Chapter 52
The black of the forest still holds smoke.
I spread out the map. The borderline runs through the forest.
However, just beyond the forest lies a small flatland.
A trading post. If we take it, the conflict will continue. If we burn it, both sides will suffer losses.
In that case—we just have to make it a place belonging to neither. I realized that was the key.
I returned to the tent and took up my brush.
Letter to the King
I humbly report anew on the current situation of the border front.
The captured youth has an extremely high possibility of being the legitimate son of the enemy country’s Count, and is currently being courteously detained.
The Count requested a reprieve for confirmation, and the three-day freezing of the front lines is being maintained without delay.
Although localized, the possibility of peace has emerged.
On our part, we are considering the following draft framework:
1. The borderline shall remain as it was previously.
2. The trading post at the outer edge of the forest shall become a jointly managed territory.
3. The captive shall be preserved as a guarantee of the agreement’s execution.
By making it jointly managed, I believe it is possible to aim for the stability of commerce while maintaining the face of both sides without any increase or decrease in territory.
The safety of the captive will serve as collateral for adherence to the agreement, and we can also expect the effect of deterring a hasty resumption of hostilities.
There is no great gain for either side, but it is in a form that can also avoid great losses.
For the final approval, I wish to humbly seek His Majesty’s sagacious decision.
On the premise of not impairing national prestige, it is my intention to strive for a conclusion with minimal attrition.
Finishing that, I wrote one more letter. That one to First Princess Elysia.
I have humbly reported the public framework separately, but I shall state the inner workings here.
If we move the borders, it creates the shape of a defeat.
That will leave a lingering effect not only on the enemy country, but on our side as well.
Therefore, my proposal is to not move the lines, and make only the trading post jointly managed.
Joint management holds benefits for both sides.
For our side, the stable securing of transit taxes and the permanent establishment of border surveillance.
For the opposing side, the safety of the legitimate son and the maintenance of their face.
Neither can be called a “victory,” but neither is a “defeat.”
We will not rush the return of the captive. I believe a form where he is preserved for a certain period as a guarantee of the agreement’s execution is desirable.
Many of the soldiers are farmers, and the cultivation season is approaching.
If it becomes a prolonged war, fields will lay waste, taxes will decrease, and exhaustion will extend for several years.
That will cast a shadow not only on the borders but also on the Royal Capital.
This proposal lacks glamor, but I believe it is possible to stop the bleeding.
I hope that in the Royal Capital, you can tailor it into an appearance acceptable to both sides.
I can advance the practical affairs, but I cannot create the narrative.
I set down the brush.
The morning of the third day was strangely quiet.
The forest sank like wet charcoal, and only the smell of smoke remained. The enemy, too, did not move.
The third day of the agreement. As the sun rose higher, a restless atmosphere spread among the soldiers.
The freeze is until today. Once noon passes, either side will have a reason to move.
I stood on the hill, looking at the highway.
The express messenger I sent to the Royal Capital should have arrived yesterday morning.
If the discussions are settled, they will likely return him even if it takes all night.
—But, he doesn’t come.
The wind strokes the forest. A flag snapped once.
Saying nothing, I did not take my eyes off the highway.
What if the King says to retreat? What if the proposal is rejected? What if the decision is delayed?
The captive will lose his value, and these three days will become just a drawn-out interval.
Time is pressing against my neck like a blade.
The sun tilted slightly.
At that moment. Far in the distance, a dust cloud rose.
A single point. Fast.
“—A horse.”
Someone muttered. Everyone on the hill held their breath.
The horse runs as if about to collapse.
The rider carries no flag. But it is the color of the Royal Capital.
I finally exhaled.
“Open a path.”
The express messenger dismounted as if tumbling from his horse and presented the sealing wax stamp.
The King’s crest. I opened it on the spot. The text on the paper is short. But heavy.
The borders will not be moved. The trading post will be jointly managed.
The captive will be preserved until the execution of the agreement. The appearances will be arranged in the Royal Capital—Proceed.
I slowly exhaled.
I can end this.
I folded the paper.
When I descended the hill, reality spread out before me.
Outside, the groans of the wounded soldiers still have not stopped.
Captives are made to sit quietly, still bound by ropes.
