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Silent Vigil (Short Story)
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Post by
oneforthemoney
“Monster!”
“Freak!”
“Go back to your grave!”
Truth be told, the insults hurt more than the rocks thrown. Those projectiles of substance simply clattered off Jonathon’s armour harmlessly, though the constant ringing had begun to annoy him. Winchester barked at their assailants from alongside his master, attempting to move around the undead to garner a better view of the attackers. But Jonathon would gently push the hound back with the shaft of his halberd every time, ensuring the dog would be shielded from the stones by the former Gilnean’s body.
He supposed he should be thankful the citizens of Gilneas still had such vigour and voice, even after their lands had been invaded and their people slaughtered by the Forsaken. Yet, at the same time he was finding hard to appreciate it as a rock had just struck his helm quite sharply leaving his head ringing.
His attackers, if they could even be called such, were a small group of people. Civilians if Jonathon had to be forced to guess by their dress, which was in poor shape but that was to be expected all things considered. Their armaments consisted of stones and a few had some more martial weapons, though they had not come nearly close enough to be considered a threat with them yet. The group was still several dozen yards away, likely having made camp nearby and were about to leave to locals unknown when they spotted the lone undead on the road.
Jonathon, for his part, had merely continued on his patrol, ignoring the group even after they had begun taunting him, words soon followed after with an accompaniment of stone projectiles.
He held no ill will towards them for despising him. Jonathon had known such would be his lot, even before he had discovered the invasion into Gilneas had been successful. When he had first been resurrected the recruiting slogan for the Forsaken had fairly been ‘no one else will take you’ after all. No, he did not hold it against these people, but that did not make it much easier to bear the scathing words of those who had once been his countrymen, those whom he still strived to serve.
But then again, he had a fair amount of practice in ignoring ill will already.
He supposed the initial encounters had consisted of individuals sympathetic to the rebels during the civil war. Though many for the most part knew better than broadcast their political views to soldiers, every now and then he would come across a town or village who strongly sympathised with Lord Crowley’ s rebellion and were not afraid to show it to the visiting soldiers.
Of course, for the most part this had consisted of signs, posters and the like rather than aloud complaints though during searches they had to deal with more than one irritable civilian. It was worse when they actually found something incriminating, thus forcing them to arrest those individuals on charges of treason.
Of course practically parading the convicted down the road to the jailhouse and/or prison carriage likely had been what usually garnered the townsfolk ire, and as a result often their insults and occasionally rotten fruit until the crowd would be dispersed.
But what had truly hardened Jonathon to the words of the regular folk had to of been the refugees who had been left outside the Greymane Wall when it was closed upon the world, cutting them off from salvation and leaving them bared to the perils of Silverpine, be they worgen or undead.
Those poor souls denied entrance to Gilneas were left to live in a makeshift shanty town of tents and whatever they could throw together as shelter, constructed at the very base of the wall to wait for assistance that would never come. No aid was ever offered, Gilneas couldn’t risk letting the infection of undeath taint its soil like it had so many others.
As for the guards on the wall, their orders were simple. Monitor the situation, but do not be seen by the refugees. It was the best option overall, as Jonathon’s commanding officer had said, ‘if we encourage them to stay by letting them think we may be listening to their pleas they will never leave. It’s best they think the wall deserted, for the good of Gilneas and for them’. Jonathon had agreedto the assessment. Lordaeron had fallen after all from a plague started from within by the disillusioned and hopeless. Light alone knew what would happen if a member of the Cult of the Damned was permitted entrance unwittingly into Gilneas. With the rebellion in full swing they could find ample opportunity to sow the seeds of discord and corrupt the peninsula nation like a disease from within. It was better the chance never taken.
But such knowledge did not make it easier when the worgen came, stealing into the refugee camps like shadows. Sometimes alone or in numbers the feral wolf like creatures would come like a plague upon the oftentimes defenceless people, spiriting away or slaughtering without discrepancy. The screams of fear and pleads for aid had echoed shrilly in those nights, until all to soon the howls of the predators overshadowed them. Soon shrieks of terror and panic would be cut off abruptly, only to be replaced with the sounds of crunching bones and rending flesh instead.
Eventually the worgen would leave, either driven off or with ‘food’ in hand to return to the woods from whence they came. And every morning after those attacks the refugee’s would wail their sorrows to the wall, cries of: “Why wouldn’t you help us?”
“They took my daughter!”
“Please, let us in before they come back! Please!”
“You bastards! Help us for Light’s sake!”
“I don’t want to die!”
And Jonathon, like those with him upon the wall, would listen in shadowed silence for though the hard decision of denying those people sanctuary had thankfully not fallen to him, enforcing it had. He and his fellows were forced to bear the howls of sorrows of those who sought amnesty only to be denied. The crying voices pleading for aid, safety, for protection from the beasts Gilneas herself had unleashed would form into a crescendo of human suffering that would ring in his ears for years to come. Jonathon and his fellows listened, and were powerless to act by the king’s own orders. Thankfully most refugees moved on, attempting the perilous journey to try and reach Hillsbrad and hopeful safety. But more came, more always came to fill those gaps left behind. Families fleeing the Scourge remnants, the Forsaken, feral worgen, even the Scarlet Crusade drove some to the wall, and there they would wait for aid that would never come just like those before them.
To no surprise, suicides took a jump those years. Though Jonathon and his fellow soldiers knew that to aid those despaired remnants of humanity could very well court disaster, some were more affected than others. To their credit and the sole reason Jonathon did not find them sickening in their weakness was that they followed their orders, until the day they escaped the obligations of their burdens through the mercy of death.
