[ P ] The Villain

The good nurse did what she could and it was appreciated. My ear did ache but it would heal well. I took to solitude in the night, allowing the sun to just give way to the twilight hour. The sky was painted in dark violets, a splash of vivid pink and orange, burning hotly against the backdrop. Stars peeked through the sparse clouds. I regarded the evening dying sun and the cool breeze, sitting quietly.

My breathing was steady, though my mind was not. It whirred with all of the recent events and how I needed a lot more training, and a lot more reputation. How to achieve it? How to best the very top? A rustle through the trees caught my attention briefly, the swivel of my one intact right ear expressed itself. But my eye did not tear from the scenery around me. If it were someone sneaking up on me, I’d take it into stride. It would be welcomed training. And even if it was a more peaceful presence, I would enjoy company. If it were none of it at all, and I was still alone, I’d like it even still.

The few soldiers I commanded were given the night for reflection, if their Lieutenant needed some training, they for sure did. I heaved a sigh in response to this thought, struggling to keep my composure now.

Was he a fool for coming back here? Since that last wonderful encounter with Lieutenant Valentine? Perhaps, and yet, he had learned his lesson, one that perhaps differed from what the other had hoped he would learn. While it was a shame that his contact had lost out on the contents of the last drop, no doubt put to use by the benevolent Lieutenant in his pursuits of a renewed existence and repeated superficial romances, he was alive. In fact, it was the Lieutenant himself who hoped Savard would stay away, and since that day, there wasn’t even so much as a whiff of the former Guilder in Savard’s territory. But now, now he was bold, foolish even, to venture back into Yorkshire. Even if he wasn’t there on business per se—the last drop had gone smoothly—being spotted in such a place and by such a wolf would only spell disaster for him. Thankfully, perhaps the Lieutenant had realized that Savard was his equal in almost every way. The only difference they might have reasonably had from each other, however, would be their persistence in getting what they wanted.

It was late after all was said and done, and Savard had taken a different route from his drop location than he usually had taken, a more winding and snaking path. It made for a more interesting journey, even if it were more tiring. The paths in this part of Yorkshire were overgrown, ferns and grasses and hardy trees taller than wolves could even imagine. It made for good cover, but hardly for accurate or silent movement. Just being found in the thicket was suspicious enough, unless if one were some stuffed-cloak academic attempting to figure a way to tell wolves how learning the names of all these plants made their lives any better. That, of course, wasn’t Savard’s type. He just hoped to get through this forest as quick as he could, back to where he belonged.

Of course, he hadn’t anticipated coming across another wolf, all by himself, seemingly lost in thought. It was almost as if he were waiting there, expecting company to come to him. At first, Savard was worried it might have been his former associate. But the smoky grey fur he wore, nevertheless his large frame, gave it away as someone else entirely. It was hard to say what this wolf was, another Guilder perhaps, or a soldier. It didn’t matter. Frankly, with all of his walking, Savard could use a bit of socializing. Silently, he came up behind the wolf minding his own business, taking a seat beside him. He was silent for a moment, perhaps seemingly in his own contemplation. Of course, he was aware of the wolf next to him, not that he had anything to hide. And if he did, well, perhaps he would have quite the time trying to find any proof of it. “I hope you don’t mind the company, friend,” Savard said plainly, not breaking his gaze away from the horizon, “just taking a rest.”

I did not stir when the male approached and sat. I did not even make a move as he rested himself at my blinded side. I was confident enough in my abilities to be able to fend him off if he were to get squirrely. Then he spoke, offering a kind greeting and stating he was merely here for a rest. It seemed his eyes had caught the horizon also. For a long moment, I allowed us both to regard the scene before us in silence.

When the moment died, I did speak.
"The company is granted,"
Thunderous tones began in a drawl.
"I am White Timber."
The usual introduction began with myself, though I refrained from adding my title at the beginning of it. Soon, all of Riannoch would know who I was simply by my name. Besides, if I were to go on and on about the many titles I’d earned, I feared we would be here for quite a while.
"A nice evening, isn’t it?"
Baritones would regard the scenery around us, but nevertheless I did not move from my position next to him, nor did I reject his presence. I was far too tired from the day to embark on anymore energy draining tasks anyway.

