THE WIEKTS

Right after that word came out from his mouth Hart left his father’s house. Without a single glance back, he marched on towards the post to list his name as one of the soldiers in the King’s army. He felt betrayed by his father. Hurt and disappointment clouded his usually clear mind. Now that he could finally be honest with himself, he really didn’t want to die this pointless death. He was not a coward. No. He would gladly join his King into battle if there was even a slim chance of winning it. But this battle was nothing of the sort. This was one of the pointless battles that could be avoided if only the King was not too adamant to avoid diplomatic measures. This would not be a battle. This would turn out to be a slaughterhouse. Full of massacred bodies with no real reason to fight. Pointless. Everything was pointless. And was it so wrong for him to want to avoid such a pointless battle? Was it so wrong for him to want a future with his wife and children?

He was hoping that he could explain these reasons to his father in order for him to change his mind. Hart really believed that even though his father was a very disciplined and tough man, he would still value his son’s life more than a silly battle. He believed that when he presented his father the reasonable reasons, his father would agree with him. What a fool! Hart mentally kick himself. He just signed his death pact with the devil himself. Again, that feeling of extreme betrayal and hurt came over him. He felt the telltale prick in his eyes. He stopped walking and swallowed the same lump that was forming on his throat since this morning. Gosh. It was still morning. Late morning, but still. It hadn’t been hours since he left his home this morning to go to work, yet it felt like a lifetime for him.

He turned into a quiet alley before he reached the road that would lead him to the post. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He felt broken and hurt. Pain. He couldn’t feel anything else. So this was how it felt like. To be sold by one’s own father. To be cast aside. And that wasn’t even the worst thing that his father had done to him. No. That was a small matter. What hurt the most was that his father thought of what other people thought of him more that his own son’s life. That was what hurt the most. He clutched his heart. It was as if there was a hole being dug on the place where his heart was. His father casted him away because he was afraid of what people would think of him if he didn’t. It hurt.

He cried then. He cried his heart out. He muffled it though. Years of beatings from his beloved father taught him to never cry aloud. He remembered each and every strike that he received every time he did something wrong when he was little. If he cried, no, when he cried, his father just hit him harder and harder. He was only five. Now, even after all these years, he still remembered this lesson.

“Real men don’t cry!” His father would say each time he beat little Hart.

“Are you a boy or a girl?!” His father would ask when little Hart cried harder because the beatings were getting harder.

He would beg for his father to stop. Nothing happened. He tried begging again.Groveling, clutching his father’s leg, crying his heart out. Nothing happened. It just got harder. The tighter he clutched, the harder his father beat him. It would go on until finally his father thought that he had learned his lesson. Then, he would stop. At that time, little Hart was a whimpering mess on the ground. Then his mother would patch him up. Gave him a hot bath, trying desperately to stop his crying, soothed him so that his father would not hear the crying and felt the need to go back to give him punishments.

Now, sitting on the dirty road in the middle of a small and quiet alley, a twenty two year old Hart was trying desperately to muffle his cries too. But he couldn’t. His father had just given him the hardest and the most painful blow he had ever received in his life.

His trip towards the post to enlist himself was a blur afterwards. He was walking aimlessly. Even the process of giving his name to the officer wasn’t something that he could remember doing. He just gave the officer anything that he needed to know.

“Name?” The officer asked him.

“Hart Wiekt.”

“Age?” The officer asked again.

“Twenty two.”

“Give me your arm.” He commanded.

Hart gave him his hand. The officer turned to get to his inside arm and gave him some kind of a stamp and then proceeded to write his name on top of it with a weird looking ink.

“This is the sign for the King’s army. Don’t wash your hand until it dries perfectly. Tomorrow we go to the Capital to start training. Prepare yourself,” said the officer. With that he told Hart to go.

