Reborn From the Cosmos

Arc 8-43 (Robert)

Robert’s day started early, before the first rays of dawn.

He never had trouble waking up on time, as he never truly slept. Rather, he drifted through his nightmares, keeping his eyes closed just long enough to see Sebas’ mutilated face and his mentor’s disappointment before they snapped open. At first, he was exhausted, but he learned to take quiet moments throughout the day to combat the lack of sleep. It wasn’t a perfect solution but it was enough to keep him going and there was plenty to keep him occupied.

In the quasi-dark of morning, he trained, pushing himself to the absolute limit, sprinting and lifting his body. Then he practiced with his sword, a cheap replacement for the one he lost in the qualifiers. If he was lucky, the intense exercise would quiet his mind and allow him precious minutes of rest, if not sleep. More likely, he would get all the ache and none of the benefit, but he relished the feeling. It meant he was doing something, anything.

When the sun was high in the sky, his next action depended on the day. If it was doing the week, he attended class at the Hall. Despite their tragedy and poor performance, Robert’s team had still passed the qualifiers and become second-year acolytes. He was still the miraculous talent possessing four affinities and had no end to the number of instructors willing to teach him.

Before, he had contemplated taking a more unique path, indulging in the less traditional uses of magic. Perhaps even the artistic ones, in homage to his mother.

After the death of his friend, Robert threw away his casual fantasies. He needed power. He needed to be ready to face the impossible foes the kingdom was depending on him to keep at bay, like the Harvest Hero before him. An idea that was reinforced by the destruction of the city. Aside from Natural Logic and Spellcrafting Theory, all of his courses were in practical magic. 

Every weekend, Robert volunteered at the camp. He was one among many but unlike most of the acolytes, he didn’t come to earn favor with the instructors. His primary motivation wasn’t even to help the refugees, though he was moved by their plight. He appeared every weekend without fail because it allowed him to act.

Ever since his teacher and adoptive father discovered his four affinities, Robert had been raised to believe he was a legend in the making. He was born to be a hero. Yet, his training comprised little real experience. He’d always felt dissatisfied firing spells at dummies and training with other adolescents but he accepted Sir Quintana’s assertions that there was no need to rush. His time would come.

Robert had never doubted the knight before. As a commoner turned soldier turned royal knight, he believed there was nothing of the kingdom his mentor didn’t know. But…he was wrong. Robert had learned a valuable lesson the day his friend was killed, but he didn’t truly accept it until the day he watched the city be leveled by an unfathomable creature that reminded him so very much of the thing that killed his precious mount.

His time wouldn’t come. The world would turn and things would happen regardless of what he thought. The saints wouldn’t graciously deliver the opportune circumstances for him to save the day and step into his role as humanity’s hero.

Robert had to choose his moment. And no moment that required a hero would be a good one. Glory lasted for a moment but tragedy? Tragedy lingered and festered. There was nothing songworthy about cleaning the muck of people’s lives. It was hard, dirty work. Some people were incredibly thankful but most cursed him for interfering, even to better their circumstances.

When people spoke of the Harvest Hero, they never mentioned him breaking up a fight over a stale loaf of bread. Robert’s work at the camp was tedious. It was hard and not just physically. It was draining to see people at their lowest, day after day. The groups working to clear the rubble had breathed new life into many but there were just as many broken by the circumstances. It hurt his heart to watch the once vibrant people of Quest wasting away in squalor.

The only thing that soothed his conscience was knowing that he was making a difference. That’s what brought him back week after week. His efforts were a few brushstrokes in the whole expansive picture, but each fight he diffused while on patrol kept someone safe and each rock he lifted while on the work crews was one less another had to grab. He could measure his progress and that kept him sane.

At night, he always signed up for the night watch. No one wanted to give the rebels an opportunity to cause problems under the cover of darkness. Instructor Filagree never let anyone work a shift longer than four hours. That left far too many for him to lay in a bedroll, tossing and turning in his dreams. Eventually, the sun rose and he started the process all over again.

Recently, there’d been a change in his routine. One of the greatest problems affecting the city was the lack of food. Famine made people desperate and desperate people were irrational. No one cared for their neighbors and the future when their children were starving in the present.