For a moment, there was silence from the scarred brute, providing Savard but a brief moment to collect himself as he sat down, worn weary from his journey. It was then, after a respectful amount of time had passed, that the other wolf decided to make conversation. The battered stranger, gracious enough to permit Savard’s company, introduced himself, and not much else, before asking almost rhetorically as to how wonderful the night was. How might a wolf respond to such a question other than in agreement, Savard asked himself? Was he supposed to be in disagreement, given how inviting he was? It seemed so pointless to ask a question like that. Then again, what else is one supposed to say, if one wishes to say more than nothing at all? No matter, for there was quite a bit that they could talk about, if only they were willing to find something worth sharing.

“I suppose it is,” Savard said, watching the dying lights of the heavens, “but I prefer watching the sunset on Glass Beach, personally.” Savard didn’t really, but he’d learned his trade of being socially polite long ago. It was odd, how there is such an important value placed on honesty and integrity, especially in his line of work. And yet, to lie and be somebody other than yourself, it is more than just practiced, but rather expected. Savard had thought long about why that was, but the truth is, those of Rionnach, many of them would never be able to handle nothing but truth. Some did not want to be told how others really felt about them, that their opinions didn’t matter all that much to them, that their cause was lost and hardly worth dying for, that the wolf you think is friendly or a kind stranger, they simply want something from you. At least there were moments like this, though, where Savard could let all of his reservations about the way world worked go, if only for a moment.

And yet, it did not mean he trusted this scarred stranger, and wished to show who he truly was. It was all part of the game, was it not? White Timber, what an interesting name it was, and how easily it was offered to him. Perhaps this wolf was friendly, looking for some sort of companion to talk to. Or perhaps he was conceited, not unlike his soldiering brethren. It was an observation Savard had made before, in fact, that ever since their victory at the Braid, the Royalists felt invincible, immortal, that the Jacobites were vanquished and scattered. In a way they were right, the way that they were all so silent. And yet… anyone who thought that this war was done with, was a fool. There were still patriots and martyrs to be led to slaughter, after all. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Savard then said, looking towards the other wolf, “but you have your scars, as I have mine. How did you get yours?” What else were two wolves to talk about, but that which they had common ground over?

The air between us was odd, but palpable in a way that I could allow. I listened as he spoke, only nodding as he mentioned Glass Beach. I did so love to swim and fish, but such pleasantries had to be put aside while my rank jumped rather meagerly to Lieutenant. My ambition burned for so much more, but time was a cruel restraint. I found myself growing restless, but prodded at my patience to stay true to course. My plan must not be interrupted just yet. Besides, I could claim higher than this, right?

While nothing was said to his mention of Glass Beach, he then turned the conversation elsewhere. He asked of my scarring. It took every once of me not to grin, but the struggle of the stifle couldn’t be seen aesthetically. All that remained was a rather stoic visage, but inside I was practically dancing. Not a lot of wolves had the gall to ask about my impressive look, in fact he was the very first to express his interest. A man of fine tastes. I could end up really enjoying him, I thought.

It was then that I took the opportunity to turn my head so that my good eye could actually see him. I took note of his aforementioned scarring, and his earthen tones. When I was finished with my epic, I’d ask for his too, it was only fair.
"The set across my lips comes from a scorned woman. Fierce as ever."
I remembered the day, but not as ruefully as one would imagine. In fact, it was so the opposite, that this time I didn’t try to stop the grin which shown.
"The set on my good cheek were given to me by a friend. A fight, simply put. I hope she’s well."
Baritones continued.
"Across my muzzle is merely from training and fighting as per usual. As is the tears in my ears. But the fresh rip is from my Captain, she recently bested me in a training spar."
There was no shame in my defeat. I always intended to analyze and pick apart my losses, so that they may not happen again.
"But the claw slashes across my dead eye are from a bear. Killing the beast earned me the title of Bear King. Though, many of the wolves who ever knew about that battle have long since passed or traveled on."
So such a legend was lost to the wind, the only remaining evidence to tell it from was the trophy of a scar I obtained from it.

I did not turn my head away when I asked the same of him.
"And yours? What are the stories?"
Thunderous tones drawled on, keenly interested in what he has to say. Were his battles as fierce as mine? Were they more so? Were the born of tragedy, or haste? So many possibilities. I waited, rather patiently, for his response.

Eager to self-indulge, the younger brute seemed captivated by Savard’s question regarding his scars. No wonder, since for most, scars told stories worth telling. Many were eager to do so, some pretended to be coy about it, but deep down wished to share. They all did, really, for scars were reminders to wolves that they were still alive. Scars though, they were funny things, weren’t they. Most wolves weren’t ashamed of them, at least the brashest of males. They were proud of their scars, provided that they didn’t disfigure themselves. They saw scars as something amounting to triumph, victory, growth… but rarely did they feel to them as the sins that they were. Reminders that they had done terrible, terrible things to other wolves. Perhaps a pang of regret had sat in Savard’s stomach, as he realized the question he had asked, was no longer the question he deep down wanted to ask.

