We die quickly yet gloriously

or live long and victoriously

-Lyric from a military marching song

The sound of a creaking wheel from inside the building had caught Gaspard’s attention first. The sudden silence afterwards was more suspicious by far. Gaspard drew his sword and stood in place, waiting for any sign of a beast. When none came, Gaspard bit his lip and held his ground regardless. He kept an eye on the direction the first sound had come from. Eventually, a curtain in a nearby waved slightly, as if someone was peeking out from within. Gaspard nodded, sheathed his sword, and proceeded to the door.

“My apologies if I’ve alarmed you,” Gaspard said. He kept his voice low so as not to attract any undue attention. “I’ll be on my way. Do try to be more mindful of your noise in the future.”

He turned his back on the door and headed on his way. He made it a few steps before a voice called out from the window.

“I need help,” a gruff voice said. Gaspard turned on his heel and headed back. The curtains had been drawn back, exposing a tired-looking, heavily scarred man sitting in front of the window. He beckoned to Gaspard and nodded towards the door. Gaspard let himself in.

“How may I-”

Gaspard rounded the corner into the sitting room and began to grasp the problem. The man sat in a worn-down wheelchair, settling into it with a sagging posture. He wore a military uniform, with holes in the lapel were several medals had once been pinned. Abandoned marks of long service, perhaps, but there were some marks of service he could not abandon -both of his legs had been severed above the knee. His trouser legs were cut short and pinned together to hide the scars, so Gaspard could not guess if they had been lost to injury or amputation, but the result was the same. The veteran nodded to Gaspard and then gestured to a shelf in his home.

“I am as concerned about the noise as you, but as you can see, my solution is out of reach,” the veteran noted. Gaspard nodded and reached up to take a canister of oil from the top of the shelf. He then knelt by the side of the veteran’s wheelchair and began applying it to both wheels.

“Thank you,” the veteran said. There was an edge of wounded pride to his voice, but he was vastly more concerned with staying alive than being self-sufficient.

“It’s the least I can do,” Gaspard said. “I do not envy your circumstances.”

The veteran looked down at his severed legs with a frown.

“I don’t know whether to count myself lucky or not,” he admitted.

“I often wonder the same thing about myself,” Gaspard said. He finished oiling the wheelchair and sat the container of oil on a lower shelf, where the veteran could easily reach it in the future. “I find myself admiring your tenacity, at the very least. I don’t imagine I could’ve survived under your circumstances.”

“Neither could I,” the veteran admitted. “The only reason I haven’t starved to death is a woman who brings me food.”

Gaspard stopped for a second and wondered if this woman the veteran spoke of could be the same red-haired woman who had aided Gaspard and the widow. It seemed an unlikely coincidence in such a large city, but then again, there could be no more than a few dozen survivors. Gaspard’s rumination on coincidences was interrupted by a deep, solemn sigh from the veteran.

“But we are lucky, both of us, stranger,” the veteran said. “I was carted back from the front lines mere days before they announced the Mad Moon’s rise. The journey took weeks -far longer than any messenger could possibly travel with news of the Moon.”

The veteran looked out the window, towards the far-off battlefields. Men had fought and died, spending their last days serving nations that were now little more than mass graves. Gaspard looked out the window as well, gazing blankly into the distance.

“They never knew,” Gaspard said. The veteran nodded.

“At least we had the chance to drink and eat like mad fools,” the veteran sighed. “All those poor bastards out there lived their last days like any other. Fighting a war even more pointless than most.”

Gaspard’s thousand-yard stare focused, his bloodshot eyes coming to rest on the palace that dominated the horizon. He gripped the handle of his sword so tight that the creak of leather drew the veteran’s attention. The look of righteous indignation in Gaspard’s eyes caught him off guard.

“I must be off,” Gaspard said. He did not wait for a response before thundering out the door, back into the gore-stained city streets. With a renewed intent on his mission of punishment, and a renewed hatred for those who would be punished, Gaspard set out.