Entry 17

His face...I had seen it somewhere. Somewhere recently. It couldn't have been Garved; rebels made up the attacking force at Garved, with a few Bovican deserters here or there. Triton wouldn't be stupid enough to send their men toward the front lines of a foreign land, much less a land built on mutual hatred of Tritonian "virtue".

If I hadn't seen him at Garved, it could only have been at Fort Meddon. The battle of Fort Meddon, the Frozen Keep, marked the first stage of the rebellion's plan to undermine Bovica. 

And it absolutely worked.

Six years before finding myself as a Confederate's errand boy, Triton forcefully commandeered a border town on their side of the mountains. Little hamlet which once thrived on travel through the peaks. Their leaders turned it into a military installation, keeping vigil over the various mountain passes that connected the Kyrlund and the lands of Triton

Five years later, Triton funneled over two thousand troops through that fort, beginning their "invasion" of the Kyrlund. Large conflict, months of harsh fighting, and a story too long and detailed for me to get into right now. Not the kind of memory I'd want to relive too often, anyway.

It must have been Fort Meddon. After that disaster, my group immediately received orders to march south and rally Bovican militias along the way. We didn't encounter Tritonians again, as the rebellion built up momentum rapidly once Triton pulled back from the Range.

Silence filled the air around us. A year and a half is a long time to remember a passing face; with luck, his memory will prove less than perfect.

"I have a message for your commander."

The guard squinted at me, as if searching for whatever hidden motives or agendas I may have buried within.

"You aren't a trader," he noted, pointing out the difference between my worn leather-padded attire and the garb normally associated with traveling merchants, "and all unsanctioned activity, whether it be entering or leaving Tritonian territories, has been halted by direct order from His Highness, King Felixius. If your message is important, then I will make sure it is passed on to Captain Rells."

Well, returning to the Kyrlund was no option. Before the rebellion, I could have simply avoided this pass altogether and had my pick of any other pass, tunnel, or border wall to escape through. But Freehold knew what they were doing; once the final push towards Garved began, a convenient string of rock slides and cave-ins blocked off most paths from the Kyrlund. A strategy to isolate and disorient the Bovican soldiers, if I had to guess.

"This is the only road I know of that leads away from my homeland," I explained, "and the situation there is too dangerous to remain. Leaving it behind is the best chance I have; please, let me pass. I'll deliver the message to this Captain Rells, then be on my way." 

He seemed unimpressed. Turning slightly, I found the other guard in the middle of scratching his back with the flat side of his spearhead.

My begging needed work.

The one on the left leaned his spear forward, leveling the barbed tip at my chest. I knew my charm could be better, but I hardly expected to get skewered because of it. He spoke again; this time, practically oozing suspicion in the process.

Furrowing his brow, the questioning began in earnest. "Your people have finally won freedom from beneath the thumb of a harsh regime which did more harm than good. So, why do you wish to leave now? Bovica has fallen. The Kyrlund can decide its own fate."

What was I supposed to do? Tell him that I had spent the past six years fighting for the enemy of Triton? No, my will to live proved stronger than that.

"To put it simply, there is nothing left for me there. I have no reason to stay." Praying to the Saint was a bad habit gained through the military, one well worth ridding myself of. But in that moment, my inner voice rattled off all those impassioned pleas from my past as if nothing had changed at all.

"Hmm." The guard grumbled, yet looked to be slightly less intent on running his spear through my heart. "On one hand, we aren't allowed to let someone who isn't a trader or a Tritonian citizen cross the border. On the other hand, you don't look like a bandit or a Confederate. Not like we can do a personality test or anything; so, I'm not sure. Droma, what do you think?"

The guard to my right stopped scratching his back and held the spearhead towards the ground. I didn't realize it, but up to that point he had yet to look at my face for more than a passing glance. If he'd done so, this whole interaction would have gone by much quicker.

"Wait, I recognize you. Were you at Fort Meddon?"

Fuck.