Music is Black Song, White Scales from the Drakengard 3 OST, composed by Keiichi Okabe. Play it!

Media is Sir Isaac. No beard though!

******

"Horses are saddled up and ready to go, sir," bellows one of the soldiers in the King's Army. From the medallion he proudly pins onto his tabard, he has the rank of Constable. Quite a name he's earned, as he's probably of common blood and doesn't look to be over the age of twenty-five.

"Excellent," Sir Kendrick bellows in return. His tall, erect form looms all over us. Even if his cloak clasp doesn't have the insignia of a dragon curled around a bonfire—Perinus's official seal—one would immediately know that he's the leader here, from a quick glance.

It's the day of our leaving Cordair. It had taken one week in total to prepare for this journey. Captain Eldric mainly did the planning; all I had to do was to go about running his errands. I suspect that he may have included several things that weren't quintessential on the list of supplies I had to obtain. One of them was a sackful of onions. Needless to say, the kitchen staff were baffled as to why an apprentice to the Captain of the Guard wanted a sackful of onions.

Snow shivers down from the sky. Winter is already a difficult time to travel, with its cold days and freezing nights; I can't imagine having to slough through snow. The horses might not even be motivated to move, stubborn beasts they are. In addition to that, we have to make do with limited supplies. Perinus is still weak from Diomedes's attack, after all, and that includes our very own capital city.

Worries upon worries pile upon my head. Nerves are shredding me into a mess. Not that I show it outwardly.

It's been a long while since I'd last left Cordair, and that had been because Diomedes's army had forced me to leave. Two years ago. Now this is happening due to my own choices, and at the end of the journey, I'll be meeting the maternal half of my extended family.

Almost idly, I flick a hand at the shadows by my feet. They respond sluggishly, as though they're reluctant to heed my commands. But they ripple ever so slightly. Something inside me calms in satisfaction at the sight.

I wonder if the Lorelays dabble in necromancy too. I wonder if they know of my heritage as Deathslayer; I wonder if they even know of my existence. There's so much about them that I don't know. I feel half-fearful, that they will instinctively know who I truly am; I also feel half-eager, to learn more about the side of me who lives in darkness.

It's the second half that's agonising me.

"What now? The Champion of Pst. Bronicus looking pale under the weather? Is it because of nerves?" Gilbert's voice abruptly rings in my ears, and I give a small jump. I've been entirely warped in my thoughts.

I wheel around to face him; he gives me a mocking bow. "And I have successfully frightened you. That, my friend, is a true feat worthy of Maximus the Kingslayer," he says.

I shoot him a glare. "Your attempt at being hilarious is failing," I say.

"Pity. I thought I succeeded at last." His lips split into a grin. "But you do look rather pale. You all right?"

I fold my arms across my chest. "I suppose I'm as all right as I can be for one who is just about to head out into the unknown. That, and probably because I"—I drop my tone here—"tugged on a few shadows just now."

"That explains the paleness." He drops his tone as well: "Did you push yourself a little too hard?"

I shake my head. "It was more of an experimental pull."

"Well, try not to this again in front of so many people?" His eyes dart about frantically, yet he keeps the grin plastered onto his face. I resist the urge to slap myself. "Don't be too confident of your abilities," he adds carefully. "You're not as strong as you once were."

His last comment is practical, but it stings me, all the same. Ever since I'd defeated Diomedes and thrown out the necromancy-enhancing potion, my power over shadows has significantly declined. Not like I'd dare to tap too much into it either, considering that I live in the very place where necromancy purging had begun. Same goes for my fire abilities. "I'll try not to," I say in a gruff voice. "It's nerves, I suppose."

"You'll be fine," he assures me.

"What if I won't be fine?" I wrap my arms around myself even tighter. "Abner...He's hinted terrible things to me. And I'll be visiting one half of my blood. The one that isn't so...noble."

"At any rate, you have all of us." He smiles at me. I feel myself relaxing a little.

