Varilla awoke every morning, and after attending to the children, she would make her way to a quiet place, and lay her journal out in front of it, and next to it, the journal of the Freebooters. Eruch awoke and worked out to start his day, keeping his body sharp. She had a similar ritual, but for her mind. Every morning she took quill to page and updated both. One personal, one for posterity. Today was no different, at least it shouldn’t have been, yet she awoke wistful, thinking about the current state of her life.
Varilla had once been the ‘witch of the wastes’, the right hand of the Bulvi, the god Reevas’s embodiment in the mortal realm, who was named Briel. She had been like a second sister to her, until she turned on her. Eruch, her husband had returned to the wastes after losing his way. Briel became jealous and prideful, and she believed that Eruch represented chaos, and wanted Varilla to forget him, and wed her cousin Masus, a man who turned treacherous. Varilla had kept from Eruch that he had given her two boys, the twins, and that she raised his daughter by the woman who he left her for, Hannah Decker, who birthed the child in the Bulvi’s palace and left her there, having no desire to raise Eruch’s bastard. Varilla had kept these things from Eruch because she, like Briel, believed him to be of chaos and whimsy.
She was wrong. He had changed. He had become the man she hoped he could be.
She didn’t want to take him back, but Masus took him, broke his hands, his trade as a swordman, and the Bulvi punished him, made his hands stay broken, and almost took the gift of life she had given Varilla away. She saw then, it was Eruch who stayed true. She took him back, and they fled, leaving the wastes behind.
They fled with the Freebooters, perhaps the oddest company of mercenaries she had ever encountered. Almost egalitarian in their manner of doing business, she had spent the last seventeen months immersed in them, and Eruch had been among them almost two years before that. Despite her initial misgivings, she had to admit, they were home, and they had become her extended family.
The company was old. Since she had taken over as Loremaster, fourteen months prior, she had learned a lot about the past journals, the ‘Word’ as Urskine called it, and the company’s history. If she could believe it, at least two millennia old. Every job they took, every place they went, the Loremaster kept a record. Every member, their last wishes, where their stuff should go, the Loremaster kept a record. Notable places, events, good places to eat, friendly merchants, places to avoid; the Loremaster kept a record. A living record for the company to refer back to when needed.
The pay was what tripped most people up. They lost a lot of perspective members because of the pay structure. Everyone got a cut of every job. Period. Didn’t matter if you did the job or not, you got a cut. No one got paid more than anyone else. Best swordsman? Same cut as the maid. Best mage? Same cut as the forger. Everyone contributed, and everyone made money together. If someone didn’t like that structure, then they weren’t right for the booters. That way, everyone had consistent income, even if they didn’t do something on a particular job. Ibrahim the forger for example never went on jobs, but he consistently mended armor, made nails and hinges, and sold them for a profit, and the booters got the benefit of his mending, and their cut of the money he made selling goods. It was with this the booters made sure no one wanted, and no one became jealous because they weren’t making a score.
It took Varilla a bit to understand that. She was an Archmagus, and likely if she hired herself out could command tremendous sums. Yet, she couldn’t always watch her children, nor mend things, nor cook. So everyone got the cut that everyone else got, because that’s what was fair, and that’s what the journals said was a rule.
The only distinction in pay was rank. The company was divided into three ranks. The mates, which represented perspective members were the lowest rung. They could be voted in after one month but had to be voted up or down by seven years. Varilla made her vote quick. Only one vote. If a mate failed the vote, away they went. They got a half share of the total payout of a job, any job. Next were the plankholders, from the tradition of building a ship, and holding a plank of that ship. Plankholders were full share members, and once in, they stayed in for life unless voted out unanimously. Even if they became old and infirm, they were in; cared for into their indigent years.
Last, the officers, chosen by vote, where the captains counted twice. Officers stayed until they stepped down, or half the planks plus one voted them out of the role. The officers voted on the work, and each one had a role, and each one of the officers was paid two shares. The captain was in charge, and served for life unless they willingly retired, or were unanimously voted down, and by tradition, then had to be killed by the booters. Varilla wasn’t sure that happened much, but she had found examples in the journals of when it did. Second to the captain was the Warmaster, the role her husband occupied. The Warmaster handled discipline, and planning, executing anything martial, as well as the combat readiness and training of the company. Third in command was the Paymaster in charge of getting everyone paid right, hiding, and protecting the money, and soliciting work. Fourth was the Loremaster, Varilla’s role, it’s purpose to chronicle the booters. Lastly was the Quietmaster in charge of learning about prospective mates, secrets, intrigue, and soliciting work.
