Broken in Body, Broken in Mind (Richter - B Support)

[Mavick]

His satchel heavy with thick booms, Mavick went to Richter's room, unannounced and certainly uninvited. The short statured tactician looked the large, musclebound Ilian over once before pulling the satchel off his shoulder. "Since you have taken up reading to pass the time while your arm heals, it would behoove you to read something a little more practical." he stated, pulling out a book. "The History of Mounted Combat, by one Salidor Framel. It's quite a good read. Provides many valid strategies useful to one who finds himself with a horde of horse riding archers. The Cantabrian Circle and the Parthian Shot, in particular, are quite useful in such a situation." Mavick stared at Richter with that semi-vacant gaze he had displayed since finding the Ilian again as he dropped the book in his lap.

"And this one. A Study of the Tribesman's Customs and Mannerisms, by Harris Roriksfield." Picking the tome up, he dropped that one in Richter's lap as well. "Very useful when one has to deal with a foreign, nomadic culture, I would say. In fact, when coupled with the former, I'd even hazard to risk that one could make a compelling argument to a rabble of uncivilized and uneducated tribal chieftains." There was a point here, and he was getting to it.

"Oh, and who could forget Karsten Tharn's Under Siege: Tactics, Strategies, and Survival Techniques? As an Ostian, I must say that it's one of my favorites." And the book fell into Richter's lap. "I'm sure you see the point I'm trying to make, Richter." he stated. "An entire army's worth of Sacaens in this city, and what did they do? They sat behind these flimsy wooden walls and hoped for the best. It seems they've forgotten what made them strong." Mavick never broke eye contact with the larger man, never turned away his almost vacant gaze. "What did you try to do to convince them? Did you appeal to their pride? Try to reason with them? Threaten them? Cajole them, perhaps?" Repeatedly, he grilled into the Commander, never actually giving him a moment to respond. "Well, whatever you did, it clearly didn't work. If you're going to continue this suicidal quest of yours to fight the Prophet, it's time you learned a little more than simply swinging your sword and shouting a few words to mercenaries. Because if you think you're going to win this war of yours with nothing but a few Ilian mercenaries and good intentions, you're a fool and a madman."

This time, Mavick narrowed his eyes. "Much like that little Forlorn Hope stunt you pulled to put a stop to the siege engines. You just had to lead the assault instead of letting someone else. Even though I've told you time and time again that if you die then everything crumbles. You're lucky the only thing you took away from the siege is a broken arm." He stepped right up to the Ilian, and jabbed a finger at his chest. "How did you even survive this whole time without me? You obviously haven't learned a damn thing. If you die, everything falls apart. An army without it's leader is nothing."

[Richter Abend]

Stuck in his bed, Richter watched with small excitement as Mavick dispensed books onto him. The boredom he’d been dealing with he’d classify as “severe”. The Ilian looked at the covers as he listened to Mavick rattle off about their contents. War history. Tactics. The latter was a bit dry, but nonetheless interesting reading material, though he could do without the tribal studies manuscript. Still, it was much better than the romance novel, the war romance novel, that Guinevere had tried bringing him earlier, which currently sat untouched on the small table by the side of his bed. Her book from Rayl had made for good reading, however.

"I'm sure you see the point I'm trying to make, Richter."

Richter’s eyes bounced up to meet Mavick’s. Point? What point?

"An entire army's worth of Sacaens in this city, and what did they do? They sat behind these flimsy wooden walls and hoped for the best. It seems they've forgotten what made them strong."

He didn’t disagree. The Sacaen chieftains had spent more times debating the terms of engagement than they had fighting. So much for being unified against external threats.

"What did you try to do to convince them? Did you appeal to their pride? Try to reason with them? Threaten them? Cajole them, perhaps? Well, whatever you did, it clearly didn't work.”

Was Mavick trying to insinuate that-?

"If you're going to continue this suicidal quest of yours to fight the Prophet, it's time you learned a little more than simply swinging your sword and shouting a few words to mercenaries. Because if you think you're going to win this war of yours with nothing but a few Ilian mercenaries and good intentions, you're a fool and a madman."