The field grown by the elven man changed everything. In a single day, the food crisis was solved. Yet, the solution came with its own problems. The food stores of the camp being attacked would be inconvenient, but ultimately irrelevant. There was little difference between starving and mostly starving. If the field was targeted by the rebels, or any of the disgruntled parties remaining in the city, it would cripple the city’s future. 

Aside from that, the plants themselves were valuable. More than once, Robert heard concerning theories about how the Rosefields would react to the elf’s creation. The duchy was the kingdom’s largest supplier of food. For generations, their power was focused around agricultural dominance. While the greens wouldn’t affect their stranglehold on Harvest’s grain supply, many minds didn’t think they would react calmly to something that could fill so many stomachs. If they didn’t try and monopolize, it wasn’t out of the question for them to send saboteurs to keep it out of others’ hands.

It was such an important issue that the Hall had sent instructors to oversee the field’s protection, Dunwayne just short of ordering the more combat-oriented casters to assist. It had caused tension within the Hall but no one spoke out or refused; no matter how prideful or ornery they were, everyone recognized the importance of the plants.

Several acolytes were assigned to the field, doing the more menial aspects of protection like standing sentry and walking patrols. If Robert had to guess, he’d say that seventy percent of the volunteers at the camp were involved with the field, whether that was protecting it, helping with the harvests, expanding the field, or sorting out rations to distribute to the camp.

It left a shortage of hands for the camp itself but, between the more frequent meals and the work crews, the refugees weren’t causing as many problems. Even the rebels had been quiet. Sir Frost, who had become a permanent fixture of the camp, was sure there were still elements of the dissenters in the camp, but they’d gone dormant, something that made those experienced with conflict nervous. 

Robert preferred to be with the people but he went where he was assigned and he was often assigned to one of the security teams working the field. He was no master but he would make a difference against the common class of criminal.

Thankfully, the Hall wasn’t run by tyrants, though Instructor Filagree kept order in the camp with barked words and the occasional small fireball. They drafted him for night watch more often than not, leaving him to mingle with the people throughout the day. He was a known figure, both in the camp and the work crews. People greeted him by name. They thought of him when making plans and searched him out when they needed a pair of reliable hands. They came up to him, sometimes to converse but also for help with their problems. It could be trying, dealing with a dozen conversations anytime he went anywhere, but he never turned them away. Sometimes, the conversations were a source of important information.

“Who arrived?” he asked Garret, a young man who always volunteered for the crews. He was thin and gangly, which wasn’t helped by the camp’s rationing. Before the battle, he was a scribe’s apprentice. There wasn’t much use for a pen and ink in the current Quest, but the man was determined to help. Despite being unused to physical work, Garret had boundless energy and determination. Robert had come to admire his drive. He felt the respect was mutual, but where the young man’s bright eyes and eagerness to seek him out might have once filled Robert with pride, now he took it with numb acceptance.

“What I wanted to ask you,” Garret said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Robert didn’t blame him. Few could experience joy without burden in recent days. “Figured they were somebody important with that escort. Six carriages, big ones, around a noble’s ride. Not even mentioning the riders.”

Six carriages were indeed a lot. It wasn’t that they suggested worrying numbers, but rather equipment. Most forces traveled with horses and tents, the hardy fighters accustomed to sleeping on the ground with bedrolls. That allowed them to be fast and flexible, which were important.

The only time they brought carriages was when they needed to transport equipment that couldn’t fit in a knapsack. Whoever the convoy was escorting, they had to be coming to the city to address the unrest. He didn’t want to imagine what they’d brought with them that necessitated six carriages.

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll look into it.” He would, but he didn’t expect much to come from it. In the capital, being the next Harvest Hero could open doors, as nobles were creatures that lived for the future and responded to titles. It was far less effective in Quest, especially while the city was in crisis. People cared about what someone could do now and were far too busy to cater to a nascent hero.

“Let me know what you find out? It’s…this is our city. We should know what’s happening.”

“...of course.” Robert looked into the young man’s dark eyes as he patted him on the shoulder, searching for nefarious thoughts. His words…they made the young hero think of the rebels. But after a moment, he dismissed Garret’s words as simple concern. “For now, let’s focus on the work. There’s a lot to be done before tackling another problem.”

“Who said it’s a problem?”

Robert wanted to laugh but a scoff escaped instead. “Do you expect anything else?”