Chapter 33: A Commemoration, A Remembrance
Year 0002, IX Month: The Imperium
---
Some Buried Emotions
Revenge is the single most powerful thought that can drive a person mad or fuel their very survival. It was one of the driving forces that had kept August alive, though he had set aside such notions for the time being. He had no specific target for his anger—he knew only that they were soldiers from another kingdom who had somehow discovered their hidden village.
How they found the village remained a mystery to him, but in the quiet moments between his responsibilities, August promised himself they would pay dearly in the future. For now, that thought remained buried beneath more immediate concerns.
---
A Reminder
August had woken one particular morning as he always did, though a particular heaviness clung to him. The others were already awake, preparing for their usual morning run, but he couldn't summon the energy to rise from his bed. Something felt wrong, though he couldn't quite place it.
Concerned, he briefly checked his [Personal Panel] and opened his [Body Stat]. He perused the glowing interface carefully, finding nothing amiss—he was 100% green across all metrics. His physical health was optimal. His mental health indicators showed no warnings. So why this overwhelming sense of dread?
The disconnect between his perfect readings and his emotional state reminded him of the limitations of the [SYSTEM]. Even with its advanced capabilities, it remained a machine—a program of someone's creation designed specifically for him. While it could identify physical ailments or even detect the lingering trauma from his past, it couldn't penetrate the deeper complexities of human emotion.
As the morning light filtered through the crude window of his room, realization dawned on him. Today marks exactly one year since the massacre at Maya Village. One year since he had become the sole survivor of a tragedy that claimed everyone he had ever loved.
For months, he had kept himself relentlessly busy to avoid thinking about it. He had thrown himself into training, building, teaching—anything to keep the memories at bay. But today, the anniversary of his life's greatest loss, the weight of it all resurfaced with crushing force. No wonder the [SYSTEM] couldn't help him; this burden was his alone to bear.
---
A Visible Change
The others began to notice August's somber mood. Rather than rising to lead the morning training as he always did, he simply sat on the porch, staring distantly at nothing in particular. His usually alert eyes were unfocused, his shoulders slumped in a way they had rarely seen.
The children whispered among themselves, unsure what to do. The newer adults, those who had joined their small community more recently, could feel the change in the atmosphere around him.
Christopher, one of the older men who had arrived with the new group a few days ago, approached Erik, who had been with August the longest.
"Hey, what's wrong with the little boss man over there?" Christopher asked, keeping his voice low.
Erik followed his gaze toward August and sighed. "He must have remembered something important. He usually gets into that mood when something's bothering him, like that time during the summer..."
Erik recounted the story of August's birthday months ago—how the boy had become visibly quiet, bothered and had the same somber mood he was emitting right now.
"Damn," Christopher muttered, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "The little boss man is having some serious flashbacks right now, huh?"
Everyone who heard it nodded in agreement. No matter how they looked at him—his leadership, his knowledge, his determination—August was no older than the other children around him. A boy carrying the weight of an adult man's responsibilities.
---
Nothing But Praise
The adults had heard the stories from the children who had been with August the longest. How he had taken responsibility for their care and safety without hesitation. How he had taught them everything from hunting, farming, trapping, scavenging, training, knowledge of terrain and its inhabitants, the fauna and flora of the Forrest, to even cooking of their meals. He never asked for anything in return; he simply helped them and taught them what they needed to survive.
It was a remarkable burden for anyone to bear, let alone a child. He had no authority to keep these people with him—they could leave at any moment if they chose. Yet he continued to lead them, to care for them, without complaint or expectation.
August had been thrust into an adult's mindset long before his time, his childhood cut short by circumstances beyond his control. The gathered adults and children, many of whom had also lost some of their family members in the ongoing conflicts that riled up land or had been totally abandoned by the world, felt a deep sadness for the boy, a pity, that they couldn't do more for him. He who had taken on challenges that would have broke most grown men by now.
---
Gel to the Rescue!
A tense silence fell over the group as they exchanged glances, each hoping someone else would be brave enough to approach August. His distant gaze remained fixed on some invisible point on the horizon, seemingly unaware of the concerned looks directed his way.
Gel, a girl no more than ten by now, who had been the very first to join August as a companion after the massacre, had been watching him intently. Of all the children, she was closest to him—the first to notice when his smiles didn't reach his eyes, the first to pick up on the subtle changes in his demeanor.
After several moments of hesitation, she finally gathered her courage and approached him. Her footsteps were light on the wooden porch, but August didn't seem to notice her presence.
"What's wrong, Gus?" she asked softly.
No response came for a long, uncomfortable minute. It was as if he hadn't heard her at all. Then, slowly, he blinked and turned his head toward her, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her face.
"Oh, Gel," he said, his voice sounding distant. "Did you need something?"
She paused, carefully choosing her words. "Is there something bothering you, Gus? We've noticed you've been spacing out for quite a while now."
August tried to open his mouth to speak, then closed it again, weighing his response. Finally, he decided to share the truth.
