The Watcher

CW: combat, violence, descriptive

A legionnaire of coastal origins stands on the walls of a frozen fort. If it were up to him, he would’ve spent his time stationed on the coasts of home. He often reminisces of the sun's warming touch on his skin, the sand beneath his feet, crunching between his toes.

His name is Markos. In his youth he would go to the shores and dive into the sea, cooling from the Summer heat. He would hunt for fish along the shore, eyes darting back and forth between waves, looking for dinner. Afterwards, Markos would watch the Golden Disc set over the world's edge. Life isn’t that bad.

That was before he joined the legion for adventure. Fun at first. Now though, Markos feels cursed, sent to a frozen hell where he is set to spend his last few years of service.

On the wall to Markos’s left and right are members of his legion. Although, stuck in a cold forest, it was the best option of all, The Virtues!

“At least I have that," he thinks often.

After decades of service, he is a senior leader. His time in the legion is soon coming to an end. He often still helped his men with duties other Centurions considered beneath them. Foraging, cooking meals and cleaning.

Tonight, he is making his rounds. Ensuring the men have water and food for snacks. He usually even stands in if they need relief.

Not tonight though, tonight he can't risk them leaving their station for anything. The more eyes that scan the frozen forest, the better. The Warlords beyond are crafty, unpredictable, unregulated and word is on the move.

These locals don’t fear much, fighting with no protection. They fight like unstoppable lions after the priests perform blessings. They believe it will bring them closer to their gods. Markos respects the local warriors. Brave and willing to continue any fight. He relates to what their priests do, it isn't far off from what his priests do. Bless troops, give protection then sacrifices.

His unit has even had Devotions during battle. This happens when a leader performs a sacred ritual, dedicating himself and his men, then charging into the enemy. Sacrificing himself so that he may inspire his men to win!

He knows his men are adaptable and lethal. “Thank the gods, no matter how cruel, I haven't had to do that.” He tells himself, thinking about it. Unlike his best friend Tiberius. Tiberius performed a devotion as his men began to falter last winter. He was Markos’s friend and mentor.

On the wall, eyes fixed ahead, Markos breathes in deep and exhales. The warm air exits his lungs, hitting the air as a cold mist. He closes his eyes to imagine home. He is quickly brought back to reality when he goes to open them. His eyelids stick.

He thinks “What am I doing here?”

His nose feels frozen, ready to fall off. His helmet is cold but the cloth between his head and the helmet allows it not to stick, otherwise it’d rip his flesh. Even after being in a heated tent, the cold still resides in the bones.

He didn’t care much for the winter, the cold, the snow. He especially didn’t care for the darkness. The nothingness of an abyss that the canopies created at night.

He recalls as a new young recruit, his unit was marching to their winter quarters. The march would take days, but if they moved fast enough, they would be safe from nature, the enemy and whatever else was out there. He ended up assigned to the baggage train. A collection of gear, treasure, trophies, food and other supplies. Being dragged in carts by beast and man. Although every soldier had their pack, these were goods needed to create the machines of war.

While in the train, Markos looks back, not too far behind were the camp followers. Usually filled with women of the night, debtors, black-market items and neglected children. His lips tightened in a forced smile towards them, “Poor souls.” he thought. They rarely leave enough soldiers on the baggage train for their own defense. They don’t stand a chance.

The marching column stretched miles.

The cold set in early that winter, freezing the ground at night and thawing throughout the day. The mud caused the train to slow. Markos was selected messenger for the train. He would ride his horse, carrying messages from the Baggage Train Commander to the Group Commander in the unit ahead. Markos kept the Group Commander informed at all times. They were tasked to keep sight of the train and provide protection.

On the last day the trees began to cover the massive column of men, beasts and the followers. The Group Commander seemed excited to end this march. Picking up a pace that the train couldn’t keep up with. Quickly disappearing into the thick woods.

This wasn’t unusual as baggage trains often were slower and fell behind during a march. So, Markos rode ahead with a message to slow down.

Hearing some noises Markos looked back, it was an attack! It seemed as if the woods themselves had come alive! Spitting out a massive horde of warriors. Frantic, undisciplined and seemed to be themselves in a running fight. Almost as if a blind bull was running through a crowded street.

Gripping his horse he thought, “What good am I dead? I must warn the commander ahead that we need help. After all, that's his job!” He sprints forward.

As he looked ahead, the unit wasn't in sight. Where Markos was, the woods began to speak, trumpets howled as fires began to dot the woods like fire flies in the spring. He needed to be out of their range!

Just then, the body of a warrior was thrown and crashed in front of him. His horse leaps over, Markos turns his head sharply and sees the entrails of the warrior leading into the woods. Strange, but now isn’t the time to investigate. Markos presses on.

