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From the Guard House to the Gallows (Story)
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Post by
oneforthemoney
It was the weekend.
Long long ago, before the cold embrace of death had snatched Jonathon from his mortal coil only to be returned minus fifty pounds and about half his skin, the weekends were the days that he along with several other soldiers were given leave. It was the advantage of guarding the Greymane wall, the nature of the duty providing an opportunity to allow soldiers leave time when the structure had not needed its full accompaniment of soldiers to stand vigil.
Some of the citizens of Gilneas saw an opportunity with this. Realizing the potential business and profit, a small town near where the wall stood had overflowed with taverns, call girls and the usual assortment of venues for those with money but had nowhere to spend it but on the pleasures of a single night. Though the business of the town had faltered admittedly after construction had completed, labourers returning to their homes or next task and leaving the small village behind, the soldiers of the wall had compensated enough for it to continue running its elicit businesses.
Jonathon had been there often in those days, dragged along by his fellows to a little hole in the wall that was amiable enough for his tastes. Admittedly his somewhat stoic and aloof personality had alienated him and made him stick out in comparison to his companions, yet it had by and large been acceptable to the young soldier.
Of course, times had changed. During his first week of having returned to the wall as one of the walking dead he had gone to the town again, unsure of what else to do in all reality with a day off. He was never scheduled during the weekend before the sieges and, with the Greymane wall enjoying the peace of the grave (hah!) Jonathon had been uncertain with the manner to best use his time. It had not been a large journey, about four hours walking distance, but it had proven fruitless in the end all the same.
As he had guessed, the village had been empty, abandoned during the Forsaken advance, its people fled to safer climes. Though, the amount of corpses still scattered about had lent credence to not all having fled. The odd Forsaken corpse Jonathon had discovered sprinkled around showed that at least some had made a fight of it, and also that the Forsaken had been most eager to advance, not even bothering the time to bury their dead.
Yes, the visit to the town had been in vain. Jonathon had returned to the wall with thoughts jumbled, unsure of what task he could possibly set himself that would in some way be for him. He had read some of the mouldy books about, having found a stash of them that were not pornographic in nature (he believed he remembered the chap who had used that bunk, cagey fellow). He had perused them idly for a time, and then inspiration had struck.
And so it was that Jonathon found himself in the walls barracks, a large room built into the Greymane wall itself to better have the men able to instantly respond to an emergency. It had fallen into disrepair though not to any surprise, the large crack running down one wall and part of the floor near it granting a dismal view of the moors making the by and large damage to the wall impossible to ignore. Bunks were all over the place, in some cases literally as it seems looters had been rather persistent in some occasions, and most blankets and mattresses were ripped and torn. A few beds even had a thin coat of mould on them, sometimes making Jonathon wonder precisely what had some of his fellows been doing on their cots. There was a large vanity in the driest corner, dragged from an officer’s rooms to the barracks. Jonathon was only a private after all so could not use that room, and the desk would hardly be missed so he had taken it.
Scattered on its surface was an assortment of ratty paper and a few bound books, stone paperweights keeping the scripts from blowing away through the large hole in the wall. The mirror was cracked, the top corner missing and papers framed the reflective device, schedules and a calendar tacked securely in place.
Jonathon moved about the room, his booted feet ringing on the stone floor of the barracks as he gathered his equipment up for the day. Setting his halberd on his shoulder the dead man turned towards the door and marched out at a leisurely pace. Down the cracked stairs of the Greymane wall the soldier strode, the sounds of his armour and boots the only thing to be heard aside from the whistling wind. This atmosphere did not change even as he exited the building and turned towards the gate, continuing his journey.
Jonathon did not stop at the destroyed doorway however, his guard duty dismissed for the next two days. He continued past to the other side, the tone of his greaves changing momentarily as he crossed the cobbled road. Once across he stopped, a small mound of dirt and shovel protruding from it like a sign post his destination.
It was his grave.