Hart did as he was told. He went home, but the journey itself didn’t register in his mind at all until after he stopped at his house. Standing there, just in front of his house, he raised his arm and looked at the horrible marking there. It was official now. There was no turning back for him now. No matter what happened once he entered the house standing in front of them, there was nothing he could do to change the fact that he was going to war. And that pained him, because he knew that once he stepped foot inside that house, he would break his wife’s heart all over again right after she saw the mark on his arm. He fisted his palm and looked at the sky. It was so blue and clear. It was such a complete opposite from the situation going on his head and his heart. He stared at the sky and prayed to whatever deities up there to just stop making his life harder and harder each day. He prayed and prayed so that he would be able to mend his wife’s broken heart ifhe came back unscathed. But most of all, he prayed so that he could change everything that had happened these past few days. He would gladly give his arms if it meant ensuring that all of these wouldn’t happen.

“Hart? Is that you?” a gentle voice was heard from the house, calling him. The voice seemed tired and weary. Then not a moment sooner, he saw his wife coming out of the house. She looked strained and older than she was supposed to be.

“Elydite,” he called her with voice soft and broken.

“Why are you here already? It’s barely afternoon,” she said while rubbing her temple. It looked like a sign for an upcoming headache.

“I—“ Hart began to answer when she snapped her eyes towards his arm.

“Is that—?” she stopped in the middle of her sentence to sprint towards her husband. She took his hand on hers and gasped. Fresh tears started to fall on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Hart didn’t know how many times he said this while holding his wife. They clung to each other for god knew how long, before Hart took his wife’s hand and brought them inside.

Once they were inside, they sat by the fire with Hart still holding Elydite’s hands tight in his own. He was determined not to let this day — this last day — of being together with his wife went to waste.

“Elydite, I’m sorry. I really am,” he started. “I regretted my decision even now. But I did what I did. There’s nothing I can do to change it.”

“But why?” she sobbed.

“You know why.”

“It was your father, wasn’t it? He made you do this.”

“No. I made myself do this.”

“It’s all the same now, isn’t it? Nothing matters.”

Hart sighed. He kept on drawing circles on the back of her hand in his attempt to soothe her. If only he could show her how guilty he felt because of his brash decision.

“Let’s just be together for today, Elydite. Help me prepare for tomorrow and spend the rest of the day with me. Don’t think of me not coming back. Think that I will come back to you, if it makes it easier to bear.” Hart said gently but the answer that greeted his words was heart-wrenching sobs coming from his wife’s huddled form.

They stayed like that, huddled together by the fire trying to bask in the other’s presence until the sun was starting to show signs of setting. When the shadow started to fall, they reluctantly let go of each other and started to prepare the things that Hart would need for his journey to the capital tomorrow. They worked in silence and when they were going to turn in for the night, they found themselves unable to sleep. They kept on staring at their room’s ceiling and stayed awake for the rest of the night, just trying to prolong the moment when they were still together.

“Line up!!! Line up!!!” their trainer shouted harshly.

The additional army for the King’s army was made from a bunch of inexperienced people and they needed the every drill-time they could get in order to survive this war. They were in the middle of their training, trying to do anything useful when there were no battles to be fought. It was such a hard training. Hart was trying to quickly line up and did as the trainer said. Not good if he started to fall behind now. The punishment waiting for him was even harsher than the training. It went on until almost midnight when finally the training was stopped. They were allowed to go back to their bunks and rested for the night. Times like this were not the hardest though. For Hart, the quiet and silent night was the hardest as it reminded him of home. When everything was simpler and he would go to bed content with his wife staying beside him. Their breaths would mingle together and down they went to the dream world until the morning brought their consciousness back. There was nothing like that here. There was only silence that greeted him every night.

Hart was starting to close his eyes, trying to get a bit of a rest before the dawn broke the darkness of the night. Suddenly, the screaming started. He woke up and automatically began to dress and grabbed his weapon and shield. Apparently, it was another attack. It was time to go back to battle.

The war went on for weeks and months. It wasn’t a constant battle. Sometimes there would be no attacks for days, weeks, even a month, but then suddenly, the enemy would attack in the middle of the night. Sometimes it was an attack after another attack and they would drag on for days. The King’s army was full of exhausted people. So many died, many more were injured or losing limbs. It was gruesome. Many of the casualties came from the additional force full of inexperienced people from villages. Only a quarter of them survived until now. The majority of them died because of the war, many died because of the infection from their wounds, and some of them died because of illness. All in all, there were only those three options for all of the soldiers there, because the outcome was all the same, death.