A soldier had once confided in Jonathon the day before he did the deed. “Those voices stay with you. You can’t just forget them and move on. You have to live with those people’s pain, their desperation. Live with it until it gets too heavy to bear, and it crushes you.” Jonathon himself had found that soldier the next day, hanging by a rope about his throat from one of the walls’ parapets, swaying limply in the wind over Silverpine forest. The eldest Stark had pulled the man back over the wall before cutting him loose and ensuring a proper burial was held. Because even though he had gone as far as he had to escape, the man had not disobeyed their orders.
At times Jonathon had, to his disgrace, entertained the idea no matter how fanciful of aiding those refugees. But then he recalled the ravening hordes of the Scourge as they smashed against the wall. The shambling corpses of the undead legions, relentless and unfeeling as they attempted to storm his nation and rape the land, to bring naught but death and darkness to Gilneas and subjugate it for the Lich King’s relentless omnicidal conquest. He remembered the measures taken to ensure it would not happen, the first release of the worgen used to halt that threat at their gates and the consequences it now had for all of Silverpine and beyond.
Then he imagined what further horrors that the powers to be may be forced to enact if the Cult of the Damned ever gained a following in Gilneas. That any one of those refugees who had clamoured at the wall, beseeching aid could have been an agent of Arthas and the Lich King, sent to spread the taint of the Scourge by any means had chilled the Gilnean soldier to the bone. He had heard the measures which had been taken at Stratholme, all those innocents slaughtered to try and halt the spread of the plague. Then Jonathon had thought of his homeland, if he would be forced to participate in the cull of a whole city of his fellow countrymen because he and his fellow soldiers had lapsed in their duty, giving in to kindness for one and possibly damning a thousand in doing so.
It was a hard choice that was made then, so that harder ones would not be forced later. So Jonathon Stark endured, endured as he always did because he would serve his country, his people. He would serve in silent vigil, for it was his duty and always had been. He could stand to be the one to watch those helpless people die, because his duty demanded he do so.
Just as he stood now, in resentful undeath and weathering the assaults of his beleaguered former countrymen. Jonathon served his nation, even if he was not to be acknowledged in doing so anymore. Even if he was loathed and despised he would do his duty all the same, because it was for his nation.
The urge to tell these people that he was not a true Forsaken, that he did not follow Sylvanas and her legions was strong he would grudgingly admit. Perhaps if he spoke out he could convince them, compel them to believe and he could be gradually recognized amongst them as their fellow once more. Eventually he may even become accepted by the rest of his country, to live as a Gilnean again and no longer as an outcast, existing in Gilneas but not a part of it. His loyalty to his country may even alter the perception of his fellow man, even if he failed to convince them totally of his honesty.
And that was precisely why he did not.
The sheer idea of being that selfish repulsed Jonathon to the very core. That an exception to the rule existed may prove disastrous, causing people to second guess what they knew. In a time of war this could not be the case. The Forsaken had to be seen as a threat, an enemy so that people would instinctively know how to react and safeguard their wellbeing.
Even if he would be seen a Forsaken through no fault of his own he would shoulder the burden that came with that judgement. For hatred bred caution in times of war, a caution that would save the lives of far more than Jonathon ever could with his halberd fighting amongst the soldiers of the Alliance. To serve his countrymen, Jonathon could never be seen as one of them.
A rock clanged off his shoulder pad shrilly. The undead soldier glanced at the group, noting how close they had grown. They had evidently become somewhat braver, but Jonathon would have to be even more so to do what he had to now. Turning to face the rabble of his former countrymen, Jonathon unslung his rifle from his shoulder in a single practiced motion and took aim. Those men who had but moments before thrown insults and stones grew deathly silent and still as the undead man trained his rifle in their direction.
Jonathon grit his teeth slightly behind his helm as he strengthened his resolve. Even if it had been derisive, it had been nice to hear human voices once more.
With a crack the rifle discharged, the group before the undead jumping in fear, even though the bullet had been over their heads. Slowly, Jonathon lowered his rifle and, when they still did not retreat he began to painstakingly reload, the silent message clear he hoped. Fortunately was and, as one, the group turned and fled amongst a stream of panicked curses and further insults thrown in retreat.
By the time the undead Gilnean had reloaded his former countrymen were well out of sight, gone to hopefully safer climes. Jonathon stared in the direction they had fled for a moment, skeletal hands unconsciously flexing on the rifles barrel before he slung the weapon back over his shoulder with a slight sigh. Wearily he turned back to the road, pausing only when Winchester let loose a slight whine.
Glowing blue eyes drifted to the hound, who looked back with concerned brown. “… It’s never easy to do the right thing.” Jonathon offered the animal tiredly in explanation. Winchester merely whined once more in response. With a last sigh the former Gilnean straightened his shoulders and leaned his halberd against one, setting down the road once more with the measured click of metal greaves filling the silent air.
He would do his duty to his country, even if no one would ever know he had.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Whenever I write these I always end up sad by the end. Oh well, it's not like this was supposed to be a happy series anyway.
Post by
Mojoworkn
Whenever I write these I always end up sad by the end. Oh well, it's not like this was supposed to be a happy series anyway.
So true.
Your next assignment is to make a story with a happy ending. :)
On your story though: I really like Jonathon for some reason. I feel sorry for him. But I guess that's a good thing.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Your next assignment is to make a story with a happy ending. :)
You may have to wait a bit...
I'm glad you like him. He's one of my favorites to write for as I haven't really written something as introspective as this before. Most of my characters being written or to be generally are always hiding something, so it's refreshing to write someone who is very easy to understand yet at the same time his situation makes him complicated.
Post by
Mojoworkn
I agree completely. He's not hiding anything (like Isabella...). So maybe that's why I like him. Either way, your pieces never fail to impress me.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Thanks, it means a lot to hear that.
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