Thret raised his drinking vessel. The men gathered in the hall cried out with throaty voices, holding their own horns high. Boisterous as it was, the banquet carried on peacefully.
Beside me, a man who had lost everything below the wrist on one arm showed off his wound and proclaimed, “Have a look at this wound! I earned it when I bested Marold the Brave!”
“Marold was my uncle,” a young knight called back. “One-eyed Marold. So you’re the one who got him.”
“Indeed, and he was truly formidable. You should be proud to share blood with a warrior so noble.”
The one-handed man gave the young knight a pat on the back. They then exchanged horns and drained each other’s. Those who had been fighting only days earlier now spoke glowingly of the exploits of enemies, bragged about their own wounds, and shared a laugh. I heard raucous singing burst out here and there—all war songs. I had witnessed this very same scene in a number of worlds. Apparently, it hadn’t been all that rare in my own world, if one went back far enough. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to comprehend how men could reconcile like this, cheering about their wounds as if it were sport. Did wars drive men mad and skew their perspectives?
I didn’t think so. After throwing myself into a number of battles as their hero, I had begun to understand where they were coming from. This banquet was a necessity, a ceremony that allowed them to reassert their humanity.
All humans liked to believe that they could love and respect others. That was their instinct as social animals. However, that ideal would fall to pieces once a human faced a hostile enemy on the battlefield. This hostility overpowered one’s better nature and left deep scars on the spirit. No matter how much a person loved their allies, they couldn’t counterbalance the power of hatred and malice. These challenges threatened their self-esteem and scorched their soul.
What if the hostility between humans was solely a result of a difference in social standing? What if that malice wasn’t directed at the individual, but a system? And then, what would happen once standings were equalized and the war was over?
This banquet was a setting where they could learn those things. There were wounds only former enemies could heal. Reconciliation was a form of therapy for each of them.
Of course, human emotion was too complex for everyone to react the same way. There were those in the corners who kept to themselves and their friends. There were those who tactfully, or sometimes brazenly, avoided those who had done them wrong. It was impossible for the ale to wash all the grudges away, but for the time being, Thret would need to let their relationships play out.
This space for reconciliation could only be formed by warriors who had opposed each other on equal ground. Those subjected to unfair, one-sided aggression would never be able to join cups in forgiveness. For instance, if the court had invited citizens from burned villages to this banquet, the proceedings would have turned murderous.
As things stood now, with the price of food rising due to a terrible harvest, the lord would need to take the utmost care in placating his subjects. It was not an enviable position to be in.
I scanned the hall to see what that selfsame lord had gotten up to. I spotted him right as he was taking his leave. Beside him was with the bearded man from earlier in the day—likely a close associate. Thret’s wounds were of a sort this banquet could not heal. I thought that perhaps I should go talk with him and let him vent his feelings. I didn’t want someone as capable as him to falter and fail as a result of what he’d had to do.
I roughly parted the seas of drunks and made for the door. I myself was drunk enough to act out of character.
Though I had followed Thret out of the hall, by the time I reached the corridor beyond, he was no longer in sight. From a passing servant, I learned the lord would likely be found in his private chamber, which was on the floor above.
There, I found the man with the beard blocking the closed door. Did he always accompany Thret? They seemed quite close, both personally and professionally. When he noticed a figure approaching, he immediately braced for trouble, but he backed off with a bow once he recognized it was me. His beard gave him an air of maturity, but up close, I saw that he was surprisingly young—perhaps only in his late twenties, like Thret and myself.
“My lord is resting within. Please wait,” the man said, then he let himself into the room. He returned almost immediately. “Please follow me.”
The bearded man lowered his head deferentially and ushered me inside. Our eyes met as I passed him, and there was a peculiar, conflicted light in his gaze. I couldn’t know exactly how he felt about me, but he was certainly wary, or at least worried. After all, I was the one who had directed him to hold back, thereby forcing Thret to personally cut down his own little brother. Was he concerned that I would agitate his heartbroken lord again?
The new lord welcomed me with a drained smile on his face.
“Thank you for what you did back there,” he said, motioning for me to sit. He was likely talking about the execution.
“I hope I didn’t step out of line.”
“No, you saved me. If you hadn’t stopped Ricard, he would have taken over my role as executioner.”
If Thret were to be seen as a leader whose emotions prevented him from personally dealing with an outlaw, his subordinates would lose respect for him. He seemed to be well aware of this, so I seriously doubted I had earned his resentment, though of course, I couldn’t know what was going on in his head.