And yet… he dug his grave, and now was to lie in it. White Timber gave his account of his scars. A scar to his lips from a lover scorned. Blows to his cheeks from a fight well fought. Scars from fighting and warring. Slashes across the eye from a formidable beast, and a title to follow too. It wasn’t the deeds and accomplishments that this wolf talked about that drew Savard’s attention in the most. Well, his achievements were impressive, but was even more so was how much he learned about White Timber. His name, his experiences, even that he was a soldier. The Bear King… the nickname was somewhat familiar to Savard, something he had heard from someone who had heard from someone who had heard from someone. Of course it were a bear. To see the lifeless orb that hung like a broken lantern in White Timber’s skull, only a bear could do that to a wolf.

For a moment… Savard thought that White Timber might just be the most foolish, carefree wolf that there was. How easily he told his life story, though one should always be on the lookout for those not telling the truth. Savard, however, believed White Timber. Perhaps… he was still struggling to get out of the mindset that not every wolf played the games he once did. Some wolves had no reasons to hide, especially a soldier. By Savard’s estimation, he was a veteran, no enlistee, or Gods forbid a conscript. But he answered to a Captain, so he simply could not be an officer, a leader. He was, perhaps, somewhere in the middle. It was so fascinating to Savard that he could squeeze so much out of this wolf, and with nothing else better to do, he decided to see what else he might learn about White Timber.

There was a brief pause as Savard took in the soldier’s question, regarding his own scars. He had several, so many, sometimes he couldn’t remember what came from where, who did what. Some of them… many of them, he didn’t wish to remember. Not when he had many questions left to ask on topics he felt were more interesting. “Before I tell you,” Savard said, ‘I’ve got more to ask about yours. Mine aren’t anything special. You’ve lived a complicated life… but you seem young. Tell me… young as you may be, do you regret any of it?” Did White Timber regret that the love he had had was gone? That the fights in which he wished to prove himself ended in failure? That in exchange for a bear’s life he lost his eye? He had stories, true, but did those stories really outweigh the parts of him that were stripped away? Or was it water under the bridge, the way all tin soldiers wish to think?

The man spoke of regret. He asked me, even pointing out my young age, if I felt the remorse of my actions. Everything that happened, everything I’ve done in my short time here, lead up to this moment. Yes, I felt my rank was meager and low, only holding enough power to command a troop. But even still, i wouldn’t have risen if I didn’t take my risks.

Maw rotated back to the scenery before us, and the ripple ear twitched.
"I do not regret my journey."
Baritones rumbled in a matter of fact tone. Setting the decision in stone. It was truth, fact. I didn’t regret. Not even when I lost my sight, not even when I spilled the blood of my brother, not even when I orphaned my nephew. Not when I renounced my family ties, not when I broke the hearts of young girls. Not when I took lives to better my standing. None of it.

I never would.

It was all I said. I didn’t press him for his meaningless scars, to him they held no such atonement. So why bother? He would share only if he wanted to. We were different in that, his scarring meant little or perhaps it meant heartache. While mine were trophies adorned in gold. They marred my aesthetic but strengthened my soul to where even if I had to kill, I would make it to the top. Selfish, perhaps. But look at the Jacobites. They aren’t so, and yet - they fail.

I didn’t intend to fail.

I do not regret my journey. That was all White Timber had to say about the choices that led to his scars. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t try to explain or defend his choice. He simply had no regrets. They walked different paths in that regard, and for that silent moment shared between them, Savard wondered why it was that he had no regrets. Or, rather, chose to say that he had had none. He was foolish to assume that this wolf had any reason to be truly honest with him, the way two old friends would. He had perhaps expected too much too fast, from his question. Of course he had no regrets, soldiers were forbidden from having them. Regrets made for poor followers, or poor leaders for that matter. But deep down, beyond the bravado, the confidence, the acceptance, Savard wondered for a moment if White Timber really, truthfully believed the words that he had said. To have no regrets, he had found, was never quite right. Every wolf had a regret over something. Those that said they did not, Savard surmised, had just learned to accept the things that they had done.