He soon realizes they weren’t attacking. They were screaming like mad men! They were being terrorized, as if the gods were punishing them. Were they attacking the train? Surely this has to be a trick.

As Markos got closer to the unit ahead he noticed a set of eyes. Larger than a human and glowing. They blazed like a cursed fire. As if trying to put Markos in a trance. He suddenly slowed. Starring into the Creature's eyes, both locked together. Markos could tell this Creature was of substantial size and strength. He reaches for his dagger, it sticks to its sheath. Pulling again, he glances away. He looks back into the woods. Nothingness, did fear make him imagine it? This must be what they mean by cowardice.

Startled and confused, he continues on. The group ahead begins to take more shape. The men in the group have looked back at Markos racing towards them. They had noticed Markos slow down and then press faster to reach them.

A leader commands “Make way!” to the group. The group parts down the center.

Markos reaches the Group Commander, Sextus. He has long served the unit for decades, almost a cult-like figure. He was shrewd but fair. He demanded discipline.

The ever confident Sextus sees Markos approach. He knows him from interactions over the last few days. He watches Markos approach.

Markos could tell Sextus had questions and wanted to read his mind for an answer faster than he could ask them.

“Sir!” eyes wide “The forest came alive, we were ambushed! The baggage train is under attack!” Still catching his breath Markos looks Sextus in the eyes, unusual for a recruit,

“Something isn’t right.”

Sextus eyes squint, what does a recruit know about what is right or wrong during an ambush.

Without hesitation, Sextus rallies some of his horsemen yelling,

“On me!”

Pointing towards the train's direction, down the same parting that Markos had just rode through. They begin to rush to save what is left of the baggage train.

As Markos follows, a thought enters his mind “What about the followers?”

As they approached, Sextus began to slow. He suspected another ambush. He sends an officer and a set of men in a flanking movement into the woods.

As Sextus approaches he sees the ground soaked red. The smell of blood is in the air, the taste of metal is in the mouth. There’s nothing missing, except the men. Markos can also see there is nothing left of the camp's followers.

The men who flanked now emerged from the dark. The officer said to Sextus “Sir, there was nothing in the woods. Just a used camp site, blood, almost as if…”

Sextus interrupts the officer, “I do not need an investigator right now. I need you to secure what you can! Then burn the rest!”

His voice echoes into the cold woods. The same woods that a moment before were alive with fire and fear.

“Markos.” says Sextus.

Markos doesn’t hear him, he himself is fixated on the feeling that he may be crazy.

Sextus, again “MARKOS!”

Markos hears him this time. He turns to Sextus.

“Say nothing, you will be at my side until you can debrief me in camp. Then I will report it to the higher headquarters.” Markos nods his head and joins Sextus by his side.

As they arrive back to winter quarters, the adrenaline begins to wear off. Markos is questioning his sanity. What did he see? Was it what he thought? He knew he would sound crazy, but these types of commanders wanted the truth. Their presence alone demands it. Markos, being new, risked his own life if he held back. He has no time to rest and he and Sextus hurry to his staff's tent.

“Leave us, I have the misfortune of hearing about our loss. I need to have a one on one conversation.”

The staff exit, leaving Sextus and the Markos in the warm tent. Markos notices the fine decorations, busts of previous commanders. The light of the fires illuminating the tent. There's a small bowl with water for hands.

“Wash your hands and as you clean your hands, think of how cleanly you will tell me the truth,” says Sextus

Sextus sits down, “You may sit,” he says, pointing to a chair.

Markos flops down, exhausted at this point. All the energy from the evening has completely worn off.

“Tell me what you saw.” he asks, with the calmness and reassurance of a father.

Markos begins to explain the whole ordeal. The fog of the ambush, the hearing of warriors. He even says he was himself nearly cut down. Markos omits the Creature. Sextus is registering all Markos says. Marko's memory is like scenes of a play, some parts stick out more than others. With disappointment in his voice, Sextus asks,

“What slowed you in your tracks? There are stories already floating around as we entered camp about it.”

Markos is stunned, “Sir, I do not want to sound mad.”

Sextus leans back “You have seen what you have seen. Now tell me what it was.”

Markos begins to explain what he saw. The eyes, the sounds he remembered. He went back to explain the eyes,

“Sir, its eyes were almost trance-like. Taking my breath away. Urging me to follow, to forget reason”

Sextus listens and grins, replying “Son, you were invaluable in your decision making ability to get help. However, one day Markos, you will lead your own men. You will need to inspire courage and strength. You cannot put fear in their hearts, of a Creature.”