The dead are lined up, and a priest was praying in a low voice.
There are also those whose names are not called.
I looked at that. Something swirled deep in my chest. Anger? Sadness? Or irritation at my lack of power?
We may have won the battle.
But.
I remember the tent from that day. The smell of blood and iron. Marc lying there.
—I couldn’t stop that arrow.
That day, I was present for Marc’s treatment.
Inside the tent was filled with the smell of blood.
Marc was laid down. His complexion was pale, but he hadn’t lost consciousness. Clenching his teeth, he was only trying to regulate his breathing.
The medical officer looked at the arrow shaft.
“It has a barb. It will tear the flesh, but let us pull it out.”
“Wait.”
I stepped forward one pace.
“First, pass your blade through hot water. Boiled water. The cloths as well.”
The medical officer looked at me dubiously.
“…Understood.”
Hot, boiled water was prepared.
“Your Highness, a branding iron—”
“Do not burn it.”
My voice was low, but there was no hesitation.
“If you burn it, the bleeding will probably stop. But the flesh will die. Dead flesh rots. If it rots, it whittles away his life.”
Silence fell.
I looked at Marc’s wound. The bleeding is heavy. But it’s still warm. There’s still time.
“Push the arrow out. Do not pull. If there is a barb, make it pierce through and break it off.”
The medical officer hesitated for an instant, but eventually nodded. The arrowhead was pushed out. A short groan escaped, but Marc did not shout.
Blood overflowed. I said.
“Bring alcohol. Something strong.”
The medical officer furrowed his brow.
“Your Highness, wine for a wound—”
“Something strong. Wash away the impurities. The arrow passed through the forest. It has dirt and fat on it.”
A moment of silence. Eventually, strong, amber-colored alcohol was brought. I took it and had him pour it into the wound.
Marc’s throat groaned low.
“Don’t mind it. Wash it out now.”
The alcohol mixed with blood, wetting the cloths red.
“Cloths.”
I applied layers of clean cloths.
“Press down. Strongly. Until it stops.”
A soldier applied pressure with both hands. I myself also layered cloths and applied force. The bleeding lost its momentum.
“Do you have thread?”
“We do.”
“Boil it in hot water. The needle too.”
The small pot placed over the fire shook unsteadily. The suturing began. Every time the needle picked up flesh, Marc’s throat groaned. But he didn’t raise his voice.
“Good. Just a little more.”
I said matter-of-factly. My mind was desperately tracing the knowledge I had learned in the past.
The suturing finished.
“Use honey. However, thinly. Wrap it tightly with a clean cloth from above. Do not release the pressure.”
The medical officer nodded.
Bandages were wrapped, and the wound was finally covered.
The air inside the tent changed slightly.
The medical officer looked at me.
“I did exactly as Your Highness commanded.”
A pause.
“The bleeding has stopped.”
He said nothing more.
The rest was up to heaven’s will. The priest chanted a prayer in a low voice. Marc’s forehead already carried a fever.
I head to Marc’s side. His fever still hasn’t broken.
…What was I looking at? Wasn’t there more I could have done?
I bite my lip.
We may have won this battle.
But—this is nothing more than the beginning.
Marc’s Perspective
A fever burns from inside my bones. When I open my eyelids, the shadows of the tent were swaying.
His Highness is standing there. His outline is blurred.
His voice is distant. My arm is heavy. But it moves.
One arrow was enough. In that instant, I was able to step forward. The arrow didn’t reach His Highness.
That is fine. That is my duty.
…It is my deepest desire.
However. I saw His Highness’s face. It was not the face of a victorious general. He is looking at something else.
Looking pained.
That is wrong. His Highness guided the war situation.
The soldiers followed, and the enemy retreated. I want him to stand proudly.
No—he must be standing proudly.
If the lord wavers, the soldiers also waver. I will protect him. Even if my arm breaks. But. That face of His Highness.
My consciousness sinks. At that moment.
His Highness’s voice was close.
“Marc. Live. This is an order.”
That voice dropped quietly.
I let out a faint breath. The darkness closed quietly. Amidst the fever, I wish for only one thing.
Your Highness.
Please, do not let that face cloud over.