For Hart to be able to stay alive for this long was a miracle on its own. He was not unscathed, of course, but he was still breathing. He still had enough strength to wield his weapon even though he needed to practically tie his sword onto his hand to do so. He was still able to fight even though each fights brought him closer to the brink of exhaustion. He knew, sometime soon, he would collapse because of fatigue.

“Are you alright?” one of his fellow soldiers asked him. They were on guard trying to spot if there would be another attack for the night.

He was a tall man, even taller than Hart. He was lean but muscle covered his now-battered body. When people saw his figure from the back, they would see a fighter, but actually, his face was soft and round. He looked absolutely friendly and, dare he say it, cuddly for some people. That made him looked nothing like a warrior or a soldier. He always hated his looks but now it brought him advantages, because people, especially the enemies, tended to underestimate his ability so that when he strikes, it was a shocking move for them. Compared to Hart, though, his friend had a higher chance of coming out of this battle alive. He had what it took to keep on living. He had learned how to use swords before. He even knew how to shoot an arrow. His fighting skill was remarkable for their standard. He was actually aiming to be a knight someday, that was why he was learning how to fight so early in his life. His name was Osthas.

“I’m fine,” answered Hart quietly.

“How’s your hand?” He glanced at Hart’s wounded hand, the one that he tied to his sword in order to keep on fighting.

“It’s fine.”

“You should take it to the nurses. At least let them bandage it correctly.”

“There’s no need. I can manage.”

Osthas shrugged. After all these times fighting side by side, they knew each other extremely well. They had become the best of friends and even as close as brothers. Hart trusted him with his life, and Osthas knew that Hart was generally a quiet and private guy, so he didn’t really take offense in Hart’s usually clipped answers to his questions. Hart looked at his friend and sighed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Hart, apologizing.

“Never mind. I know you. Nothing you say will offend me anymore.” Osthas laughed and gave him a hard clap at the back.

“Thank you.”

They went into a peaceful silence. And Hart’s mind went to his home and his wife. With his wound, he would probably be dead by the next battle if he wasn’t careful or lucky. He thought of the grief that his wife would feel at his loss. Or perhaps, she would be furious with his stupidity in coming to join the army in the first place. And then there was his father, the ultimate force behind his every decision. What would his father think if he didn’t come back home with the glory that he dreamed of? What would his father feel if he came back only as a bad news. Arn Wiekt would probably be extremely furious. But here and now, Hart would like to think that his father would grieve for him. His father would regret his decision to send him to this battle. His father would ask for his forgiveness, and he would also beg for his wife’s. Arn Wiekt would cry at his funeral and said that he was wrong in insisting that his first-born son should go to this pointless war only to satisfy his greed of social recognition. At least, here and now Hart could imagine what would happen with his father if he came back home as a corpse. Then he started to think. Who would bring the news of his death for his family?

“What are you thinking, Hart? You look lost in your mind there.” Osthas’ voice broke the silence between them.

“I was just thinking, who would tell my family when I’m dead. Especially my wife. She would be heartbroken.” Hart sighed and looked at the stars above them, sadness was apparent in his eyes.

His friend chuckled and said, “You are one very negative man, Hart.”

“I’m not negative. I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Right. As if you could predict the future.”

Now it was time for Hart to chuckle. “It’s not a prediction if it’s true, is it? Look at me, Osthas. I’m battered. If there’s another attack, I know that I will be dead then.”

Osthas could only sigh. “Just don’t let your guard down just because you thinkyou will die in the next battle, okay?”

Hart smiled. Then he suddenly had an idea. “Osthas…” he called his friend.

His friend hummed as a sign that he was listening.

“Will you tell my family back home if I really am dead in the next battle?” asked Hart. He was looking at the starry sky, as if trying to keep the peaceful image of the night in his mind forever.

His friend huffed and looked annoyed. “Hart, stop picturing yourself dead, alright? And no, I won’t be the one to tell your family that their son is dead in this damn stupid war.”

“Please. At least tell my wife,” said Hart still looking at the dark sky.

Osthas sighed. “You really love your wife, don’t you?”