The Ilian’s teeth silently clenched. This. This was the part of Mavick he had not missed. With every intelligent thought the tiny tactician passed along there was always some snide insinuation or reprimand. The Ilian understood that Mavick was smart, more so than most who consider themselves so, but why did he always have to rub it in? And why did he always seem the angriest when things went well?

“I thought I said no books about Sacaens,” the commander groaned, ignoring the reprimanding and pushing away the ragged looking book with Sir Roriksfield’s name scribbled on the spine. “I wouldn’t want to read about their swordsmanship, much less their ‘customs and mannerisms’. I’m sick of these plains…” Richter trailed off as he let his gaze wander over the other books, then back to Mavick. He let out a long sigh. He appreciated the reading material, both for its distracting and educational value, but he didn’t appreciate the lecture, and while he knew that Mavick had some good points about his tactical prowess, he wasn’t about to roll over and let the righteous little mage let him know it without saying his piece.

“If you haven’t noticed, Mavick,” he began with an acerbic tone, “we won. Hargus turned to black sludge along with his giant cyclops, and his monster army was routed with relative ease.” Richter put his good arm down on the bed and lifted himself up into a sitting position to better lock eyes with the tactician. “So despite dealing with a petty host of tribal politics, I still managed to turn this mess of a city into something capable to defending itself for a week against bandit attack. I also managed to put down the resurrected corpse of one of the most brutal warlords that have bothered to spread their taint across Elibe.” The Ilian scowled. He didn't like his acheivments being downplayed. “I may not be a tactician, but I know how to organize men. When you're standing knee high in guts and your life is on the line, it's hard to not listen to orders.”

[Mavick]

“If you haven’t noticed, Mavick, we won. Hargus turned to black sludge along with his giant cyclops, and his monster army was routed with relative ease.”

Mavick held the stare with the mercenary, scarcely blinking. How nostalgiac. The same old argument as always. Yet, as much as it irritated him, part of him relished in it. It had been too long since he felt irritated. Too long since he'd felt much of anything, really. And so here they were. Yet again disputing over who was ultimately right.

"Indeed. And to think, it only took an undead abomination to get those chieftains to finally listen to you. Let's not forget how fortunate it was that those raiders with their scripture thumping leaders decided to join the fray on our side for that mess." he retorted. "Hargus didn't help himself much there, giving them a reason to turn on him. And then the dreaded Bandit King was slain - again - and the raiders left, and the people were saved. And to think, it only took a few dozen ruined buildings, hundreds of dead men, and your broken arm." he replied with a dry tone.

"But that was expected. I'm not making light of your achievements here. Managing to hold a siege with a makeshift wall and men who know nothing of siege warfare is admirable. You are a gifted leader, I've never disputed this. But with additional knowledge of their customs and tactics, perhaps you could have better swayed their chieftains and utilized them in a way more fitting with how they know to fight." Mavick explained, giving the Commander at least a little of his due. It wasn't as if he hadn't earned it. But every great man needed an asshole to tell him what he did wrong. "I cannot say that I am not to blame. If I had stayed with you, then..." The tactician shook his head. No. He didn't want to think about that time. He didn't want to remember. Not yet.

"But my main concern here, Richter, is the same as always. You still insist on leading from the front. Do you really think this is over? You haven't forgotten who the real enemy here is, have you? The Prophet is still expanding. How many Lycian city states have fallen? Are there even any left?" Mavick asked with a demanding tone. Richter could have his pride and his victories, but gods be damned, he was going to see the big picture if Mavick had to beat it into him. "He will turn his eyes to Ilia and Sacae next. You know this. These people are safe for the moment, but they will be entangled in war again. As will the rest of this continent. And someone is going to have to lead all these people - Lycian, Ilian, Sacaen, and Bernese - against this. Someone familiar with how they fight. Someone who can withstand impossible odds. Someone who commands true respect, the kind of respect you can only earn when you're in the thick of it and have come out on top." The mage approached Richter's bedside, and prodded a finger into his chest. "And who is that man going to be if you're dead?"