"Besides, didn't you mention that the forests are haunted and absolutely terrifying?" I continue. "Infested with ghouls and creatures of the witching hour?" I fight to keep my expression serious at Gilbert's unavoidable squawking.

"Pietists Above, Constantine! Surely you know what a jest means?"

"I take it that you don't either," I reply drily.

He's unable to come up with a response for a while. "Good to know that you still have a sense of humour," he says sourly.

"I always do."

"Squires, stop chatting! We're just about to leave," Sir Kendrick cuts into our conversation. We instantly give him attention.

"Yes, sir!" we chant at the same time.

Together, we walk towards the horses. I've been assigned to a coal black mare, and it whickers softly as I approach it. I stroke its coat, soaking into its velvety texture before mounting it. I pray that this particular mare is mild in nature; it'd be an absolute nightmare if she'd bucked and I'm thrown straight into freezing snow. In total, there are eight of us travelling together. Me, Gilbert, Sir Kendrick, and five specially selected men. Three of them from the Guard, two from the King's Army.

Soon enough, everyone is atop their respective horses' backs and are ready to go. Sir Kendrick, riding a beautiful chestnut stallion, heads the party. "Onward!" he announces. He kicks his steed in the ribs, and it moves in a gentle trot.

"Wait!" someone screeches from behind.

Sir Kendrick halts his steed. We all crane our necks around to see the newcomer. A wrinkled face with hawkish eyes greets me. "Sir Isaac?" I say incredulously.

"I shall go with you," he says.

I look at Gilbert, astride a piebald mare. His eyes reflect the questions I have in my head. Then I look back at Sir Isaac. He has several bags slung over his shoulder, and a longsword is belted by his hip. He looks thoroughly equipped for the road, save for the fact that he's old.

"Sir Isaac," greets Sir Kendrick. "This is rather...irregular."

"Not that irregular if you ask me," the elderly knight responds. "Come now, you could always use my experience. After all, hadn't I been part of the elite team tasked with hunting Diomedes a few years back? Besides, I shan't be much of a bother to you."

I open my mouth to remind him that a 'few years back' really means twenty-two years ago. However, a chill grips me, preventing me from doing so. And this isn't the chill from a wind—this is the chill of when the dead come alive. Of shadows writhing in the light. Of darkness looking to swallow you whole.

The chill of necromancy.

Even Miraterciel, safely tucked away in my right boot, hums wildly. I can imagine the athame and its obsidian blade, gleaming with danger.

"All right then. Vanryse, bring the knight a horse!" I barely register Sir Kendrick's words in my head.

The chill fades as suddenly as it comes. I grit my teeth, blinking and forcing myself to tune in to my surroundings. The heat of the sun slowly sinks into my bones, and everything becomes clear again. What was that? I ask Abner.

Use the brain Pst. Bronicus gave you, he replies.

Really? In a sarcastic mood now?

I'm always in a sarcastic mood. His amusement courses throughout me like the screech of a blade being sharpened against a rock. But that's not the point. Unfortunately for you, I'm being serious.

Necromancy. Someone is using necromancy.

Precisely.

A chill runs up my spine—of my own accordance this round.

"Ready now?" Sir Kendrick draws me out of inner monologue.

I shake my head. Vanryse has already brought a horse back during my lapse, and Sir Isaac is sitting astride of it. There is a certain vigour to his entire form that surprises me. For a moment, I can almost forget that he's not in good health.

The moment passes. Concern creases my forehead. Why did Sir Kendrick give in to him so easily? Why doesn't anybody protest? I cast Gilbert a side-glance. His eyes flick towards me, and I understand. Like me, he's learned to not question the actions of his master. Usually more because of the hidden motives behind their actions, and less out of obedience. 

I want to burst out with a thousand objections, but I hold myself back. If Gilbert is to be trusted, Sir Kendrick will reveal his intentions eventually. 

Problem is, we don't when will 'eventually' be.

The horses move. I instinctively nudge mine in the ribs, coaxing it into a trot. We emerge out of the outer ring gates, into the scent of sewers and perfumed goods mingling with each other. The scent of a true city.