Perhaps one of the most interesting aspect of the company was voting. There was no central authority from which all decisions flowed. The captain had a lot of leeway, but any major decision had to go to a vote, sometimes just the officers, sometimes all the planks. Varilla had thought at first this would be terribly inefficient and end in decisions by committee, but what she found was the opposite. More thoughtful decisions were generated because everyone was invested in the outcome.
The rules bound the company. The first, and most important rule was to never squander people; everyone comes back. No job was worth someone’s life. Urskine in particular placed an enormous premium on this rule. He firmly believed in not wasting lives for glory.
Beyond that there were several rules that bound the companies actions. They didn’t assassinate or take contracts to kill heads of state, their wives, or their children. They wouldn’t kidnap royals kids. They didn’t interact with chaos magic in any form. They didn’t double dip. As Urskine once explained ‘If Lord Cockgobbler hires us, we’re off, limits to his rival for a good, long while’. The company’s reputation mattered.
A hard and fast rule was they didn’t do charity, nothing for free, and they did their best not to get tangled up in politics. They were designed to make coin, not friends. They also remained nomadic. No permanent base, no headquarters. Be able to move at a moment’s notice, even if they were in a nice place, the company had to be move ready within twenty, four hours at any given time. The journal was clear, the Freebooters were: nomads, outlaws, no man’s son, and no woman’s daughter.
There was a rule to speak highly in public of the company and never disparage it, or the members. It kept the pay rates high. There was the rule that the company’s responsibility ends at the individual. Families don’t get involved in the work, period. If a family member wanted to join, they got no special treatment. Varilla remembered her time as a mate, and she had to play fetch and do the chores like any other mate. Every Booter had to know a bit about ships, horses, wagons. No kids were allowed on the roster, even if it was a plankholders kid. They were allowed to stay but got no say.
The company’s rules were also very clear it took care of people. Food, medicine, finding work. It was also kept small by design. No more than twenty, one plankholders including officers, and no more than forty, two mates at any given time.
It took Varilla three months to be voted on as a full plankholder. She knew it wouldn’t take long, the Freebooters couldn’t deny that they had never had a mage of her caliber before, and Eruch abstained from the voting, and made sure that everyone was fully onboard with her full plank status. Lincoln had stayed on as Loremaster for about as long as it took her to become a plank, and then he nominated her for the position as Loremaster, as he wasn’t very good at it.
Urskine the Razor, goblin of crust and salt was the captain, and by Varilla’s estimation one of the best leaders she had ever met. He was gruff, deadly, but he genuinely cared about each member of the booters. She didn’t know how old he was, but it was clear he was getting up there for a goblin and was damn near ancient for a mercenary. He was perhaps Eruch’s closest friend outside of Piss.
Sammy was the Quietmaster, the lowest ranked officer in the hierarchy, but also one of the longest serving Freebooters. Sammy was a kith, a rare race of cat, people. Varilla had never encountered one until he came to Braid, and even now, it was rare to find one. They were mostly an insular, matriarchal society far to the west, and those who fled their homelands were few and far between.
Sammy, as the Quietmaster had two primary roles: find work and find out everything he could about new mates. It was his job to ferret out their background, and make sure that whatever their past was, it wasn’t going to bite the Freebooters down the road. Varilla still didn’t know how long he had been a member of the company, but she figured it was at least a decade, if not two as the kith rarely gave a consistent answer. Sammy was the best conman of the Freebooters, and he liked fine things. Varilla got along well with him, and she liked the fact that he often argued the opposition point in officer’s meetings. What Varilla found the most endearing about him was that while he protested that he didn’t like people petting him, he never complained when Varilla’s children did, and she was pretty sure he actually enjoyed it.
