Apples. Victor never thought he’d ever become so enraptured by the scent of apples. And pears. And the full and ripe blackberries that grew about in thick brambles around his farm’s orchard. For years he had been quietly despairing over the seeming fact that all he would ever smell would be the reek of sulfurous black powder, the stench of heavy coal dust and smoke, and the coppery tang of blood that always tickled the back of his tongue. Now, discharged and too lame to march, the young man reveled in the sweet smell of ripe fruit and loamy earth! Even the pitch and tar used for fixing his new home had been offset by the healthy aroma of fresh cut wood. Were he ever so disfigured or blinded, he could still be happy until death if he could just inhale these heavenly scents.

It wasn’t that he was all that old. Some twenty and five winters, maybe? He didn’t rightly know himself, having no clue as to his Natal Day. The great Hall of Records in Verrun might have the details of his birth, the great city-state being run by such meticulous clerks and counters as he might ever have imagined… or despised. As an orphan and a medically discharge infantryman, he was scarcely the sort they would bother to place any sort of importance upon. Victor knew most of his letters and could read a little. It was not enough for him to work his own way through the labyrinth of archives that reportedly ran for miles beneath Verrun’s Library, though. So instead he simply ignored the passage of the years, guessing as to what his own age might be when pressed and refusing to delve further into it.

He placed a scarred hand upon one of the trees. It was old and stout, with heavy apples of golden reds dangling among the autumnal leaves. Harvest time was soon. He couldn’t wait. Victor had been all too lucky to find the farm and orchard up for sale upon his discharge a year ago, lucky still he had been smart enough to save his pay instead of squandering it upon drink, doxies and dice like his comrades. Plunder had also filled his pockets. The dead soldiers of Poictesme (who in their own heathen tongue pronounced it ‘Pwa-tem’) had no use further use for their coppers and silvers, whereas Victor planned for a future. Having no home to return to, this tiny village far from the protection of Verrun and further still from the devastation of Poictesme was the perfect place to start a new life. He chuckled at the thought of his careless comrades who foolishly spent their coin and would be stuck sucking in the foul airs of factories and sweating at their masters’ forges. This small cottage and great barn? These hundreds of fruit bearing trees? These were all his. And if his shattered knee and twisted foot made the work harder, it made his apples all the sweeter to his tongue. There were no farm hands to help him, all off to war or in the service of some other master, so the work, and the rewards, would be his.

Off he paced slowly towards his cottage to prepare his evening meal, his dark thatch of hair ruffled by the wind. He chuckled again at the enjoyment of his freedom. Victor had nothing but his life before him. Mayhaps he might find a woman that took pleasure in such a plain face marred by the single long scar along his jaw and with brown eyes as his own, or who appreciated strong shoulders on a middling frame but with a game leg. The chuckle became a laugh. He knew from his early days that farming could be a hard life, a life in danger from vermin and droughts. But it was his life now, now the regiments and not the Council of Verrun’s. If only his iron fisted and whip wielding commanders could see him now, happy and content far from their tyrannies while they still faced death daily.