Hart nodded. “We didn’t know each other before. I didn’t think that I could love her. But I do. Very much.”

“Tell me about her.”

Hart smiled. Not the sad kind that he used to use, but the fond smile that he always had plastered on his face every time he spoke or thought about his wife. “She was the daughter of another land owner. My father,” he frowned at the mention of his father, “thought that she will be good for me. To give him the heir he always wanted. I agree because I wanted to be a blacksmith and this marriage was the condition my father gave me.”

“Then you fall in love with her.” A statement, not a question.

Hart nodded and looked wistfully at the starry sky once again. “She was — is — my life. I just know that she will be extremely heartbroken when I don’t come back home.”

Osthas looked at his weary and battered friend. He saw a man, burdened by fate and his father’s expectations towards him. He saw a sad and almost broken man in his friend’s face. He knew then and there, that if it was true that his friend was going to die in this next battle, he would give him what he wanted. Even if it wouldn’t really erase his pain, at least he could elevate his burden a bit. His mind made up, Osthas gave a loud sigh but he nodded.

“Alright,” said Osthas.

Hart turned his face towards his friend. “What?”

“I will tell your wife.”

Then Osthas turned his head towards the same sky. They both wore solemn expressions on their face. That was when the first blow was heard from their right side. After that, it was chaos.

A young man was walking down the street of the town. His posture looked tired, even exhausted. He kept on sighing with each step he took, as it brought him closer and closer to his destination. His face was clean shaven, his clothes new and clean. He looked just like a typical respectable young man from a good family. But as the townspeople watched him walk, a stranger among all of the familiar faces, they could see the weary eyes, the battered and wounded body, and the sad determination in his posture. The people stopped at their tracks as he passed them as if they knew that he was here bringing bad omen in his wake. And nothing could keep their eyes from the figure slowly disappearing in the corner leading to Hart Wiekt’s house.

Elydite was sitting on her chair, fiddling with her latest work. She was making lots of embroideries for her husband ever since he went to the war. Handkerchiefs she hoped her husband could use for work in the future. With each of them finished, she prayed that her husband would come back home safely, even though deep inside she knew that if there was ever someone who came back from the war, it would not be her Hart. When she looked back at her past, she was consumed with regret and guilt. If only she fought harder to make him stay. If only she was stronger and braver so that she could make him listen to her. If only. Now, all she could do was waiting.

She was giving her last embroidery for her husband when the knock on the door came. The knock startled her so bad that she pricked her finger on the needle she was using to make her latest embroidery for her husband. She was making a picture of what their future life would be if — when — Hart returned from the war. She knew that it wouldn’t be long until she could see her husband again. The news had traveled fast. Proscris lost the war but not all was lost, because the King of Elesia offered Proscris a peace treaty seeing as many of the men were dying with no good cause. Luck was with them because it was the newKing of Elesia who proposed it. He had claimed the throne after his father, the old King, died of illness. Really, the luck was in Proscris’ side this time. The Kings reached the agreement to cease fire and live side by side, rewards given to the war heroes, dead men buried in the Capital, and the rest of the army went home to their family. Soon, she convinced herself. She tried desperately to hang on to her fraying hope, but she couldn’t help the nagging feeling at the back of her head, telling her that only bad news would come. The blood staining the embroidery from her nicked finger didn’t help sooth her nerve.

The knock came again. Harder this time. She pushed her uncertainty to the back of her head and put her embroidery on the chair that she was sitting on until less than a minute ago. She went to the door and stopped right before it. Suddenly she had a very bad feeling about it. Calling it an instinct of a wife or whatever nonsense the people used to call it, but she could feel it. It was piercing, like a cold dread slowly sipping through her bones and with it taking her life away from her body. She gulped and prayed to the gods that it was just a false feeling because of her paranoia and nothing more. The knock came again. She knew that she had to open the door no matter what would happen; no matter what news it would brought her. And with shaking hands, she grasped the wooden handle and, slowly, opened the door.

What she saw right after she opened the door was a grim looking young man. Not much older than her own husband but he could really pass for someone much much older than his real age. He cleared his throat as if he was nervous. Just like him, she thought of her dear husband. Then he started to speak.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. My name is Osthas.”