Andri had fallen into the company with gusto. She still was on crutches, that didn’t seem like it would ever get much better, but what she lacked in dancer’s finesse, she made up for with her mind. Mr. Bardour had turned out to be an abyssal Paymaster, so when the vote came, the booters had placed Andri in charge of it. She had a shrewd head for business and had been responsible for a lot of the decent paying, but low risk work they had done in the past year. She didn’t bring dicey jobs to the company, she brought good payouts that supported rule number 1: don’t squander members lives needlessly.
Eruch was the Warmaster, and it was a role her husband was born for. There wasn’t much else to say about it than that, she had never seen him as happy as he was as a Freebooter, and most importantly, as a father to their children.
Perhaps the most impressive of the booters was Piss. Aside from being a natural at combat, he was a quick learner, and absolutely fearless. To everyone’s shock, he had been voted in as a full plank just a year after Eruch took him on as his ‘squire’. It was also apparent that although he was barely a man grown, he looked to Eruch as his close uncle, or even his father. Truth be told, Varilla looked at him as a nephew, maybe even as an adopted son.
Where Eruch once was before his hands were ruined, Piss wasn’t far behind. Yet, despite his accomplishments, Urskine maintained for reasons his own, that he was still to be called Piss, which the young man took in stride. Varilla reasoned it was likely to try and keep the young man somewhat humble, as the only chink in his armor was that while fearless, he could be reckless, even though he had a sharp mind. In time, he would be a force to be reckoned with, when he got some experience under his belt.
The young man was also obviously interested in Danni, and she in him, to the point where it had become a bit of a joke among the Freebooters, and there was a betting pool as to whether or not they would become an item. Their consistent flirtation, sometimes bordered on the obnoxious. Varilla had brought it up to him before, and it was one of the few things that Piss became tongue tied about.
Eruch was no longer the best fighter of the booters since his hands became gnarled and experienced tremors every minute of the day. That title was likely Urskine, or even Piss now, although no one told him that. Right with the young man though was Madgrin, the former slave gladiator from Anoria, that carried more weapons than a small company of men. The goblin usually had two swords, a hand crossbow, four to six knives, and sometimes a longknife, or even a shield strapped to his back. His hodgepodge armor was a mix of plate, chain, and random spikes. He was a fearsome fighter, brutal and without a hint of remorse, that was matched only by his utter and unquestioning loyalty to the Freebooters. He made it clear, every plankholder and officer was his brother and sister, and if the mates did their part and earned it, they would be as well. Varilla liked that he was straightforward. He reminded her of the braves of the Val E Naa.
Lincoln Headclever, with his massive warhammer, the only hammer bigger than Hammer Red’s, and his thick Platemail and beard remained one of the most stalwart of the booters. He had served as backup Loremaster, and then as Loremaster after Bones passed on, willingly giving it up to Varilla because she was flatly better at the job. He served as a sergeant of sorts for Eruch with Madgrin and Tonkes, his easy going, practical mind a nice counterbalance to Madgrin’s brutality, and Tonkes casual disregard for rules. Lincoln had slowed down over the years though, and his fighting days were getting closer to done. He no longer was the first one into a fight, leaving that to younger men; but when he did fight he was still capable, and occasionally, brilliant.
Lucius was the only other mage in the booters, and one that Varilla, despite the fact that he truly was a good man, kept at arm’s length. He was the son of Ward Holstamp Tomas, the mad general that had caused her so much pain and had executed her sister. He was the brother of Alain Holstamp Tomas, the man who had killed her, to which the Bulvi had risen her from the dead; and later, Varilla had killed Alain. Lucius had fled his family years before because he hated them, saw them as monsters, and he was gay, which they didn’t accept. Yet, she kept him at bay, and she wasn’t sure why. He was a good man, affable, kind, and from what she saw an ethical good magus specializing in healing. Yet, she spent little time with him, and he never pressed her.
Mr. Bardour was the short ogre porter of the booters. He had been a booter for at least twenty years, and he was large, fat, smelled, ripped odorous farts, and drank his weight in ale a week. Despite all of that, she liked the man. He was quiet, at times contemplative, and he did his job well, which mostly consisted of fetching, carrying, packing, and doing odd jobs. She thought at first that he was a bit of a lay about, but quickly learned he was part of the glue that held the company together. He was also a very strong bar fighter.
