Grumbling, Tenoris obeyed, glancing over his shoulder as the Octio led Skippii away from his companions, away from Tonnage VI and onto a dark path. His heart fluttered and his eyes widened to take in the light, half expecting the glitter of a blade to come from behind the concealment of a tent flap. The Octio stopped and appraised him. All around, the sounds of the camp died down as the night set in. A cheer cut through the quiet; there was laughter and a howl, but his superior's composure was unflinching as he stared into Skippii's soul.

"You were not worth Custos Maritor's reputation," the Octio sneered. "Though, it seems, neither was he fit for the job. Once disciplined, I shall be promoted to Primus. I shall be your new superior."

Skippii swallowed, disobeying the nerves which pressured him to turn and disappear.

"You are not stupid, are you, Altay? You were not born a fool?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Then… You must know how this ends?"

"I do," Skippii whispered.

The Octio raised his thick eyebrows, tilting his head backwards to catch the light of the waning moon. "Is that so?"

"I'll be gone."

The Octio sighed, and the cruelty in his expression ebbed. Beneath it, a sleepless stress that weighed on the bags of his eyes. "Perform this one act well, and irrevocably. Show your colours. Vanish and die. Prove me wrong, legio, for I do not think your vanity is capable of such a sacrifice."

As he glared at the snide veteran, all of his superiority seemed to strip away. Standing before Skippii was no longer a man whom he feared or respected, but simply a man. The rank washed away, and Skippii saw no reason not to speak his mind.

"You know very little of what I'm capable of." He took a long step, bringing his face close to Spurius Altivus'. "However, I think I have seen all of your capabilities, Octio. They're stretched thin, like a pig's hide, see-through in the sunlight."

Surprisingly, the Octio smirked, then lay a hand on his ribs. Even such a light touch sent pain tumbling through his chest, stinging his eyes. Without meaning to, he took a step backwards, and saw that the Octio had half-unsheathed his sword. His superior was glaring at him as a fisherman watches his lur, waiting for a reaction. But Skippii lowered his arms and stood before him, unarmed.

"A sword?" he mocked. "I bested Aetheria. What could you do?"

"Be gone by the morning," the Octio snarled.

"You shan't see me again, except maybe in your nightmares."

The Octio's snarl widened into a grin. "Don't flatter yourself, velvet."

Skippii turned and marched back to his companeight. Orsin enquired grimly what the Octio wanted of him.

"The usual," he deflected.

"Is he the one who sent you away?" Fulmin said. "Tossed you to the Coven."

Skippii nodded.

"We should slit his throat."

Cur groaned. "Don't draw me into some crazy…" He trailed off with a hiss. "That really would be treason. No excuses of honour or this and that."

"Maybe just bash his head in," Fulmin amended.

"I like that idea," Drusilla nodded.

"As much as I'd love to, we're not savages," Orsin said. "What we did today was under the Primus' command. Don't go acting rash."

"Yeah," Cur said. "And don't go having anymore nightmares, Skip, if you think you can help it."

"Or, if you do, hope that they do not come true," Arius said ominously.

One-by-one, his companions retired to their beds, but he remained by the campfire. The veterans went first, but each of the recruits stuck around, sharing few words, staring into the firelight. The day's excitement took its time to wear off, but once it did, exhaustion fell over their eyes like a soft blanket. At last, just he and Tenoris remained outside in the late hours of night. The big legionnaire began to snore where he sat, until Skippii prompted him to retire to the tent.

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"And yourself?" Tenoris asked. "Shall you join us?"

"The fire gives me strength," he said. "Let me draw on its embers, and I'll be with you shortly."

"I shall wait by your side."

"No," he insisted. "Get your rest, we all need it. Tomorrow will host its own trials."

Nodding, Tenoris turned, then stopped at the tent's flap, gazing at the stars. The night was clear, and all the heavens shone upon them, glittering in the farmhand's big blue eyes.