"I just remembered that today marks one year since this village's destruction... and my family's deaths as well." His voice grew softer. "It was a few months or so before winter, before your arrival."
He drew a deep breath before continuing. "A merchant who had lost his way found our village. He had escaped the war and told us about what was happening in the outside world. The news alarmed everyone."
August's eyes grew distant again as he recounted the memory. "Our village chief gathered every family to discuss what we should do. The majority decided to stay, though some who had relatives elsewhere chose to leave immediately."
His hands clenched into fists in his lap. "Those of us who remained did our best to prepare, but they came in the middle of the night and..." His voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The horrors of that night—the screams, the blood, the bodies of his parents and sibling—remained too vivid, too painful to put into words.
He fell silent again, his mind drifting away from the present, back to memories both cherished and painful. The others could easily guess what had happened next. Even the Trio—three siblings who had joined them last spring—were victims of the same war. While Gel's father had been one of many conscripted to fight, leaving his family to fend for themselves.
They understood how easily their hidden village, situated in a forbidden territory no realm claimed as its own, could have been mistaken for enemy territory by Imperial Soldiers (Scouts) stumbling upon it in the dark.
Christopher sighed heavily, exchanging glances with the other adults. None knew what to say to ease such profound grief. They could offer only their silent sympathy, recognizing that some wounds never truly heal.
---
Theressa Peerce: The Originator of the Village Tradition
In the kitchen, Theressa—Red's wife and mother of the two new children Adam and Isabel Peerce—had overheard August's story. Her heart ached for him as she imagined her own children facing such a terrible fate alone. What would have become of them without parents to guide and protect them?
She stood motionless for a moment, wooden spoon in hand, considering what she could do. As a mother, her instinct was to nurture, to comfort through action rather than words. A plan began forming in her mind.
"Children," she called, beckoning to her own offspring and the others who often helped with meals. "I need your assistance with something important."
She explained her vision: a special meal, not just for sustenance but as a commemoration—a way to honor those who had been lost. The children nodded eagerly, happy to have a purpose in this suddenly solemn day.
Unfortunately, they had no stocks of wheat, as the village farms were still not able to produce such staple food for now, so she couldn't make the sweetened cakes she had initially envisioned. Instead, they would work with what they had stored in the root cellar below—root vegetables, preserved meats, and the last of the autumn berries.
Soon, the once-somber atmosphere in the house transformed. Children darted back and forth carrying ingredients, adults offered assistance with the more complicated preparations, and delicious aromas began to fill the air. The bustling noise of their collective effort—chopping, stirring, the clatter of their few precious utensils—replaced the heavy silence that had fallen over them earlier.
Little did Theressa know that this was a beginning of something that would be held by the future generations. She was establishing a tradition that would endure for generations to come—a day of remembrance born from her simple desire to comfort a grieving child. August would ensure that her name was remembered alongside it, her compassion commemorated as the foundation of their community's most solemn observance.
---
Celebrating Life
As the meal neared completion, Theressa gathered everyone in the main room of their modest dwelling. Her hands trembled slightly as she prepared to speak; in her former life, before they got here after they escaped the village, women rarely addressed gatherings. Her husband had always been the family's voice in public matters.
"Today," she began, her voice gaining strength with each word, "we gather to honor those who are no longer with us. The parents, siblings, friends, and neighbors whose lives were cut short by conflict not of their making."
She gestured to the food laid out on their simple table. "This meal is more than just sustenance for our bodies. It is a commemoration of those we've lost and a celebration of the community we've built from the ashes of tragedy."
Her voice grew more confident as she continued. "By remembering them, by speaking their names and sharing their stories, we ensure that they live on through us. Their sacrifices have shaped who we are now and who we will become in the future."
Only when she finished did Theressa realize what she had done—she had spoken her thoughts publicly, without hesitation or fear. In their former society, such an action would have earned her disapproving glares and whispered criticisms simply because she was a woman.
Yet here, in this fragile community of survivors, her words were met with nods of approval and grateful smiles. Even her husband looked at her with unmistakable pride, a stark contrast to the rigid patriarchal structure they had left behind. Perhaps, she thought, there was something to be said for building a new society from scratch—one where old prejudices could be discarded alongside other relics of the past.
"Let us now eat this wonderful meal," she concluded, "to commemorate and remember those we have lost!"
The people gathered around the table, helping themselves to the food spread before them. The conversation flowed naturally as they began to share stories of their loved ones—not with tears, though some came unbidden, but with fond remembrances and even laughter at cherished memories.
Even August seemed lighter now, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he listened to tales of lives well-lived rather than dwelling on how they had ended. Later that day, they would visit the modest graveyard behind their settlement, offering prayers for those who had fallen.
In their shared grief, they found connection. In remembrance, they discovered a path forward. And in this simple meal, prepared from what little they had, they found the foundations of hope—a community determined to honor its past while building toward a future worth surviving for.