Tonkes and Hammer Red were a couple, which was good as far as Varilla was concerned because it meant that Tonkes had less time to spend with Eruch, which Varilla felt was good. She had never liked Tonkes, not when she met him in the Libertan War when he was Prince Dragus Vacul, the Linebreaker’s able man. She knew he had been instrumental in turning Eruch towards the Raakonians, on his master’s order; but also knew when both Eruch and Tonkes were expelled by Dragus that Tonkes was the reason Eruch had become a Freebooter.
Yet, she didn’t feel that her husband owed him anything for it. Tonkes was an unsettled individual, always conniving for the next coin, and always into some sort of mischief. She flat didn’t trust him, but kept that opinion to herself, as Eruch valued him. However she had to admit he was a good plankholder, and a good sergeant of sorts. He followed orders, he worked hard, and he was good to have in a fight.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Varilla wasn’t really engendered to Hammer Red. She had a very flat affect, was rude, and sometimes, she smelled bad if Tonkes hadn’t forced her to bath, as the woman was afraid of water. Their son, Nykus was nice enough, as he wasn’t quite big enough to inherit either of their personalities. Varilla dreaded the day the boy would be able to speak as likely his first word would be a curse.
Ibrahim and Scalla were the third couple among the Freebooters and two of the nicest people Varilla had met. They were both older, without children, and former Anoram slaves. She had learned some of their backstory which included Ibrahim being the forge master in an Anoram Shaka’s hall, where his wife Scalla was one of his slaves. They had endured terrible hardship in bondage, and the Freebooters had in the course of a job, freed them. They had been booters since. Ibrahim served as the company forger, mending weapons, and armor, and making the most steady income of the whole group by consistently making kegs of nails and hinges for sale. Scalla was a maid, a cook, a nurse, a scribe, whatever needed to be done, she was ready to do. Both were quiet, good natured people, happy to help those around them.
Cheri was the other goblin of the company, and the nurse, doctor, non, magical surgeon, and sometimes herbalist of the group. Her bedside manner was non, existent, but she was an extremely effective battlefield surgeon. Varilla had thought that perhaps her and Urskine were a thing, but Cheri clearly indicated that as far as goblins went, Urskine was considered short and not attractive. Cheri spent a lot of time at whorehouses and didn’t like anyone much outside of Bardour and Lincoln; yet she loved every member of the booters. Varilla hadn’t met many people that were as cantankerous as Cheri.
Slow Tuk was a simple man. In that, Varilla wasn’t sure if he was born that way, or if he had been made idiot through some trauma. He spent most of his time as Urskine’s guard, but he could fight well when directed. Eruch did a good job of using his talents. Varilla wasn’t sure what a man like him would be doing if he didn’t have the company. He could barely talk, he sometimes masturbated in public, would occasionally wander off, and enjoyed shiny things. She felt a sense of compassion for him, while also remembering she had watched him break a man’s head open with his mace once.
Danni Singlehand was a sweet woman, born with one arm, and a thief by trade. She knew that before Eruch returned to the wastes that she had been interested in him but stopped once she realized he remained in love with his estranged wife. She also knew that she was one of the main reasons he came back to the wastes to find Varilla. If not for Danni, Eruch might not have come back home to get her. She was eternally thankful for that. Danni was a good woman, and she was well aware that her and Jael would likely at some point realize they were into each other.
Katya, the magus of odd demeanor had moved on after they had returned to Braid from the wastes. Varilla had tried to connect with her as a magus, but the woman was so aloof, she could never seem to pierce her exterior. One day, she walked into the mess hall and announced she was leaving. With that, she had left.
The corp of the mates had shaped up well. A few had been passed over. Izzer, the sailor that made the journey with the booters to the wastes, surprisingly stayed in the wastes. Marco the Thumb had been brought on and lasted three weeks before he was caught stealing from Lincoln, to which he was kicked out, after his thumbs were broken. Slick, a nomadic elf whose name was as generic as his propensity to steal from other mates lasted about a month, before he too was kicked out, his ankles broken because he stole more. Henrietta, a sellsword from Braid had lasted about a month until she too was kicked out, her mouth more dangerous than her blade. Paulo, Gina Jaxclaw, and Summer had all been hired in as mates to cook, and all had been summarily fired, as the Freebooters dietary predilections varied to such an extent.