Markos begins to ask a question when Sextus cuts him off,

“Let me finish, the report going to higher headquarters is: the baggage train was failing to keep pace. When YOU failed to deliver notice, WE took action. You were the only one left after the ambush. You fought with all your might, collapsing from exhaustion. This saved your life and this is how we found you. Let me worry about the other details.”

Markos can’t help himself,

"And of the Creature?”

Sextus looks in Markos eyes “The gods can be cruel, I don’t want you to find out how cruel.”

Time would pass and Markos would move through the ranks. He becomes a Centurion, entrusted with the lives of men. He was a veteran of many battles, wars and campaigns. He would find solace at times in the words of the Sextus. Choosing to inspire his troops, than to fill their head with fear. He took care of them. He punished lightly and served them right when being rewarded. Often keeping the glory of his own deeds to himself.

Now nearing the end of his career, thinking of friends past, his warm coastal homeland. He thinks positively about his experiences, even finding closure in the bad.

On a cold winter night like tonight though, when the frost set in just right, he would be terrorized in thoughts by the Creature. He would be reminded of the cruelty of the gods.

Is this why he was on the wall tonight? To make sure it wasn't still out there? Lingering and stalking its prey.

A few drunken nights he was wanting to tell of the Creature. However, he remembered what Sextus had said. So, instead, he would tell a story of the report. Making him sound more like a local unit legend rather than a new, scared recruit.

As Markos was gazing into the night, one of the guards tapped him and whispered,

“Sir, I can hear the voices of men. Seems they are on the move.”

Markos sends a runner to the headquarters tent with a routine request to scout the woods. Markos breathes deep and knows the answer. He turns to the other guard,

“Go get some replacements for you and your comrade. Then grab nine men and meet me at our opening. Not the gates, the one we use to slip in and out of. Pack light, warm and bring something to chew on. I don’t need your stomachs rumbling to give away our position.”

The runner returns, “Sir, headquarters grants the request.”

Markos knew what this meant. Take a team and disrupt the opposition. Get them to move and then hurry back and report on the enemy. The replacements now arrived and Markos set off to link up with his team.

Markos links up with his men at the opening; he begins to exit and stops.

“Damn it, I forgot to brief them.” he thinks to himself with uncertainty. He turns to them, “Men, I am not sure what is out there. Yet do not be afraid, it is only men who are imitating the Creature.”

He pauses mid sentence. One of the soldiers looked at him, brow squinted

“Creature?”

Markos backtracks, “You know, creatures, beasts, monsters. They aren’t real. We are of the legions! We have nothing to fear for we have the luck of the gods.”

The men smile at him. One replies “Thank you, but we are too old for fables.” They all chuckle.

As they enter the abyss, a deep silence sets in. You can hear everything in the darkness. The snap of branches, a hungry stomach's growl, flickering of flames against the backdrop of the night. They must remain silent to observe and then can be loud to disrupt.

Markos signals the men to fan out. They still need to maintain eye contact with each other though. Markos is a bit ahead, creating a V shape.

Suddenly a roar as loud as thunder echoes from the woods, penetrating the ears. He has heard this only once before!

Then silence.

Then as if hades had opened itself, it turned into total chaos. Screaming like a dying mother in labor, the guards on the wall prepare to defend themselves. Markos tries frantically to rally his troops into a defensive position. One they will surely die in, but at least together! It's to no avail as he cannot be heard over the snapping of branches and cries for help.

Markos turns to attempt to perform a Devotion. As he turns and lifts his head, his eyes lock with the same fiery eyes he has seen before. Except now they were so close the blaze from them lit his face. In less than the whistle of the lips his previous experience races across his mind.

He then feels an unyielding amount of pressure strike his chest plate, knocking the wind out of him. He is sent high into the air, landing hard on his back. As he hits the ground his head bounces, sending his helmet flying into the cold dark.

Then silence.

He can feel an unbearable pain right where his chest plate ends and belt begins. He reaches down and he feels warmth and wetness. His sandals were lost in the impact. He is able to bend his knee to the sky, keeping the sole of his foot on the ground. He lets out a moan like a mortally wounded animal.

He watches as snow begins to fall through an opening in the canopy right above him. One snow flake catches his eye, dancing its way down. Reflecting in the moon's light.

Markos closes his eyes, he feels the warm sun on his skin again, the sand between his toes. He crunches it.

He realizes that it’s not sand, but snow and not the sun's warmth but the body warming itself in one last effort to hold on.

He watches the snow continue to fall, focusing on that dancing snowflake. It settles on the outer rim of Marko's eye. It melts on his warm skin. Markos can feel it as it runs down the side of his cheek.

He’s slowly fading in and out, from his coastal home back to this frozen hell.

With his last strength, Markos grins and remembers, “The gods can be cruel."