To have told the wolf how he had gotten his scars, knowing now that he was no mere commoner, was more precarious than he had once thought. There was no honor or glory in how he had gotten his scars, and what he had done, he had paid for in a lenient dungeon sentence. And yet, so little of what he had done, was truly known. And even still, Savard could not help but wonder if he was among the many these days that were at large, all over a simple dead drop… misunderstanding. He had not hears so much a whisper about Lieutenant Valentine and his threats against him, though perhaps he was occupied with… business of his own. Or maybe he truly was that much afraid of Savard. No matter. The point is, who a wolf is, what a wolf is, must always dictate how one reacts in a situation. Every wolf preached about the importance of honesty, of truth, but naked truth and naked honesty has killed far more wolves than disease or old age could ever dream of. It is upon which all wars wolves fight are ultimately based upon.

“I see,” Savard nodded, after a long pause. There was a point, that Savard almost came clean. Almost. He almost told this wolf a story of a wolf he knew long ago, born into nothing, fell into a bad crowd, and spent his days ripping off the poor and weak. Soon, he had quite the fortune, and the reputation. But it all went away, and every scar, every stripe he earned on his body, it accounted for nothing. Everything he took, everything he lost, in the end it was all for nothing. Like White Timber, perhaps, Savard did not wish to take back the actions he had done in his life, knowing such a wish to be impossible. And yet… perhaps he wished that he had made better choices for himself along the way. Perhaps, then, that Savard did not regret his journey either, and yet, regretted the destination nonetheless.

“So,” Savard said suddenly, changing the subject, “you’re a soldier, who has lived an interesting life without regret. And now you find yourself in the midst of a war. I can’t say that I envy you.” Royalist soldiers always made for good company, as far as Savard was concerned. He found that there were two kinds. The first, were moralists. They found that by serving Kin Adamh, that an itch in their soul was being sated, so to speak, that they were doing good for Rionnach in their service. The others, well, they did good for themselves in their position. Power, resources, excuses, any and all of it, was at their disposal. Savard wondered which of the two best fit White Timber’s description, not that any of it mattered. There were ways, however, of bringing an answer about. “What do you think of them? Not as an enemy, but as wolves? The Jacobites and the Voxi, I mean.”

I was caught between two stones. One side of the wall I was intrigued by the nameless man, and on the other, I felt like he was a Jacobite sent to interrogate me. I listened to his words, picking apart his sentences. I noticed, even as he sat on my blind side, that he offered very little of himself while pulling some of myself out. His tactic was an infuriating one, but I didn’t punish him for it yet.
"I see,"
Was all I would be given when I stated I had no regrets on my journey.
"you’re a soldier, who has lived an interesting life without regret. And now you find yourself in the midst of a war. I can’t say that I envy you."
To this I had much to say. A brow furrowed over my good eye as he spoke this. Without much thought to it, baritones rumbled in quick response.
"None of it was accidental."
My jaw clenched then. I knew better than to keep feeding this hungry monster but I wanted it known, for some narcissistic reason, that I did not happen upon a soldier’s life. I didn’t happen upon this war. I didn’t want to siphon envy from those around.

I wanted to conquer.

"What do you think of them? Not as an enemy, but as wolves? The Jacobites and the Voxi, I mean."
I couldn’t help but think he was trying to coax me into actions unfit for a Lieutenant alone with a stranger. I couldn’t help but to think he was baiting me for information so he could run and use it against the Imperial Army. Yet, he doesn’t know my rank and he doesn’t know which of the captains is mine to answer to. Perhaps those answers alone would change his mind. So if not out of pure curiosity, why does the nameless man press me? Was he starving for conversation or do I just look as stupid as I sound?

Regardless, I considered his question. He felt he knew all about me. Why not allow him to think just that? Sure, mystery man. I am but a lowly soldier caught up in the chains of war, unbeknownst to me as I just throw myself to serve my King blindly. At the thought, I wanted to scoff. But I held my composure and even offered a hum of rolling thunder as if in deep thought.
"We are all just wolves. We are all bound by our beliefs."
And it was those beliefs that I would use as my ladder to climb to the top. Which top? Conquer who? Everywhere, everyone. I would stop at nothing until all the forests echoed my name, and all the streets produced rumors, and all the wars gave way to legendary epics, all in fear of the name White Timber.

Perhaps that is why I never pressed him for his name. Perhaps that is why I didn’t ask him the same questions, or different ones. I processed as much about him as I could, deciding that I didn’t like the taste of his bait.