Closest to a vote, which was iffy due to a few personality conflicts was Yolan of Nal, an older man who was a caravanner by trade. He was in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties, and was portly, laughed often, and was a conman by nature. His caravan had been pilfered by bandits and the booters had found him on the road one day, sifting through what was left of his wagon, his guards dead nearby, because he had hid. Varilla had been against bringing him on as a mate, but Bardour needed help, and Sammy needed another set of hands to get things; and Yolan was good at getting things. He always dressed decently well, and acted like he had some wealth, and then in the next breath, would ask to borrow some coin. Varilla didn’t like him much, but Sammy reported that he did well with the tasks assigned to him and reminded the table that not everyone in the booters swung swords.
Eldan Danube, a high elf ex, patriate facing warrants in their kingdom for thievery had been brought on about a month before, and so far was working out alright. He was a decent thief, less a pickpocket and more of a second story man, who was also decent with a knife. From what the booters had seen, he didn’t have much in the way of morals either. He wasn’t someone to ask questions if he was told to kill. While that had advantages, Varilla wondered how unscrupulous he really was. He was short for a high elf, barely six feet tall, and rail thin, with long black hair he tied in a series of braids.
Aster the Hammer had been brought in as a mate about five months ago, solely to aid Ibrahim in forging and equipment maintenance. She was a nomadic elf, heavy set for an elf, and had forearms thick as a man. She wore her hair short, cussed often, and was a fair hand at the forge. She had made her way to the Freebooters because she couldn’t get along with the forgers she had apprenticed to, and in some cases, they simply didn’t want an assertive woman in their forge. Ibrahim, patient as he was, took well to her, and she worked diligently under his tutelage. It was generally accepted as long as she refrained from cussing anyone out on the regular, she would make the vote for plankholder when her time came.
The brothers August, Thom and Marc had been around for about three weeks, the newest of the mates, and were relatively typical sellswords. Distinct about them was their age, both men, hailing initially from Preonia to the south were in their late thirties. They had been the veterans of various campaigns, fought well with each other, listened to orders, and generally were affable men. Eruch suspected that they had just never settled down and had commited to the life of a mercenary. Sometimes they were referred to as the twins, but they were born years apart. Thom was the older over the two, by two winters, and both favored traditional soldier kit of a Braiden, longsword, spear, shield, and lamellar armor.
Fallow and her young son Bel had been around for about six months. Bel was well liked and at near five, he was someone to play with the other children, while Fallow had been hired in as a mate to serve as a nursemaid and nanny. The company had dealt with her now ex, husband, a vicious fellow who beat her, and subsequently had suffered a beating from Madgrin that he was still recovering from, a half a year later. There were mixed feelings on if she would make the vote, mostly due to her son. Some of the older Freebooters didn’t mind Eruch and Varilla’s, or Tonkes and Hammer’s children within the ranks, but adding another young kid seemingly approved the possibility of more coming to the booters ranks.
Vicitus was perhaps the most notable of the mates. He had only been with the booters two months, kept mostly to himself, but had made quick friends with Piss and Madgrin for his quick reaction during a scuffle with a local gang. He was an archer by trade, and a former imperial legionnaire. It was obvious he was running from something, or someone, but he hadn’t gotten into it, and the officers saw no need to press the issue. It was well believed that by the end of the year, he would be a mate if all things stayed the same. As he had a legionnaires past, Varilla naturally distrusted him.
The Freebooters stood at a robust 17 plankholders, near a ‘closing’ of their books, and 7 mates, for a total roster of 24 mercenaries. According to the journals past, this was considered a ‘small’ size for the Freebooters, which Varilla didn’t mind. Financially, the booters were well off. Urskine had been working on diversifying, as the treasury was relatively flush, to the point they owned a clipper in the harbor that they hadn’t even named yet and lived in a manorhouse that they rented in the city. Perhaps one of the best parts of a flush treasury: they had stores and stores of coffee, a drink that Varilla was in love with since she was young. The rest of the Freebooters, save Eruch all survived on ale and wine, but for Varilla, pounds and pounds of coffee was wonderful.
