Private The man at Breakleg Castle

The draft was atrocious. The surrounding bare stone was worse. Dank and drab, echoing with misery that was both new and age-old.

Despite how high they were, it smelled of mold, shit and vomit up here, enough to singe the nosehairs off a man used to finer things. A man like Iivo Koskela, who, while not like the lords and ladies in their castles and silks, had never been a villein nor a beggar either. Nay, his family had kept stables, breeding horses for their betters, and his father, like his father before him, had been relieved of taxes by virtue of surrendering his eldest son for the lord’s cavalry. That had been him, before he had done the same when time came to inherit the Koskela house from his late father.

Iivo had never questioned this practice, for himself had fought and served since he’d turned eighteen and survived. His own eldest hadn’t shared those stars, gone the second year of this accursed dispute as he had the first only to never come back. There was no word that he should’ve deserted, no disgrace to their doorstep, so he’d concluded the boy was dead.

A year and a half ago, now. Did someone at least burn his body?

When time had come to conscript another, he couldn’t do it. May have gone himself, if he’d not been old and out of practice enough to be useless, mere fodder for the spears and the lances. Shroudfire. That’s what he’d told his wife at least, when word was Frej Henriksson was riling up folk somewhere North. Winter last. She got to go into her grave unbothered by one truth, at least, worn down by all the rest.

Adjusting the felt hat about his head, he drew but a shallow breath in the putrid air of the tower cell. Worked his dry mouth stiffly for the ache in his jaw, the bruise and the missing tooth he’d gained in his last conversation with the lords Murtohovi and their muscle. Probably the executioner, for how they hardly had a man for every minute position here. Rotten work for the already cursed, black clad.

He’d just begun wondering the sight of that large man when the lock to his lonesome suddenly clattered and he may have jumped if he’d had the strength. Resulted to just staring from beneath the hat brim as the door opened, a rusty shriek and a groan from the hinges. And a rapid movement as someone was shoved through the frame and into the small room, a stranger’s shape revealing the broader one of the tower warden that remained standing in the gloom. A grim silhouette against the firelight come from somewhere down the hall.

Warmth. The thought must’ve gleamed in his eyes, for the door instantly banged shut therein. Lock clattered, again. The defeated figure of Iivo Koskela made an attempt to appear less so, pushing on his hat brim with his thumb so it sat more to the back of his head, shadowing less of his swarthy face. Expressionless, he cast his look on the stranger, despite the sinking feeling that he knew this man.

Felt like he’d probably offered him a smoke, not long ago. The man had refused — name escapes yet, though.

“ Say— “ He started, slowly for how rough he sounded in the throat, hands busy with digging in the breastpocket of his fine overcoat for what remained of his tobacco.

“ Still don’t smoke, or— ? “

Thunked his head on the stone as he fell. Legs weren't interested in doing much after being worked over. Wasn't even sure where they hit him and where he imagined it. Everything hurt. In a sense, headbutting the floor was a small mercy. Because his ears rung now, and everything felt fuzzier. Body was smart like that, seven pains, but only one of them hurt. A big bright red sign in good ol' Common – 'This guy first'.

Why beat him? It was Iivo who kept fucking up. It was that Koskela asshole who simply couldn't keep his mouth shut. Same as back when everyone in the area was rounded up. Trevor couldn't be sure how many others were confined to these walls – but the place reeked of discharge, front and back. It had been a couple days since he properly threw up, and as he absently felt his ass, he grew more confident in the claim he hadn't shit himself either.

Not today, anyway.

But such was the noble way. Beat into submission. Problem being – even Trevor who'd never given two fucks about a bunch of northern peasants was close to seeing their cause as justified. And if they could beat resistance into him... they really needed to be better at the whole ruling thing. Wasn't keeping the lil' fuckers in check literally their purpose in life? But first he'd smack the shit out of Iivo.

He knew that voice. Same idiot mouth that got them committed in the first place. Iivo.

More unfolded than rolled onto his side to look in the direction of the voice. Eyes too swollen to make out much other than tears, but he wanted to look the fucker in the eye – or near as he could – when he told him to go fuck himself. But it didn't come with the venom he wanted. The draft tickled his back, whispering a promise: plenty left to bruise.

