Mixed Company

At first, Ryheric thought he had made a huge mistake. What good had it done, taking out various teams of his growing company? Seeing who worked well together, who didn't. Seeing if Tarsorel had truly meant everything he said. Seeing if the untested Dandy and Emmie could handle rugged terrain with energy left at the end to make camp. Seeing who possessed how much mettle and in what form. Keeping everyone fit. Active. 

At first, some of these treks or simple events, parties, small tests went quite bizarrely, usually in a form that was inconsequential and time-wasting, like some sort of odd curse. Over time, it became more apparent. He hadn't made a mistake. This was needed. It was a discovery for him, poignant and heavy... and important for the others to see, themselves, too. There were some individuals who simply needed to ... settle.

They simply could not handle a trek of purpose. Some people certainly could not handle teamwork, and balked if the attention strayed away from them even in a social setting.

If broken plates and spilled flour terrified some - he tried and failed to imagine them surviving an ambush on the road where wagons were turned on their side for cover and arrows ran out... A friendly arrow had landed in his already fractured shield and splintered it further. He could not imagine most of these people enduring such a scene.

He had not even found it easy to breathe the first proper sentences to the Rohirric widow about the going-ons in his life, and that was when he realised the truth of the bigger picture. It should have been easy to tell her. Why wasn't it?

He could not expect most of these people to go with him. What he needed to do was brutal. It would carry on for who knew how long, or it would end swiftly and with cruel finality. How could he do that to them? These good people, these, his friends?

There were a few who said they would die for him. But he realised; there were far less than a few he truly believed. They meant well, but they simply did not know what they were saying. How familiar with death was he, compared to most of his friends?

This was Ryheric's journey. For every person's claim to want to be with him, accompany him, support or ultimately be there only a few could stomach it without breaking themselves.

It spoke nothing of goodness or loyalty. He was grateful for all of his friends. But the harsh and simple reality was that some were simply too soft, and Ryheric had led a hard life.

His destiny was to die on a sword. He had long ago accepted it.

... It crossed his mind many times over those coming days that he really did not need anyone to go with him. He did not need a pyre like Boltin's. He did not need a tomb. He did not need to be buried. He needed none to witness his death; or his victory. What good would either do? What purpose would it serve?

He was the luckiest man alive, he could die alone and he would do so with all the due gladness in his heart that he had seen all he had. Done all he had. Found goodness in the world, found love.

Found beautiful, amazing things.

He needed nothing. He had enough.

... Eirik's mournful roars stayed in his mind. And he realised that it was a journey Ryheric provided for him. A journey not to avoid grief; but to travel through it, and find what was on the other side. Peace.

... A journey Ryheric would never have, himself. The sound haunted him for days.

He smothered his bed roll in the lavender oil Winnie had given him, but the night terrors only grew worse.

Something had to give, and soon.