Even though they had to remain mobile, they’d been in Braid for about four years total, including the jaunt to the wastes. Braid had been good to the company, and it seemed they might be staying longer. In her study of the old journals, there had been times in the companies past it had stayed in a place for a decade or longer, and once, for nearly thirty, eight years in the same place.
Varilla had complicated feelings about the Freeport of Braid. The sprawling port city was a place like no other she had been to, a chaotic convergence of opportunity, vice, and danger. It wasn’t like Reeva in the wastes, and it help no emperor or king like Imperial City or Piar Nibar. It was the Freeport, ruled by its massive senate, as chaotic as the city itself. She had heard a half million to a million people lived in the city, and it’s docks spanned all of its east and south side.
On the one hand, Braid fascinated her. Its streets were alive with a vibrancy she hadn’t seen anywhere else, a constant buzz of voices in a multitude of languages, the smell of brine and spices mingling in the air. Everything seemed to be tinged by salt. Markets teemed with goods from across the known world, from rare alchemical reagents to exotic fabrics. If there was any place in the world that embodied freedom, it was Braid. No king ruled here, and that in and of itself was worthwhile. Varilla had her fill of kings, queens, emperors, and Bulvi.
But her admiration was not love. Varilla knew Braid was as cruel as it was captivating. She had seen children orphaned by cutthroat deals, sailors cut down for failing to pay their debts, and entire crews vanish into the night without explanation. The city demanded something of its residents. She felt a constant unease in Braid, as though the city itself might consume her if she let her guard down for even a moment.
It was a city built on individual ambition, and the Freebooters thrived on collective strength. The tension between those values made her uneasy. As a mother, her feelings were even more conflicted. She hated bringing her children to Braid, even if it was a necessary evil. The thought of Voleon or Cordan wandering too far from the house, of Shema’s curiosity leading her into a stranger’s grasp, made her stomach churn. She kept them close when they were here, never letting them out of her sight for long.
Varilla sat at her desk, writing in her journal, her staff, Wyrmmaw resting across her lap, gifted to her by one of the most powerful living magi, for bringing the backwoods Val E Naa into the Society of Magic. Strange, that; she was no longer Val E Naa, and now she lived life on the fringe, away from nation building. She had spent years mastering her craft as a magus, only to abandon it to live among reprobates in a rented manor, in a nation months away from her birth Here she was, among sellswords and wanderers, finding something the academies and the Val E Naa never gave her: belonging.
Her thoughts drifted to the journals she had poured over as Loremaster, the records of centuries of Freebooter captains, scribes, and warriors. Their stories painted a picture of struggle, sacrifice, and survival, a legacy of blood and grim stretching back time immemorial. The company shouldn’t have lasted as long as it had, not with its egalitarian ways and refusal to bow to the conventions of nobility and society. But perhaps that was the secret of their endurance. They weren’t bound by the rigid hierarchies and petty rivalries that consumed lords and emperors. Here, everyone had a voice; everyone shared in the risks and the rewards. It was chaos, but it worked.
She had argued fiercely in council meetings, her voice rising alongside grizzled veterans like Urskine and clever schemers like Sammy. She had felt the sting of betrayal when mates deserted for greener pastures and the pride of watching recruits rise to greatness. Through it all, she had come to understand what it meant to be a Freebooter. It wasn’t about the coin, though that was a fine incentive. It wasn’t even about the thrill of adventure, though the danger kept her sharp. No, it was about the choice to live by a code, one that valued loyalty, fairness, and a shared purpose. Among the Freebooters, Varilla had found something rare and precious: freedom. Freedom to speak her mind, to wield her magic as she saw fit, and to carve out a place in a world that had always tried to keep her small. No one in the Freebooters ever demonized her for being a ‘witch’. No one in the Freebooters tried to kill her like the Raakonians, even like Briel had.
Varilla smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the worn shaft of Wyrmmaw. Being a Freebooter wasn’t easy. It meant hardship, sacrifice, and the occasional threat of death. But it also meant a kind of immortality, a place in a story that would outlast empires. And for Varilla, that was more than enough.
