“Buheeh. You got the good stuff, Homer! Hahahaha, they don’t let us drink this good here in the barracks. You might get into trouble for it.”

  “Stuff it, Iason. I know you guys probably drink like fish, just like back in the good days… You still know all the good smuggling spots.”

  “Lay off him, Homer. We can’t smuggle booze here anymore now that we’re all higher up on the dder. People ask where we go now, and wonder about what we carry- different from when we were just faces in the crowd.”

  “Still as stuffy as always, Filia…”

  Chatter like this filled the officer’s quarters. Felt like he’d never left the military with this cadre of ten or so men and women, all old buddies from the civil war days. The rge barrel of booze he’d brought from Grisilde’s was id out in the middle like a small table, although the top of the cask had been broken apart so that they could all dip their cups in; about two thirds of the whole thing had already been drunk.

  Some old friends hadn’t made it, of course. Gigant had passed on from a stroke of the heart a year ago, Hecate had moved to a different city, lost to all… And so on. But there were enough remaining that this was far more a jolly encounter than a somber one.

  “How many of you are coming to that stuffy Rebirth ceremony that’s happening soon?”

  “I didn’t take you for the religious type, Homer, nor the type who’d get good seats. What’s the point in going if you can’t even get inside? Waiting outside hearing hymns doesn’t sit right with me, har…” Filia shakes her head.

  “Aye, she has the right of it,” Iason grumbles and burps, refilling his cup. “never been much for the gods since the civil war.” There’s a suspicious gnce cast around before he continues. “The previous emperor had not a drop of godly blood in him, but he was handling things better than the current fop or the ones before. ‘Tis not heretical to say, for our holiest emperor decreed freedom of speech on all matters.”

  The st part was said so loudly Homer had to stifle ughter. Iason had always been the paranoid sort, masking his displeasure in such pretenses. It was true that such dissidence even among the military was perfectly legal; but Homer knew that *actually* voicing such opinions in the wrong company often led to unofficial trouble.

  “You must trust us all quite deeply if you’re sharing such opinions. What if I became a pdog of the government while on my travels?”

  “Homer, you oaf, we’re all pdogs of the government!”

  The loud cackling is only brought to an end when Homer lifts his hand and closes it into a fist. That was an old hand sign back in the military days, demanding absolute silence within the ranks; and so everyone silences themselves, expressions full of mirth caged by an attempt to be more serious.

  “I’d like for all of you to try and come, if you can. I understand attaining front row seats, or even access to the temple itself, is difficult… But I trust that each and every one of you will be able to somehow make it if I ask.”

  Herakleios, the oldest among them- a man of almost seventy years- leans forward and raises a brow. Only one of his eyes works anymore, but all the wisdom from those years has crystallized within that pupil as it studies Homer, almost disapprovingly, up and down.

  “What’s this about, then.”

  There are no murmurs, no loud questions of crification; Herakleios had summarized everyone’s thoughts in mere four words. As expected of the old coot. Homer finishes his current drink and then leans forwards, arms resting on his knees.

  “I’ll be there myself for something big. I’ve been helping this pilgrim make her journey. She’s… Got intimate retions with Death.”

  He silences the murmurs with a simir motion of the hand as before.

  “It’ll be big. Historical, I think. Ought to have you old farts there for that. You might see something no-one else gets to see. And I’m proud of this girl. She’s grown a lot, and deserves whatever good things are coming to her from this. I suppose I’m showing her off.”

  Silent gnces are shared. They all have one singur thought, one question, but they’re clearly debating who will pierce the veil of silence and deliver it. Makes him nostalgic. Despite their different positions and the time spent apart, all of these people will be brothers and sisters to him ‘till the very end. They function as a unit.

  It’s Herakleiois who speaks again.

  “You weren’t inviting us to your son’s first day at the academia, so why this? I doubt you love that wee girl so much more. There’s something else here, Homer.”

  And as always, the old coot penetrates to the very core of the issue.

  “Reinhardt getting into the academia was an obvious thing, and we all know the entrance ceremony that year was quiet due to- gah, never mind, that is besides the point. Maybe I’ve changed! Maybe old Homer has changed and decided he wants to be more loving and proud of those around him!”

