonathan from his dark thoughts. A man was sprinting through the village, stopping occasionally to peer at faces before continuing his desperate search.
When the runner received news of the survivors' arrival, he had dropped everything and left his work unfinished. He had to find Jonathan before anyone else did, before he learned the truth from unfriendly lips.
Red Peerce felt the crushing weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. Jonathan had left his family in Red's care after Red himself had been deemed unfit for war service due to a prior injury that had left him bedridden for weeks. Now, gasping for breath, he rushed toward the gathering place where the returned men were being welcomed, only to discover that Jonathan was no longer there.
"Jonathan? He took off early and went straight home," one of his companions told Red when questioned. "Been talking about nothing else for months. Couldn't wait another minute to see his wife and little girl."
"Thanks!" Red called over his shoulder, already running in the direction of the Ross home, silently praying, "Please be there. And please forgive me for failing you."
When Red finally arrived, his worst fears were confirmed. Jonathan sat outside on the porch steps, his posture that of a man who had lost everything.
"Jonathan!" Red called, his voice breaking.
Jonathan looked up at the familiar voice, a spark of hope momentarily lighting his hollow eyes. "Red?"
He rose to his feet as Red approached, gasping for air. The hope in Jonathan's eyes hardened into something dangerous as a realization struck him—this man might know what had happened to his family.
As soon as Red came within reach, Jonathan grabbed the collar of his shirt with surprising strength. "Where are they?!" he growled, his voice raw with emotion. "I left them in your care! So where are they? This place looks like it's been empty for months!"
Red didn't struggle against his friend's grip. He understood the reaction—had even expected worse. If their positions were reversed, he would have already thrown a punch.
"Calm down," he said quietly. "I'm not your enemy here. Let's go back to my place and talk there." His eyes darted around nervously, checking whether any of the chief's men were within earshot.
Jonathan gradually released his grip, his anger giving way to desperation. If there was any chance of learning his family's whereabouts, he would take it. He grabbed his meager belongings and followed Red without another word.
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Red's Home
They walked in tense silence toward Red's home. Jonathan noticed his friend's nervous glances, the way he avoided the main path through the village, keeping to the shadows of trees and buildings. Something was very wrong in Kirka—something beyond the absence of his family.
When they reached Red's modest home, his wife Theressa was outside hanging laundry. She visibly flinched when she saw who accompanied her husband.
"Jonathan, you're back," she said, her voice carrying a somber tone that confirmed his worst fears. The Peerce and Ross families had been friends since childhood, their lives intertwined through generations. Theressa's reaction told him what Red's nervous glances had suggested—tragedy had befallen his loved ones.
Inside Red's home, Jonathan wasted no time. "We're here now. Speak."
"Alright," Red sighed, "but promise me not to do anything stupid after I tell you what I know. Don't do anything you might regret later. Do you understand me, Jon?"
"It depends," Jonathan replied tersely. "I'm really not in the mood to make empty promises right now."
Red nodded, accepting this as the best he would get. "We need something warm to drink. It's going to be a long story." He turned to his wife. "Dear, can you spare us a moment and brew us something? Thank you."
Theressa nodded and quietly moved to the kitchen, leaving the two friends alone with the weight of unspoken truths between them.
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Learning of His Families Fate
As the hours passed and Red's story unfolded, Jonathan sat unmoving, his face a mask of controlled fury, hands trembling with suppressed rage.
According to Red, the morning after a particularly heavy snowstorm during the middle of winter, several villagers had witnessed the Ross family being escorted out of the village by armed guards. The night before, the acting chief of the village—Rommel, the previous lord's adopted son—had hosted his annual Grand Feast, inviting friends from neighboring settlements.
These revelries were a yearly tradition since Lord Kirka had left the village in Rommel's care, becoming increasingly extravagant and debauched with each passing year. This latest feast had been the most excessive yet, with Rommel allegedly boasting of his "heroic" contributions to the war effort while staying safely behind village walls.
Late that night, after most of the village had retired, neighbors saw two guards approach the Ross home. They pounded on the door until Odessa answered, still in her nightclothes. Words were exchanged—inaudible to witnesses due to the howling wind—before Odessa collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
Less than an hour later, the guards returned with a wagon. Odessa and young Gel were escorted out, carrying only what they could hastily pack. No explanation was given as they were led through the village gates and into the storm-swept darkness beyond.
"The next week," Red continued, his voice hollow, "when word reached me about what happened, I confronted Rommel directly when I saw him outside of your home. He feigned ignorance, he claimed that they must have been banished for thievery—accused of stealing from the feast's provisions. A ridiculous charge that no one believed."
That day before the confrontation, something unexpected occurred. The acting chief himself was seen visiting the Ross home, flowers in hand and wearing his finest clothes. "He entered like a man calling on a sweetheart," Red said bitterly. "But when he came out shortly after, he was in a rage, berating the head guard and commanding an immediate search for Odessa and Gel."
Red after learning of the atrocities Rommel had committed had wasted no time and volunteered to participate in every search, pushing further into the wilderness surrounding Kirka with each expedition. But the winter had erased all tracks, and by spring, there was still no sign of the banished family. The search parties continued until summer's heat made further expeditions impossible.
As Jonathan listened, pieces of the puzzle began falling into terrible places. The acting chief brought flowers to his home. The sudden, night-time banishment. The accusations that nobody believed.
"That bastard," Jonathan whispered, rising slowly from his seat as the full picture crystallized in his mind. "He sent me to die in the war so he could have my wife."
Red nodded grimly. "I've long suspected it. Rommel began making advances toward Odessa barely two months after you left. I saw him myself, bringing gifts, offering 'protection' during your absence. She refused him every time, publicly embarrassing him at the harvest festival when he tried to dance with her."
"And when she continued to deny him..." Jonathan's voice trailed off, the implication too painful to voice.
"He may have used his authority to get rid of her," Red finished. "What I don't understand is why he seemed genuinely shocked to find your home empty when he visited with flowers. It was as if he expected her to be waiting for him."
Jonathan's face darkened with murderous intent. "Because he didn't intend for them to leave the village at all, he might have been too drunk at that time. That the guards were supposed to take them somewhere else—somewhere he could reach them whenever he wished."
He stood abruptly, knocking over his untouched drink. "That fucking bastard! I'm going to gut him!"
Red didn't try to stop his friend. Some injustices could only be answered one way.
But as Jonathan reached for the door, Red spoke once more: "Before you go, there's one more thing you should know. Three days ago, a pedler that came and passed through from the southern territories. He spoke of a woman and child matching Odessa and Gel's, description that he had unfortunately passed by walking aimlessly during last year's winter storm, heading to the famed forest."
Jonathan froze, his hand on the latch. "Alive?" he whispered, he didn't hear the last part, he was afraid to hope.
"I cannot say," Red replied. "That was a couple of months ago now, who knows of their state by now. If you're going after them..."
"I leave the soonest time possible," Jonathan interjected, his decision instant and irrevocable. "For tonight I have unfinished business to settle with our acting chief."
As he stepped outside into the fading light of day, Jonathan Ross was no longer just a survivor of war. He was a man with purpose, and the village of Kirka would soon remember why even enemy soldiers had learned to fear his name on the battlefield…