The Witch's Cursed Daughter

75. Reminisce

With the evening approaching, drawing the eventful day to a close, Romile and Voster each sat in silence as they watched the unconscious Julian breathe evenly under the cheap, military issued blankets. Having spent so much time together at war, the three were partial to each other's idiosyncrasies. However, with the battles that raged throughout the night, unexpected raids, endless plots, plans, and strategies to organise, the time spent sleeping was pitifully small.

Romile watched Julian. His long eyelashes were trembling softly as he dreamed. His innocent expression betrayed his persona of the butcher from earlier in the day and his quiet breathing that confirmed the most joyous knowledge on the battlefront – he was alive. Contentedly, Romile leaned back in his chair, the thin legs creaking, unsure of the weight change, before closing his own eyes to focus on those breaths. Barely a moment had passed before his comforting rest was interrupted by Voster.

"What happened today?" Voster's voice sounded cold, but Romile understood his sentiment originated from worry.

"Julian got some unfortunate news," he replied quietly.

"Which was?"

Romile paused before answering, sympathetic to Voster's upcoming emotions, "Lucienne Ad Henos is dead."

"I see," Voster rose from his seat near Julian's bed and wandered aimlessly around the tent, allowing himself to flood with sentiments which he would bury just as quickly. Each object he saw bombarded him with new feelings, as if they were being ticked off a list that came with a matching furniture directory. The paperwork made him angry, the clothes chest by the bed made him regretful and the bed filled him with misery, all making Voster feel equally juvenile.

He felt as though the blood was being drained from him as his fingertips trembled. Coming to a stop in front of Julian's desk, he saw the scrunched and smudged letter marked with a W. Although Julian and the Chancellor had been closer, he had felt an affinity with the old man. While Imperial Mages swarmed Voster for his talents from a young age, while scorning him for the destructive power he possessed, the Chancellor was kind to him. Voster's mind flicked to his first introduction to Evianna on the extravagant carriage on their way to Kenellor after rescuing Julian from her mother. That frail, grimy and ragged girl, who was five years younger, had opened his heart with a warm smile and soft words.

Realising that his thoughts had wandered, Voster turned his attention to Julian. "Did he use his aura?" he asked, his uneven tone advertising his struggling emotions.

"Of course," Romile replied without commenting on Voster's shaky inflection.

Grateful, Voster returned to his chair, facing Romile, who was still focused on Julian's breathing, "He needs to reduce his usage; His Highness is strong enough without relying on his Void."

The heavy atmosphere hung in the tent, pulling on their clothes like a child wanting attention. Unable to continue yet another arduous topic, Romile shifted his hazel eyes towards Voster as a smile wriggled onto his lips. "Do you remember when we first called it that?"

"Yes, it was sometime at the beginning of our deployment," Voster responded, his eyebrows knotting at Romile's expression.

"I think it was the end of the first summer; we were exhausted after finally driving back Rohnelle past their borders, and the soldiers were celebrating."

Casting his mind back, Voster added, "Didn't one of the infantry soldiers offer us alcohol?"

"That's how it started! Not long after that, you couldn't feel your legs; I could barely put a sentence together and Julian...." Romile was cut off by the sudden interruption of Julian's snores. Unintentionally, the two had begun to grow louder as they recalled the past. As Julian's heavy breaths continued, the conscious two covered their mouths as laughter boiled inside like a kettle ready to scream. Voster released a pale glow from his hand to cover his mouth, making it more difficult for Romile, whose tears were streaming relentlessly. Eventually, he decided to hold his head between his knees, unsure of what else to do.

While the two calmed themselves, the meaty scents of the dinner being prepared by the soldiers wafted into the tent, under the fabric walls, and through the almost-wind resistant door.

"It was a great night, one of the few good ones that I can remember over these few years," Voster remarked after a long sigh, "was it after we had sobered up that we named your aura?"

"Not quite," Romile beamed, rising to his feet, "as the night grew colder, I went to light the fire; for whatever reason that only my intoxicated self could understand, I tried to use my sword, infused with aura, to start the flames." As he spoke, Romile acted out the events that took place, his rusty-coloured hair swaying freely as he gambled around the tent in a re-enactment of his past drunken actions.

"That's right! I recall everyone was terrified in the morning after seeing the entire campsite ground looking as though it had become molten rock overnight," Voster exclaimed before shooting a panicked glance at Julian, relieved he had not woken him.