48. Vitus
Vitus, Vitus, Vitus…
I named him myself, the little bundle of life I found nestled among the death and destruction of the battlefield. Nearly three weeks have passed since the terrible events of the Battle of the Farrow Lake and, thank Earth and Sky, the little fellow is thriving.
It would be an exaggeration to say that everything is back to normal, for nothing will ever be the same again. Yet for all that, some semblance of normality has indeed returned to the Farrow ridges. The fallen - from both sides of the conflict - have been removed from the battlefield, and their bodies sent ceremonially and reverently soaring up to Open Sky on flaming pyres. Poor Forden was too ill to attend his Alcestia’s funeral, but later performed a solitary ceremony of his own. My friend has been subdued since his tragic loss and my heart goes out to him.
The lake and landing jetties and buildings that were damaged in the phraxfire have been repaired. The felled trees have been cleared, used for timber and firewood, and recent heavy rain has washed away the blood that stained the ground. In its place, thousands of red papery-petalled woodlilies have sprung up, their crimson flowers serving as a poignant memory to those who died.
Scores perished in the Battle of Farrow Lake, including many that I had come to regard as friends, yet today the Farrow Ridges are more populated than ever. For not only did several of the Freeglade Lancers decide to remain here, sending for their families to join them, but many others from Great Glade have decided to move to this quiet outpost, so different from the mighty city they chose to leave behind.
And then there is Vitus, who, at less than a month old, is the youngest of our community…
Despite asking around, I was unable to find out anything about the tiny newborn baby I’d found. No one knew anything of his mother or father, and I could only assume that they were newcomers who had been caught in the crossfire and perished.
Though tiny, Vitus is a strong little thing. He has dark blue eyes, sturdy limbs - and a powerful set of lungs. When I headed back to my hive-house with the little fellow swaddled in my scarf, he bellowed with red-faced indignation the whole way. Thankfully, his distress was caused only by hunger, and after drinking some warm hammelhorn milk (taken from a bottle with a makeshift teat I fashioned from the thumb of a glove), he fell into a deep and contented slumber.
Since then, Vitus has been as good as gold, feeding regularly and sleeping through the night. For the first couple of weeks, I left him in the cot I’d made him, with Plume - my loyal cantationary bird - on guard. Whenever Vitus stirred, he would fly off to find me, crying like the baby himself, so that I knew to return. This last week, however, with so much to do, I have kept him with me in an adapted backpack, his legs dangling down my back and head darting about in his curiosity, or resting on my shoulder, asleep. In this manner, he has accompanied me as I’ve dug my fields, gathered wood or taken my coracle out on the lake…
It’s strange how things work out. I’d always assumed I’d be a father, yet sadly it was not to be. When I was young, I fell in love with a grey goblin called Innis. She was beautiful and kind and, betrothed to one another, we made plans for our lives together - before she caught fog-fever and died in my arms. Some while after that, I was conscripted into the Hive army and sent to fight at the Midwood Marshes - and then, of course, I moved here. The years passed, and those early dreams faded. Yet now I have become a father - of sorts - after all.
‘We’ll be fine, you and me, little one,’ I told him one night as I settled him down in his cradle. ‘Don’t fret, Vitus. Hedgethorn will look after you just like his own.’
Even as I spoke, though, I knew that I was fooling myself. Oh, I could feed him and look after him well enough, but he needed more than that - baby Vitus needed the love and special care that only a mother could give him. But where could I, a battle-scarred veteran, ever find such a person?
As I pulled the tilder pelt up over his sleeping body, there was a gentle knock on the door. Wondering who might be visiting me so late at night, I crossed the room and opened the door to see a tall fourthling standing before me. She had long reddish hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen.
‘Hedgethorn Lammergyre?’ she said. ‘My name is Laria. Laria Chillax…’
