"If it weren't for your Warlord's greed, we'd never end up like this!" A Knight yelled, already drunk.
"And if it weren't for your Warlord's stupidity, we'd never be forced to encamp here!" Another replied, red-faced from righteous anger.
"So saving thousands of captive women and kids is now stupidity? As expected of Leksa's people," the man spat on the ground.
"Saving? They're here with us, besieged. If we don't breach the encirclement, we're all as good as dead!"
"Breach how!? Oh, valiant Kingless Knight with the cushy Registered status, enlighten us, filthy lower Knights, how can we get out of here!?"
The restless crowd kept arguing. Half a month of the siege had turned the tentative truce between the two banners into a slowly simmering animosity. Another week, and the enemy wouldn't need to waste manpower on a decisive win — the besieged camp would tear itself from within.
Time was running out.
On the other end of the camp, inside a scarcely furnished tent, candles trembled, shedding light on two men sitting on opposite ends.
"We need to negotiate an out," the Kingless Knights' leader, the High Warlord, offered. Though his tone of voice didn't imply he would take suggestions. Perched on top of a treasure chest, he swirled an intricate golden dagger in his hand. The encrusted rubies glistened with each movement, mesmerizingly enough to distract from a sudden disdainful look crossing his face. "I told you it was a mistake from the start," he snapped.
Splash!
Water sloshed in a wooden basin as a used roll of bandages plopped into it, way too forcefully. Bloodied splashes fell on a thick rug, mixing a sharp metallic stench with the smell of trampled grass and dirt.
The High Warlord glanced at the mess, his eyebrow raised, yet still unimpressed at the show of defiance.
"If we had left them, they would've died," a low voice replied, repeated not for the first time. "We already ran from the battle; the least we could do was to free the captives in the chaos of it."
Now with his wound undressed and out of fresh bandages, the man swiped a look around the tent. Sighing, he picked up his own white undershirt and put its seam between his teeth, tearing the linen with a quick jerk of his uninjured arm.
The sound of ripping fabric made the High Warlord grimace. Unlike his battered half-naked companion, he was impeccable – clean robes, not a speck of dirt on his boots, freshly braided hair. Wordlessly, he stood up from his seat and strode through to the other end of the tent, stopping right in front of the bloodied man — the source of his irritation.
"Give it to me, you brute."
The High Warlord snatched the ripped shirt from the other's hand. With it crumpled in his fist, he made way to a makeshift table in the middle of the tent. Spreading the shirt over it, he unsheathed the golden dagger and started slicing the linen, quietly and precisely.
In the meantime, he spoke, "and now we will all die here together. Stellar work, Warlord Demyan, as usual."
Demyan, empty-handed and with nothing to distract himself, tiredly slumped his back against a half-empty wine barrel, careful not to disturb the wound. He could use a drink, he needed a drink. But now was not the time.
Fighting the desire to lean into his vice and consume the very last remains of the expensive Waravian wine, Demyan chose to redirect his frustration. There was another outlet he could always trust to handle him with matching fervor.
"Thanks, I know you cherish my strategic acumen dearly, High Warlord Leksa," Demyan snickered, the title rolling of his tongue with mirrored sarcasm. "What can you even negotiate with them? I'm the only one to fall for your pretty face so pathetically," he mocked.
Leksa rolled his eyes in exasperation. Years and years of taunting over his looks long ago taught him to meet each jab head-on.
He glanced up, flashed a sultry grin, his half-lidded eyes glinting in open provocation, tempting.
"But Warlord Demyan," he licked his lips, slowly, "it's not my fault your brain is below your belt."
Demyan's gaze landed on the saliva glistening under the candlelight — he stared, openly and too long for it be in the realm of propriety.
"I hate you," he breathed out, finally tearing his eyes away.
Leksa snorted, victorious. He returned to his work; the sharp blade cut in merciless, quick slashes, yet each movement was elegant, flowing like ink strokes of quill over canvas. A small mountain of evenly cut strips of cloth grew taller on the table's edge.
"We still have thousands of highly trained Knights and horses," Leksa mused, eyes trained on his task. "Even battered, we're valuable, and the war is far from over. No one wins if we die here because of our stubbornness." His golden dagger decisively slashed the last wide piece of cloth apart. "We will negotiate."
Demyan glanced at the bloody gash on his shoulder. Though shallow, the blade cut so far down his back he wouldn't be able to wield his saber for another week or two.
"With what leverage? They have us surrounded three to one. Whatever truce you manage, we will still end up as their lapdogs," Demyan pursed his lips. Then sighed. "Leksa, I understand what you want to do. But my Knights won't, they're already suspicious of…"
"Then persuade them." Leksa sheathed the blade with a metallic swish. "We joined banners under my command, you gave me your people. So now discipline those drunkards to listen to me."
Belting the scabbard, Leksa rummaged through the improvised bandages. Picking the one he deemed the cleanest, he ambled to where Demyan sat on the rug-covered ground and sank to his knees by Demyan's side. The seams of his forest-green robes soaked through with blood-dirt water stains.
Unprompted and habitually, Demyan shifted, bearing his back open for Leksa to do whatever he wanted to do.
"You know I won't betray you now of all times, right?" Leksa asked.
He fished out a handkerchief from his collars, carefully cleaning the wound's edges from dried up blood. They didn't have any ointments left, but the wound had time to heal up a bit and didn't look infected, so he reasoned that would do. If Demyan could die from such a shallow slash, they wouldn't be here right now.
Leksa started to apply bandages, ignoring Demyan's hiss of pain as he pressed the cloth on top of the gash, his confident hands nimbly worked around the wound. Each time he needed to wrap a layer around Demyan's middle, he inadvertently half-hugged him.
Still, there was no answer to the cutting question.
Demyan sat still and silent, allowing himself to be manhandled whenever Leksa needed him to move so the bandages would wrap correctly. He shivered every time Leksa pressed closer, when his warm breath fanned Demyan's neck. Adding to his foul mood, the old stab scar on Demyan's lower back ached – a dull pain that always flared up with rough weather and ominous feelings.
They've been here before.
A lonely, small smile tugged on the corner of Demyan's lips. Hanging his head with a heavy sigh, he murmured.
"Of course, you will."