For her, being a Freebooter was a deliberate rejection of the rigid expectations the world had placed on her.
This was a home, strange as it was. Voleon, Cordan, and little Shema needed a place to keep safe of them, and the Freebooters did that, and did it well. She didn’t have worry about someone coming to assassinate them to get to her, or the Bulvi, or Eruch. Here, they could grow. Varilla felt a swell of warmth and worry, an emotional paradox she had grown accustomed to since becoming a mother. What kind of mother raised her children among swords and fire?
She didn’t have an easy answer to that question. Some nights, it haunted her—the fear that this life might harden them too much or take them from her too soon. She had seen too many comrades fall, too many children left to mourn their parents in the wastes. Surely this was better? Her children were growing up surrounded by people who would die to protect them, who would teach them not just how to survive but how to live with purpose.
Her sons and daughter would grow up knowing the weight of a sword, for no matter what the world did not reward those who could not stand on their own. Still, Varilla couldn’t help but reflect on what being a mother meant here, in this chaotic life. It wasn’t like the stories of noblewomen raising heirs in gilded halls or peasant mothers tending fields with babes strapped to their backs. Her motherhood was imperfect, messy, and utterly unlike what she had imagined before they were born. But it was real. It wasn’t what she expected, but she hadn’t expected Eruch to return as he did, either.
A year and six months. That’s how long it had been since he’d returned to her, not just physically, but in earnest. Eruch had come back as a man determined to make amends and build something lasting. She had been cautious at first, uncertain if his resolve would hold. But he’d proven her wrong. Time and again, Eruch had shown up, for her, for their children, for the Freebooters.
She glanced down at her own hands, tracing invisible patterns on her lap, and thought of his. The tremors that marred his once, perfect grip were constant, a reminder of what Masus and Briel had done to him. Magic was a double, edged sword, and she knew better than most how deeply it could cut. Yet, Eruch had taken the wound in stride. Where another man might have sunk into despair, he had instead risen, defying expectations. His hands might no longer wield a blade with the same precision, but they were steady enough to hold their children.
He hadn’t let the injury define him. That had been her fear that the proud, unstoppable swordsman, defined by his blade would crumble under what he’d lost. But Eruch was stronger than that. He’d found joy in teaching the next generation of Freebooters, especially Piss, pouring his knowledge into their eager minds and hands. It was a quieter form of combat, perhaps, but no less vital. Watching him train had been like seeing a new facet of him emerge, one that was patient, thoughtful, and kind.
And as a father? Varilla couldn’t have asked for better. Eruch had a way with the children that surprised her, even now. He knew when to be firm, when to be playful, and when to simply listen. Voleon and Cordan adored him, shadowing his every step as though the sun rose and set on his shoulders. And Shema—little Shema—had him wrapped around her tiny finger, though he’d never admit it aloud. She smiled faintly, recalling a moment from earlier in the week. Shema had insisted on “helping” Eruch tie his boots, her small hands fumbling with the laces. He’d patiently guided her, his larger hands trembling but sure, until the knot was tied. Then he’d scooped her up and spun her around, her laughter ringing out like music. It was the kind of moment that made Varilla’s chest tighten, a blend of love and gratitude so strong it almost hurt.
Their relationship hadn’t been easy, and it never would be. They were both stubborn, both scarred in their own ways. But they were learning to meet each other halfway, to let their shared history anchor them rather than weigh them down. She didn’t regret choosing him, even when things had been at their darkest. And now, seeing the man he’d become, the husband, the father, the mentor, the Warmaster, she felt a deep, abiding pride in him.
For once, Varilla allowed herself to look ahead with hope rather than trepidation. She was by nature, a pessimist, the world having forced her to be. She had weathered countless storms, and she felt, for the first time in years, that her family was on the cusp of something brighter. Her children would grow strong, not just in body but in spirit, surrounded by people who valued them, who would teach them the meaning of loyalty and resilience. Eruch’s hands might never heal fully, but his purpose burned brighter than ever, and she knew he would continue to shape the company’s future with his wisdom and resolve. As for herself, Varilla saw a path forward not just as a mother and wife, but as a leader in her own right.