We finally start our journey.  

******

The weather is surprisingly cooperative. It'd snowed for a while when we first stepped out of the castle, but it soon stopped, leaving the roads relatively clear and easy to travel upon. No wind, even if the ever persistent chill is still there. As mild a winter as we can get here.

I look around us. The weather may be cooperative, but the scenery is amazingly dull. Just unbroken, dead forests to our sides, sloping hills, and the occasional village. Nothing of any importance. We've been riding for five hours. If it continues this way, I might fall asleep in the saddle.

I grip the reins a little tighter. Gilbert is chatting away with Sir Kendrick towards the front. The only person here who's in a talkative mood here occupied. All the men with us are highly trained soldiers. All extremely stiff people. All terrible companions.

Then again, I'm not a particularly pleasant companion either.

Well, perhaps Sir Isaac isn't so terrible. He's lost the vigour I'd seen back at the gates, and has now regained his usual pallor. He looks frail, but not so frail that he might pitch over anytime. I pray that he keeps this up for the remainder of the journey.

"Have you travelled around aplenty before, sir?" I ask Sir Isaac, in attempt to break the monotone silence that has fallen over the group.

From the scowl he shoots me, I know that I've asked a stupid question. True enough. Sir Isaac was apparently quite a prominent figure during his youth, retiring as a trainer in Castle Larstand after the death of his wife. He had no children, after all, and thus he'd refused to take a plot of land for himself. What good was a land when you had no heirs to it?

"Do boars have tusks? Do hawks have feathers? What do you take me for!" he snorts.

"I assume that's a 'yes'," I mumble.

"In simpler terms, aye. What do you think I've been doing while the hunt for the Master of the Dead had been on? Sleeping on my arse every day?"

"Of course not, sir."

"Glad that I've got my point across."

We settle into a steady rhythm of silence once more: Gilbert and Sir Kendrick chatting quietly, the clops of hoofs against the ground, the lulling symphony of nature engulfing us.

But I'm not willing to let go of the conversation so easily. That was a silly way to start it. I should have known better than to try small talk with Sir Isaac. "Why did you decide to come with us?" I raise the question that has been nagging my mind for hours. Straightforward; no beating around the bush this time.

In response, he tugs on his horse's reins, urging it to slow down. I frown, doing the same. He only allows the steed to resume its regular speed once we've fallen a distance away from the group. "Why do you want to know?" he says after a long pause.

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. "Just curious," I reply.

"Hmph." He squares his thin shoulders, eyes pinned forwards. "I have my reasons."

"And what reasons may those be?"

He finally deigns to give me a side glance down the line of his nose. "Has becoming an apprentice to the Captain of the Guard given you a right to interrogate anyone as you please?"

I flinch involuntarily, trying to find a way to prod him without touching any invisible wounds. Sir Isaac sounds snappish. Even more so than his usual self. "I—apologise if I was too demanding," I concede, voice low with regret. "You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to, sir."

"Ach. I should have expected this anyway. No need for apologies, my boy." The corners of my lips curve upwards ever so slightly. "So, why I'd decided to come along. You can say that it was out of sheer human curiosity, I suppose."

I raise my brows. "Why is that, sir?"

The scowl returns to his expression. "Need I explain the workings of the human mind? Nay! I'm not some damned Quinnian philosopher who can explain why we must breathe to everyone!" Then as an afterthought: "Pst. Quinn forgive me."

"Still, how did you know we were about to travel on this very day? Who told you?" It's likely everyone knows about our highly publicised trip to Battein. The Bane and the two Champions going at the same time? That's bound to warrant plenty of attention. It doesn't help that Sir Kendrick left Cordair so soon after he'd just returned. However, no one save the war council members know the true purpose of this trip. Captain Eldric had conjured some rigmarole about us collecting a rough estimate of the population towards the east. Whether this raises suspicions or not, it doesn't matter—no one dares to question the word of the Captain.