„Iivo... you fuck.“

He merely stared for a spell, pipe dangling off the side of his mouth as he foraged the rest of his pockets for fire. Eyes half-lidded and wearily curious, until his mouth twisted with amusement at what he took for irritation from his new company. At the sight of him, it appeared.

“ So, we have met. “ He affirmed warmly if without pleasure, flint clicking cheerfully against steel. “ Sorry about that. “ A tiny tear of amadou caught the spark, beginning to smoke, and he pressed it to the chamber of the pipe. Sucked in a breath for encouragement, the tobacco bristling in a soft crinkle. Casting the beneath of his hat’s brim red.

Just about daring to, he considered whom lay ruined before him. Damn pitiful, really. Almost grotesque, beaten and full of blame for it. But Iivo— he had no remorse. Not for anything. He blew smoke at the ceiling.

“ Where are you from, young man? “

The exhale gave off more than breath. It also lost all his steam. Sure, the fucker got them both arrested... but was he really going to smack someone's granpa? Didn't feel quite right. Not like he'd let the old guy box his ears or anything, but he was thinking more politely about adding a whomp on top of the oldtimer's battered head.

Fucking Iivo – couldn't even let him be angry in peace.

Took both elbows scrapping the floor to edge himself to what could loosely be determined as a sitting position by a blind person. But hey – the attempt was there.

„Used to be Barrow, further south.“ And then he was of the wind, until fucking Iivo got them bottled up here. Wasn't even sure he was angry that he was trapped – maybe this was safer for everyone else. But he couldn't let go of the fact that he was robbed of choice. What he did so often to others, he could never handle himself.

„Why'd you do it, Iivo?“

Rebellions were for hungry fuckers – mismatched buttons, and boots from two different feet. Even his swollen lid could see Iivo was a man of means compared to the rank and file of the rebels.

Used to be — That could’ve meant a whole number of things. Lately, homes had stopped existing more often than people merely leaving them behind. To consider themselves of somewhere else, or nowhere at all. And he bobbed his head.

“ Never heard of it. Further south means but the Grenns to most people here — “ Just cursed swamp and thicket, ready to eat everyone whole. If the mosquitoes and blackflies don’t get them first. “ But suppose those blasted bogs need to stop somewhere too, hmh. “

Smiled a little at that, lip curling about the pipe stem. Was about to ask whether it was nice there, at Barrow, but was steered clear off by curiosity extended in turn. Stilled him proper it did, naught but smoke coil in the air betwixt as he took his time. None had really asked that, not directly anyway, but he knew there was wonder. Things had been fine, where he’d been.

Must’ve been what doomed him, too. He’d not proper known ever to mistrust in a way that all this warranted. An opaque sigh buoyed his shoulders.

“ Why does a man with comforts do anything — ” Tilted his head, staring at passing air and the pale of smoke mingling in it.

“ Because he wants to. In short, got tired of watching shit get worse every year. Standing by. “ Silent accomplice.

“ There’s spirit, now, a proper storm brewing. “ A little admiration, sprinkled into the tone. “ But I felt it could’ve done with tempering, too. Plans and talks. “

He shook his head. Frej Henriksson, for all his lack of compromise and marching on, must’ve appeared a ripe old genius at this point. In comparison to himself, who’d been so sure of his own approach, made myopic by how he’d never really been on the Barons’ bad side before.

“ Naïve, no? Should’ve just picked up a sword. “

By all accounts, he should've been mocking the venerable motherfucker, but it just didn't sit right.

The desire to do the right thing was often the most horrible affliction a man could have. He thought that it got pushed out of people as they got older, like all the other shit. But no – here was granpa, proving the world wrong.

Trevor wondered how'd Iivo survive so long in the first place.

„Wasn't naive to temper.“ A shrug of his own. „Rebellion was the naive part.“

Looked at the old guy with emotions he couldn't quite understand. Because he wasn't as angry as he should be. Wasn't surprised. Just tired.

„People always think that angry is all it takes. That if they're angry enough, shit will change.“ And whether they yelled or bled, it made little difference. „We've all been angry before. You lot just forgot what happens next.“

When they send the army.

And failing that, someone like Trevor.

Cause not all conflict was massive.

„Come on, you're older than me.“ Old enough to know better.