  Filia cocks a brow.“And yet you’ve clearly not talked to your wife or son since returning.”

  Gods damn that woman. Homer is starting to get angry now- but this is his own fault. He’s being roundabout, dismissive, distant, because admitting to these fellows that he wishes for them to come and see him die would be both humiliating and oddly intimate. But they’d deserve to know above all; not his wife or son, no, because they would be crushed by the weight of seeing it. And he’s brought them enough grief as is.

  Maybe he is scared.

  “When the hell did you people stop being obedient soldiers and turn into such inquisitors of the holiest truth-?! If we were still at war, I would be whipping all of you for insubordination!”

  It was a joke, and nded as such, but there was a somewhat uncomfortable undercurrent to the moment’s polite ughter. He was getting antsy. Too antsy. Hand runs down his face, grumbling and hissing and exhaling, and slowly the boiling begins to fade. Deep breaths, just like you were taught… And it passes, and he feels calmer.

  “Aye, aye, there is a reason besides simple camaraderie and pride. Truth be told, my friends- as you all know of my affliction- I’ve found a solution. A solution wrought in steel, and in the brimstone in my veins… For War will come to the ceremony.”

  A moment’s silence.They all knew the weight.They all knew what was to come.

  “And I will fight them, and I will either win, or I will die, and my curse will finally leave me be either way.”

  The silence continued, dreadful. There was no outrage. Homer had expected one, yet nothing came. But that was because mentally, he was still there- in the war, with these brave people as his fellow soldiers, all so much younger and with so much more untempered fire. Either the fmes had died out or they’d been put under a lid, controlled.

  “... Well? Are you all coming or not? Or are you going to uncomfortably stare at me until I tell you it was a joke? Because in that case, you’ll be staring at me for a good long while, you drunken old-”

  Iason coughs into his fist and refills his drink. The bastards won’t even entreat his glorious end but they sure as hell will take his alcohol and sip from it instead. Bah.

  “What, you want us to come and see you get gutted on one of the holiest days of the year, by one of the gods we all worship? You want us to come cheer for your lifeblood as it slowly seeps into the brickwork? Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

  Homer’s fist bangs down on the broken lid, breaking it further and dropping a few chunks of wood into what alcohol remains in the barrel.

  “Maybe I do! Is it wrong for a man to desire an audience?! Is it wrong for a man to desire for his st moment of glory to be seen by those he considers friends?! I’m tired! I am tired of it! Of the boiling, of this constant undercurrent of- of anger! Even if I control it and hide it, it’s still there, gods damn it! And I want it to be over! So I will go! And you will either be there to see it and to send me off, or you will stay away and forfeit the right to ever speak of me again!”

  And then he reaches down, takes that chunk of wood and throws it into the corner of the room, huffing and puffing. The fire burns for a second, and then dies down, and he looks down on the floor with a mortified look. Took a lot from him to not just throw it at Iason or something.

  “I’m so tired. Of that, too. And I just want it to end… And old age won’t make it end for what, ten, twenty more years? Gods forbid, I could live for so much longer. Old age is not for me. At least when I was young, there were wars to fight, more to do than wander and kill the occasional bandit or monster. And who am I to kill such things anyway? What gives me the right? War had order to it, war gave me reasons besides money…”

  His nose ruffles, hand covering his mouth.

  “I’m going. Either you come and watch, or you wait and hear. But gods, please, do not try to talk me out of it.”

  The silence that follows is deafening, and the barrel is emptied in a far more solemn mood. He bungled that one too, didn’t he? Damn it. This is why he’s not even going to try with his wife and son; he’d probably make them hate him enough that they won’t even want to bury him.

  When the barrel is empty Homer picks it up and hefts it over his shoulder, giving everyone one st look. The conversation had started again by the end, but it’d awkwardly moved around him.

  “Thank you all for coming all the same. It was nice to reconnect.”The silence continues as he heads for the door; the barracks are stuffy and byrinthine, but… He feels a hand on his shoulder. And another, and another. He does not turn to see those who try and comfort him; instead, he shakes his shoulders free with a quiet ugh and heads out.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have reached out for the past.… But it was still nice to see the guys.

  A swaying arm pushes open the door to the Gallivanting Galnt, and he stumbles in, nodding to Grisilde and Maia. What a night.