Or, at least, it would be. The undead Stark set his halberd to lean against the great stone wall beside him, exchanging it for the shovel. Removing his breastplate, greaves and plate armour to free up his movement and reduce his weight Jonathon hopped into the hole, knees caps bending as he struck the ground. Stoically, he began to work, plunging the spade into the soft ground and flinging great gobs of earth out of the hole and away.
Digging his own grave was what one might call cathartic for Jonathon. It was in a way planning for the future the only way he could see it. Had he been alive still perhaps he would be seated at home, sipping from a glass of brandy and watching his children play, a son of course, to carry on his family’s legacy or even a daughter. Fel, maybe both, who was he to decide.
He would raise them well, their mother in the kitchen baking a pie or some such thing while he instructed them on their lineage and what duty and honour meant to their family, to them. Just like his father had taught him.
Jonathon paused, the trough of his shovel half buried in the dirt. His father, strange how such things can become connected.
The elder Stark had lived a long life, and when Jonathon had been accepted into the Gilnean army it had been as if the old man had finally let go, the elder Stark’s face, serene in death, saying ‘there, you don’t need me puttering about any longer. It’s your turn’.
The now undead man had dug his father’s grave. It was a family tradition, digging the grave, a sort of grim passing of the torch.
He and his brother, a more sensitive soul who had cried the whole time, had shared that task between them as was proper. While the youngest sibling had sobbed tragically Jonathon had not let a tear slip throughout it all. He was a Stark, and men of the Stark family do not cry. Though he had repeatedly told his brother of this fact the younger boy had never really taken to it, something about the humanities or poppycock like that.
When the time of the funeral came there had been few in attendance. His father had not been the most amiable of individuals but some of his friends from the army had come to see him off. The coffin had been slowly lowered into the cold earth while Jonathon had watched silently and respectfully.
He was the man of the family now he knew. His mother, teary eyed and sobbing while leaning on her daughter, had been more the shade than his father would be. The funeral was the first time she had left the house since she had found the elder Stark seemingly asleep in his favourite chair and she sobbed the whole while, lamenting the tragic loss.
His brother had been in a similar state, though the youngest son had tried to be strong in front of the rest of the family. For some reason he had seen it more appropriate to bawl when alone with Jonathon digging a grave than at a funeral. Strange boy.
Perhaps this task would have been carried out by Jonathon’s own son, had he been given the opportunity to father one or even court a lady. Even though he had not a son perhaps his brother would have done so when Jonathon had died the first time. Mayhap he had, though lacking a tangible body. The younger Stark sibling had been the type to do so.
But it mattered little Jonathon realized as he returned to his labours, wet clumps of dirt flying over his shoulder once more. The dead man would never know, and he would have preferred to have not been given the opportunity to consider it. Yet that choice had been taken from him, like everything else in his unlife.
He did not regret anything though. It would be pointless to anyway. He had not been given a choice in the matter, so regretting was a waste of effort.
All his energy would be better spent preparing for his future as he chose it, he thought grimly as he flung another clod of dirt out of the deepening grave.
His life may have been robbed from him, but he'd be damned if his death would be too.
Post by
355559
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
kemppy
it reminds me of the day my grandfather pasted away, it was on the farm his father's father had bought, his father died on the farm as well, and when my grandfather past away it was up to his son, my uncle, to take up the farm
pain is something that is hard to put across and yet you manage to skim it, and let the reader relate to what has happened, very well done, yet again
Post by
oneforthemoney
Thank you for the lovely comments.
The entire idea of the lineage thing but for 'commoners' is something I really enjoy exploring. It's such a simple concept but has very profound meaning to the people involved. I'm glad you think I managed to touch on that at least.
Post by
kemppy
lol np, and at least u get feed back :(
Post by
Patty
I liked the idea of family traditions being maintained by other generations, a nice touch. :)
Post by
Mojoworkn
mould
I was going to yell, "HA! I FOUND AN ERROR IN YOUR PERFECT WORK!", but then I looked it up to find that it's the British spelling. :/
Brilliant piece. Speechless.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Much obliged, that really means a lot.
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