"You are not invincible, Richter. The reason Hargus died is because he thought he was. Had he not been so arrogant, so confident of his own victory, you would not have defeated him. This war isn't about you. It isn't about your pride, or your sense of justice, or your need to be stuck in, leading from the front. This is about the people outside this tent. The people in my homeland. The people all over this damned world who are facing the choice to be enslaved or purged. They need you, you damned fool." Saying that, he prodded Richter's chest again. "I need you."

The mage's eyes dropped to the floor, his hand falling to his side. "I've already lost so much. My home, my family, it's all gone. And now, there are moments... days that I can barely remember where I came from, or where I'm going, or why I'm even here. But when I stood next to you on that palisade, I could remember so clearly. I remembered what I saw. Why I chose to follow you. I did it so what happened to me and my people wouldn't happen to anyone else." He lifted his head to stare firmly at the mercenary. "And if you die, I may never remember again. You're all that's left. The only thing I've got left to remind me of who I am. You can sneer at that or look down on me for it, it's true." He clenched his hands into fist, gritting his teeth before drooping his head again.

"Do you remember what I told you, Richter? How dark mages can be consumed if they are not careful?" he asked. "...I did it, Richter. I tampered with things beyond my understanding. They... stripped so much away from me. I can still feel it, in my soul. A black mark, frozen and merciless. Like it will consume me if I ever forget who I am. So don't you dare die. Don't you dare, you Ilian bastard. Because I can't do it again. I can't come back a second time."

[Richter Abend]

Richter said not a word as Mavick unleashed an emotionally charged speech upon the Ilian commander and his medical cot. He was, admittedly, perplexed. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what Mavick was saying, because he totally did. And he even agreed with plenty of it. But that was why he was confused. While the idea of standing in the backlines barking commands, delegating command, and being a static symbol sounded good, sounded logical, Richter couldn't accept it.

“Believe me, Mavick... I know this isn’t over,” he said, closing his eyes. He let out a long deep sigh. It had more to do with the topic at hand than it did the conversation itself. “I don’t need to be lectured about the ‘real enemy’. I know the real enemy. My entire life, since the very moment I first laid eyes on him in that castle garden, has been consumed by the real enemy.” Richter took a long pause, then shook his head. His eyes remained closed. He’d gone to Etruria after the Bandit War to ease the troubles of the people who lived there, but had ultimately become a pawn in the nation’s political games. That’s all a bodyguard was, wasn’t it? Joining the Inquisition, obviously, hadn’t changed much in that regard, and even in open rebellion did Kraft ultimately dictate the purpose of his every action.

“But I wasn’t just going to stand by and watch the revived corpse of Elibe’s last great enemy run rampant over the country I managed to pry out of Kraft’s boney claws,” the Ilian continued, running a hand over his face, “even if it gets me killed in the process.” He opened his eyes and looked at Mavick. His gaze was more tired than indignant, though he felt a good mix of both. “I know you don’t understand that. Clair didn’t understand it either…” Richter said, trailing off. His eyes drifted away from Mavick’s, settling on an unoccupied corner of the tent. He ground his teeth.

“Sure, I led the charge against the siege engines, maybe someone else could have done that, I don’t know,” admitted Richter, “but for six days I sat up on that wall.” He pointed a finger in what he assumed was the direction of the nearest part of the palisade. “I sat there and I ordered men to risk, and give, their lives to keep this damn city safe while I played politician with a bunch of Sacaen chieftains who wouldn’t know imminent doom if it pissed on their faces.” The Ilian’s fatigue quickly turned to scorn, not for Mavick, but for the very inaction those chieftains had represented. “I understand that was where I needed to be, hate it or no.”

“Then Hargus arrived on the battlefield and created that army of monsters. Then everything changed. Then every last man was needed. That includes me. It’s not fatalism. It’s not pride." Richter jabbed a thumb to his chest. "I refuse to order others to do something I won’t. I refuse to demand others put their lives on the line if I won’t.” He raised his fists in front of him as they quivered with a slowly growing fervor. “When you’re face down in the dirt, when you’re covered in blood, when you’re staring down death, hope doesn’t come from a commander standing on a wall. Hope comes from the men who fight beside you, the men who are willing to die with you. And when all of those men are gone? When that happens, there is no more hope.”

