Chapter 15: Dunlending Skirmish (Part 3 of 3)
John Stark slumped by a solitary fire, the crackle of burning wood a fragile comfort against the deep ache in his bones, each breath tugging at the wounds beneath his crude bandages, the pain sharp and insistent, like a blade twisting in his flesh. The Please Kill Me System hummed softly, a soothing lullaby amid the chaos, its presence a secret he guarded as Éowyn knelt beside him, her hands gentle, adjusting a bandage with a care that made his chest tighten. The firelight painted her face in gold and shadow, the plains stretching dark and quiet around them, the air heavy with the scent of ash and pine, the faint tang of blood still lingering on his tongue. His throat was dry, raw from shouting, and his fingers traced the hilt of his sword, a nervous tic to anchor his fraying nerves, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck as he fought to stay present. "I'm alive. Barely. What's the cost this time? Another piece of my soul?"
The Soul Wear weighed heavy, a chilling void from three deaths, his skin too tight, his soul stretched thin like worn cloth, fraying at the edges. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, using Will to purge the corruption, the effort like dragging a boulder through thick mud, his breath shallow and uneven, his neck itching furiously. The system urged rest, its voice a faint, mocking whisper in his mind, a digital ghost that refused to let him go. He sat still, pretending to meditate, the scouts' low murmurs blending with the fire's crackle, their voices a distant hum that grounded him in the moment. "Meditation? I'd rather nap on a silk mattress, but duty calls. Always duty." A memory flickered—his old apartment, the hum of a cheap fan, the taste of cold pizza on a late night, a life so far removed it felt like a dream.
[Soul Wear: 0%. Will: +2. Rest, warrior. You risked it all. Prepare for greater battles. Helm's Deep's waiting, hotshot.]
The cold ache faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness, his body slumping as the skirmish's weight lifted, his neck itching as he rubbed it again, the system's hum softening to a dull pulse. "Whole again. For now. Helm's Deep? That's a death trap I'm not ready for." The system's hint of greater battles loomed like a storm cloud, tying his fate to Rohan's, his heart heavy with the inevitability of war. He opened his eyes, the fire's warmth a faint comfort against the chill, his gaze lingering on the flames as he fought to anchor himself in the present.
Éowyn sat close, her warmth a tether against the cold, her fingers brushing his as she adjusted a bandage, the contact sending a spark through him, grounding his frayed nerves. She spoke softly, her voice a melody over the fire's crackle, her words careful but heavy with meaning, her eyes searching his face.
"They call you Stark the Ghost now, John," she said, her tone soft but laced with awe. "You fight with a fierceness that makes the enemy doubt their eyes. Uh… I mean, they fear you."
He stared into the flames, hiding HUD checks as thoughtfulness, his heart swelling at her words, his thumb rubbing his neck as he fought the urge to meet her gaze. "She sees me, not the system. That's enough. For now." The firelight danced in her eyes, and for a moment, he remembered a girl from his old life—her laugh, sharp and bright, now faded like a half-forgotten song.
[Charisma: +1. She's smitten, Stark. Try not to mess this up. Romance isn't your strong suit, is it?]
"You're, uh, better than any nurse I ever had," he said, his voice husky, the quip a clumsy shield for the warmth flooding his chest, his hand twitching toward his neck before he caught himself. "I mean, you're… good at this."
Her smile was tender, a promise of something deeper, her eyes holding his for a moment that stretched beyond the fire's glow, the silence between them heavy with unspoken truths. Their bond deepened, a quiet moment that felt more real than any stat gain, the weight of his secret lighter in her presence. He shifted, his boots scuffing the dirt, the small action grounding him as he fought the urge to lean closer, to let her warmth chase away the cold.
The riders' whispers carried on the wind, their voices low and awed, the name "Stark the Ghost" passing like a chant. Godric, the village elder, sat by a nearby fire, his pipe smoke curling upward, the faint scent of tobacco sharp in the air. His deep voice rumbled, speaking to a younger rider, his hands gesturing as he wove a tale.
"He rose again," Godric said, his tone heavy with wonder. "No man takes three hits from a chief's axe and stands. A ghost, or something more."
John's chest swelled with pride, but unease gnawed at him, the lie of his legend a cold blade in his gut. He shook his head, deflecting their awe, his fingers tracing his sword hilt, his thumb rubbing his neck as he muttered under his breath.
"Ghost? Just bad at dying," he said, keeping the humor secret, his voice low to avoid their ears. "Great. A legend built on a glitch. This'll end well."
[Achievement: Skirmish Survivor. +3 Stamina. The legend is solidified. Careful, Stark—fame's a double-edged sword.]
Éowyn's expression turned serious, her gaze shifting to the dark horizon, her voice firm but laced with worry.
"Enough of rest, John," she said, her hands pausing on his bandage. "The other Dunlending parties will move. We must ride to Faldring, the fort on the North Road. It's our key to holding them."
John nodded, the fire's warmth fading as resolve hardened in him, his thumb rubbing his neck one last time as he stood, his body aching but ready. "The next fight's coming. Time to grind again. Hope Faldring's got better ale." The plains stretched dark before them, the promise of battle a shadow on the horizon, and John felt the weight of his secret settle heavier, the system's hum a relentless companion as he prepared to ride.
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