What matters is if Sir Isaac knows about the real reason why we're here. If so, then he must have obtained his information from someone who had attended the war council. Theoretically, what had went on in that room, should have stayed in that room. There's always a possibility that one of us had leaked the details of that report...

And although I hate to consider that possibility, I have to. It's my duty.

Sir Isaac gives me a smug grin. "With the castle all abuzz concerning the news of Sir Kendrick leaving the castle almost as soon as he comes back, naturally I would catch wind of the due date," he answers readily. I inwardly curse myself for not approaching him with the right questions. "I don't need anyone specific to tell me."

I still my tongue. I take a few mental steps backwards, reassessing the situation. So Sir Isaac had heard of our leaving through surprisingly reliable castle gossip. But why had Sir Kendrick allowed him to come just like that? He had been part of the elite team tasked with hunting Diomedes down approximately twenty years ago. However, there's no denying that age has caught up to him. Does the Bane have some idea of asking for his expertise in the matter, if he has any?

Frustration builds up in me. All of this doesn't make any sense.

"We'll make camp here," yells Sir Kendrick. I jump in my saddle.

You really are jittery today, aren't you?

Shut up, Abner.

And snappish too.

I refuse to give him a response. Instead, I swing a leg over the horse and unmount. I fumble with the latches of a saddlebag, searching for the camping materials inside. Once that's done, I bring them over to the spot Sir Kendrick chose, a clearing a little deep in the forest. Not too far off the road, but just enough so that we're sheltered from prying eyes.

I receive orders from Sir Kendrick to pitch the tents. Pity that swordsmanship doesn't translate to tentsmanship. After approximately twenty minutes and still-flat tents later, I'm ready to scream and kick at anything. Even the harmless looking rabbit skittering by.

"Having trouble?" Gilbert walks up to my side, already done with collecting firewood for the camp. He smells of frost and wood; a surprisingly reassuring scent.

I return my attention to the unrecognisable heap before me. "No," I growl.

"If you say so, why hasn't a single tent been pitched up already?"

"I was doing fine until you came along."

He chuckles at my prickliness. "All right, you were doing fine. But never hurts to have an extra helping hand, eh?"

I loosen an exasperated sigh; my breath gathers into a miniature cloud, fogging my vision. "Sorry. It's just...my first time doing this, and the real thing looks so different from what was in the handbooks!"

"You actually studied on how to make camp? Who would write a handbook catering to that?"

My cheeks flame. "What was I supposed to do? Sit around in the castle? And no, I just collected bits and pieces of information from certain accounts of adventure," I defend myself hastily.

"Usually people learn these sort of things while they're actually doing it," mutters Gilbert. "Because books can only tell so—enough talking. Let's get to work!"

He guides me on the proper method to drill the nails into the ground, and shows me how to tie the proper knots. In no time at all, the first tent is done. A sense of accomplishment bubbles in me, but I mask it with a scowl.

Gilbert playfully bumps my shoulder. "Come now, it wasn't that hard, was it?"

"We still have three more to go." I scan the surroundings. Sir Kendrick and three of the men who'd left to collect more firewood still haven't returned. The remaining two keep watch, although they seem more intent on watching my pathetic attempts at pitching tents rather than remaining vigilant. Useless scum.

Then there's Sir Isaac. He sits by himself on a tree stump, looking pale and forlorn. The twilight sky lends him an aura of fragility. I think of our interrupted conversation, and I clench my jaw. He had answered some of my questions, yes, but not the important ones. It would be tough to pick it up where we last left it off.

"Are you going to help or not?" says Gilbert. My gaze flicks towards him; he's waiting for me by the second tent. Without a word, I walk over.

We continue our work.

******

A/N: Sir Isaac joining them on their little road trip? Constantine's necromantic senses warning her? Sir Kendrick giving in so easily? Well. There may or may not be something fishy about this whole setup! Meanwhile though, Constantine should really learn some camping skills...

You guys know the drill: vote, comment, share and recommend