“If I’m as important as you say, Mavick, then you’re not the only person who needs me,” the commander maintained. “Neither is Clair. In that battle, when things got really, really bad, every last fighter who was stupid enough to stay and fight on that battlefield while their smart friends ran for cover needed me. And unlike you, I can do way more to help them fighting alongside them than I can making plans.” A mix of sadness and frustration had crept its way onto Richter’s face as he spoke. He did not like having this conversation a second time.

“I can’t know what the darkness took from you, Mavick,” said the Ilian, shaking his head. He began to reach out to the little shaman, but retracted his hand. That damned sword. What sort of evil could it have done to him if he had kept it? “Whatever you did I can only wish you hadn’t, and I am sorry if I have somehow become the only thing that keeps you from slipping into nothing. I can’t imagine such a sorry fate.” Richter continued slowly shaking his head. “But my life is no longer mine to keep. I will continued to lead. I will continue to fight. And when all's said and done, and Kraft is gone from Elibe forever, if I am still alive then we will have only whatever gods that live up in heaven to thank for it.”

[Mavick]

Mavick let out a heavy sigh. He knew Richter was right as well. As invaluable as he was, he commanded respect because he wasn't afraid to die on the front lines. "I do understand. That doesn't mean that I have to like it or agree with it." he replied. "But it is as you say. I am not a soldier. I am a tactician. I am at my best at a war table, looking over maps and charts, where soldiers are naught but statistics and a means to an end. And that is important. Cruel though it may be, wars are not won by valuing the life of every soldier. I must never waste their lives, that is unforgivable, but the moment I start thinking about them as more than a resource to spend, I will fail in my duty. But you are a commander. You have to command not only their actions, but their respect as well. And while perhaps in a normal army, your particular method is not necessary, you don't command a normal army. I understand that. But I hate it."

"But if I have to accept it, then I suppose I am forced to do all in my power to make sure you don't die." The mage concluded. "So do what you think is best. Do what you must do, Richter. I will be behind you, every step of the way, playing my roll. You rally your men, give them something to fight for, something to believe in, and I will do all that I can to make sure that you and as many of them as possible make it out of this alive." The tactician bowed his head, not out of shame or sorrow, but sincere respect. "My mind is yours to use, my body is yours to command. I will follow you to the end, even if it means that we both go to an early grave. I swear it to you, Richter Abend, that my life is yours to do with as you see fit. I will not run nor turn my back on you again."

[Richter Abend]

"Thank you, Mavick," Richter replied, nodding his head. "And I promise you that I will do all in my power to make sure I don't die. For both our sakes."

The Ilian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Gone from him was that anger-fueled, twisted desire to die. He had no wish to pass on. Not anymore. Not yet. Now he had people to live for, people to fight for, and people to return home to. No, that was wrong; he had always had people to return home to, comrades-in-arms. He had just been too foolish and stupid to see it.

Richter thought of Mary and Ardus. Their faces bubbled up from the back of his mind, suppressed memories dying to be let out. They were his siblings, his family, but he had done wrong by both of them, his sister worst of all. He fully intended on returning to their hard little village in the mountains when he had finished with Kraft. Together the three of them would perhaps be able to make a life for themselves together, once again a family. But would he, or Ardus for that matter, ever be able to make up for abandoning Mary they had? Richter hoped so. He truly, truly hoped so.

“Well, I'm glad that's settled,” muttered Richter, clearing his throat. “While I might not be taking your job, you're right that I can brush up on the tactics." He grabbed one of the books Mavick had dumped on him. He made sure to avoid the Sacaen history book. It's never been my strongest suit, so I’ll try to make sure I learn something from one of these...” The Ilian flipped his thumb through all the pages, before letting the hard leather cover close with a thump. “...dusty old tomes.”