The Siege of Wildings - A story about a wandering knight

The pale light of morning shrouded the valley when Commander Verm from the alliance of !HD rode into the village, his lone figure a dark shadow against the frost-tipped trees. Infront of him was a village and the working villagers stilled their labors to throw their eyes towards a stronger on a horseback. It was a tall figure in dark battle-worn armor that seemed to have experienced countless battles. Verm looked into the surrounding and saw a village in need of urgent help and as he reached the middle of the town, the village elder approached him, his eyes hollow and haunted for years with terror, and explained the burden hanging over their heads. Every winter, the Wildings who is brutal tribe from far in the north raided them. They swept through like a storm, taking all that was of value such as food, treasures, even people. The Villagers had no defenses but just a few broken spears, a halfhearted wall, and a small population that consisted mostly of old men and women. It was quite clear to Verm that they did not have any chance of survival in case another raid occurred.

Verm felt a surge of purpose that he had longed for and as he studied the defenses, he quickly noticed it was in scattered and shambles. This village wouldn't fall, because he wouldn't let it. And with that, he started to organize them and training them. Each night, villagers met in the square for training at his hand. Day by day, he worked on hardening their courage to the same extent that he did their defenses, turning their fear into something almost like resilience. It was on these nights, under the light of fires, with shadows lengthening, that he met her, Daena. Daena was tall and bony, with a swinging braid that seemed to whip from her like a warrior's banner, however her eyes was mesmerizing, blue as the ocean itself. She had a spirit different from the rest. She moved in quiet confidence, as though she had long ago prepared for a fight. There was fire in her eyes, mirrored from his, and a spark of defiance that refused to be dimmed. She joined him in training the villagers, moving through drills with a precision that marked her as more than a mere bystander.

During the days that followed, Daena was his right hand, steady and sure, always at his side. They spoke rarely to each other, but in days, the silence between them grew into an acceptance, an unspoken understanding. Her strength honed his, and her devotion to her people cut into his mind, reminding him of what he once had fought for which was an unsaid strong linkage, unbreakable, forged in the sweat and bruises and exhaustion of training. Under her fierce gaze and his own guarding silence, there grew that rare tenderness, a quality Verm had not allowed himself for years as he always was afraid to lose those he loved. As the days shortened and the snow began to set deep within this valley, tension mounted inside the village. They knew the Wildings would come soon. With their newly forged weapons tighter into their grasp, they glanced toward the mountains as if at any moment the threat would materialize. And in one night, the silence was broken. The first rumble of drums boomed across the valley-faint, yet unmistakable. Verm and Daena stood together, their eyes fixed on the glow that spread across the far ridge. Thousands of torches flickered in the dark, lumbering down the mountainside like a river of fire. The Wildings had arrived.

The villagers had now armed and steadied themselves at the defenses. Faces danger yet set, each of them stood firm with a high resolution that Verm had not seen. Daena weaved among them, her presence like some sort of pillar of strength. She locked eyes with Verm, a silent acknowledgement of what they promised each other which was to fight together and to defend till the last breath. The Wildings had leapt into frenzied being as they had faces painted and wild cries rent the air in a fury of the primal. Running themselves towards village, they separated to attack from left and right, battering on the defenses. Verm and Daena led the counterattack- swift and merciless, cleaving down the first wave with brutal precision. Fierce but manageable was this first assault as they were just the scout party of the wildings, however the villagers stood firm to fight! 

But then the weight of the Wildings came through the pass properly, a tide of bodies and scattered weapons was left behind. Verm and Daena fought as one at the forefront of battle, in perfect synchrony. His sword was an extension of his will, while beside him, Daena's flashed with relentless, unyielding force. They fought side by side, their connection no longer just a feeling but a rhythm, each guarding the other, each matching strike for strike. The battle raged and the night wore on, the sky filling with smoke and sparks as they held back wave after wave. Then, deep in the fight, Verm saw a towering Wilding chieftain break the line, his blade held high. In that instant, Verm knew he couldn't block the strike in time. He started to cringe, knowing what price he'd pay.

But before that blow could fall, Daena was there, a blur of motion intercepting that strike meant for him. Her sword clashed against the chieftain's, but the force of that strike drove her back. She stumbled, a flash of pain crossing her face, yet her eyes met Verm's, however her eyes were calm, unwavering. In an instant, he was beside her, cutting down the chieftain, his anger aflame with a raw, unsmoked grief. There, the last of the Wildings vanished into the night, and as daybreak sounded its clarion over the valley, the silent battlefield bathed in that first light. The villagers cheered, the voices ringing in victory. But for Verm all faded to a hollowness of silence. Daena was lying unstirring in his arms, her breath shallow, her strength slipping from her. Her gaze had softened as it rested on him, a slight smile on her lips, as if to say that she was at peace, that she had given all she could.

The villagers closed in on them, their joy dribbling into silent sadness as they saw Daena,, their most fearsome warrior and protector lay silent in Verm's arms. He pressed her close, heaved by a grief that cut deeper than any blade. She had been more than an ally, more than a fighter at his side and even on the quiet nights, with those fierce glances across battlefields, she had become his anchor, his reason. The village was safe, the Wildings repelled, but in the light of dawn Verm felt nothing. He knew nothing except the sight of Daena fixed before his eyes, the woman who fought along his side, who died for him and for the village. And in that silent moment, surrounded by the people she had died to protect, he knew he would carry her with him always, a fragment of his heart left there in that valley-on that last, silent promise they had shared. But as the sun climbed high, Verm stood, left the warmth of the village behind, and took with him the memory of the woman who had managed to shine light, if only for a moment, into the shadowed world that was his. The Wandering Commander was once more upon his feet, though he carried her in his thoughts for the rest of his life.