As Savard asked his question, he began to notice a change in the way White Timber spoke. Before, he had been so open, so willing to speak to him. And now, though… he was watching every word carefully. What had changed? Was it Savard’s unwillingness to give information as he gave it to him? Did it suddenly dawn on the soldier that this was a time of war, and to talk to strangers about who is and what he does could be a matter of life and death? He couldn’t blame the soldier for suddenly feeling the way that he must have. After all, Savard wasn’t a good conversationalist. He was told that the key was always to care more than one actually does when a wolf talks about themselves, make them feel special. But Savard never was good at prostituting himself in that way. In an ironic sense, despite what seemed to be the soldier’s opinion, Savard was as honest he was. Of course, that didn’t mean that he was willing to share just about everything about himself.

Savard couldn’t help but find it curious, genuinely so, when the wolf said that none of it was accidental. What did that mean, exactly? That White Timber felt some sort of sense of duty to be a participant in this war? He seemed to be the moralist type, one who believed in a greater cause than himself. He’d buy it, but then again, many Imperials these days saw something in war: opportunity for themselves. Savard was once asked by a young wolf, while he ambled about in Rionna, if he were a soldier. The question amused him, for this young fae felt he looked the part, based on all the soldiers she had seen in her short life. Savard responded if she knew why that was, to which she did not know. The answer was simple: ever since Rook’s death, so many Guilders saw Adamh’s war chest as an opportunity for themselves. Maybe that’s why the wolf felt as she did about Savard. Maybe, just maybe, White Timber wasn’t so concerned about others as it seemed.

But, on to the question Savard posed. How did he feel about the Jacobites and Voxi? Expecting there to be some semblance of an opinion, the soldier gave none, spouting on about beliefs and whatnot. Bound by beliefs, ideologies, all of that sort. It sounded so naïve to Savard, but maybe he had a point. Everyone had their beliefs, but does that really bind a wolf? Whatever. Savard was no philosopher, he didn’t think about the world in terms of high and lofty values. That Captain Valentine fellow was funny, telling Savard once that he ought to lecture at the university, a statement that irked him deeply. If he wanted to run around in a fancy cape and think he mattered more than he did, he would just enlist. After all, he’d be among his own kind again, in a way. And for that reason, it would be the last thing on earth he would hope to do.

“Is that what you really believe, White Timber?” Savard responded, as if he doubted the wolf’s sincerity “that beliefs define who we are?” Perhaps it was time to get honest with White Timber. After all, he had been such a good sport up to this point, and Savard was a wolf of his word. Now that he had known that he was dealing with a soldier, and knowing how kindly they dealt with wolves deemed unsavory, Savard knew that to share things about himself was precarious, not that he did so often anyways. But when it came to his scars, Savard had many to choose from, but to talk about certain ones would amount to confessing to crimes that he had never been proven of. Like the other soldiers before him, it wouldn’t matter all that much in all likelihood, as White Timber could surely inquire with the records-keeper about the wolf he was dealing with, and learn all sorts of things about him. And yet… what did any of that matter to Savard? If it hadn’t scared him before, why would it scare him now?

Savard resigned himself, and showed the wolf a scar of his own, one running the length of his scruff. The jagged length of skin almost shimmered, as if to draw attention to the shame. “When I was young,” Savard said, “I fell into the wrong crowd. You know that kind. Back then it was the only way I could make any Renown. There was some initiation ritual of sorts for the newcomers, think of it as a fight circle. Two wolves enter, and the winner gets to join. The loser gets kicked out. My first matchup was with this wolf, big like you. Cassander was his name I think. He was a year older than I was, and he beat the shit out of me that day. I mean I didn’t even stand a chance. It was over quick, and I was laying there on the ground, bleeding. That one on my neck is from him.”

But there was a lesson in all of it. “I didn’t make the cut, as you’d imagine,” Savard continued, “so they sent me home. I was devastated, irate with myself for losing. I had good wolves in my life that were kind enough to see to it I didn’t die from the fight. But a few months later, I made the choice to go back to them, asked them to give me another shot. Only this time… I won. I was the Cassander in that bout, and after that…” And after, that, it was a life of crime. Nothing was worth turning down for the right pay, no matter who got hurt or killed. And the youth that Savard fought that second time? He died in that fight. However unintentional it was on Savard’s end, he made the choice to go back and do that to another wolf, a wolf that didn’t deserve it. Wolves aren’t just wolves, Savard believed. They were the sum of their actions; they were liars, thieves, opportunists, and murderers.