"There is much debate amongst the Pantheon, as with a senate," he said. "I sense it. A disturbance, and an excitement. They are wondering what to do with you, Skip."

"They aren't the only ones."

"Ahh, too, the Imperator and his servants. But I should think that their position hasn't changed. You are still a legionnaire."

"You'd hope."

"Yes." His voice dipped, taking on a solemn tone. "No matter their verdict, or the Gods' decree…" Tenoris froze, then finally took his eyes off the heavens and faced Skippii wholeheartedly "I shall stand by your side."

Warmth flushed him, stinging his eyes. His chin fel to his chest, suddenly heavy with gratitude. His voice warbled. "Thanks."

"Hespera, bless us. Spare us the rains. Bring us gladder tidings. Summitor, your impatience, please, employ it now. Render the heavens. End this squabbling. Let us return to the simplicity of war." Tenoris sighed tiredly. "Oyaltun, make sure he stays safe. Dissuade his demons. Protect him from nightmares. And alert me, much sooner this time, should he need my aid."

Skippii watched his friend slip under the tent flap into the bodily warmth of its den. Alone now, in the quiet camp, he let the flames die down. In the absence of his magia, the charred wood cooled quickly. Beside him was his legionnaire's gear. He had paid for it with blood, and deserved to bear it, all but the cloak. That, he would leave behind. Taking up his pack and his kuri, he fetched a slave's blanket from their cart. The fabric was rough and sodden, perhaps never cleaned; lucky that he would not have need for its warmth.

Picking a stone out of the fire, he clutched it. He wanted to leave something for his companions to remember him by, though had no means to write, and no skill for carving or craft. Instead, he sought to mark the stone with his handprint. A primitive trinket, but something. Clutching it, he let his magia radiate in his palm, intending to burn its surface.

Among the angry grazes on his forearm was his recent tattoo–the symbol of his companeight. Tears flowed freely, falling upon the crusted ink, but he kept his sobs silent, gripping the stone. As the final embers died down, Skippii closed his eyes. Now it was time. He had done all he could. He had said all he needed to say.

A stone plummeted into his gut as though falling down a well, rippling with grief. Now it was time. The legionnaires of Tonnage VI had truly honoured him today–spared his life, risked their own. He owed them everything–a debt he could never repay. The only way he could see to honour them in return was to do the right thing. He would desert them, unchain them from his own cursed fate. The legion simply couldn't function with him in their midst. He thought he could adapt, compromise, but too much of it was out of his control. A Golden Spear. No. He was a hot brand; grasped from the wrong end, it would maim the wielder. That was no weapon for a legion's Imperator, nor legionnaire. He would not shame his superiors any longer, nor force them to make ruinous choices.

However, he would not die, as it seemed the Octio wished, for that would disgrace his companion's sacrifice in saving him. His flesh was a living medallion of their honour. He would find a way to repay them, in this life or the next. And it started tonight, with his own sacrifice.

Unclenching the stone, he lay it atop the embers. But the mark which he had burned caught his eye: an umber ringlet of entwined thorns–simple in design, bearing a distinct 'IV' in its centre. It was an exact replica of his companeight's tattoo.

"Huh." Skippii stared at the stone and his craft. He'd hadn't intended to form such a precise burning, but had kept the image of his companeight's symbol in mind as he'd applied his magia. Another new evocation which he had yet to explore. At least, once he was alone, he would have the time to delve into his powers and discover what he was capable of. But to what end? How exactly would he employ his gift? To be exiled from the Legion and disgraced amongst Auctoritas, stranded in a foreign land… What good could his powers do?

All questions for the coming weeks. The longer he lingered, the harder it would be to leave.

Rising from the campfire, he made his way quickly through camp, carrying his spear as a crutch. Though his muscles ached and his ribs creaked, life had returned to his limbs. Fire was in his blood, simmering away, lending him strength. He at least had the strength to complete his task.

As he approached the camp's perimeter, he worried that the gatemen would stop him. By now, daily rumours would have made their rounds. Many would have learned of his encounter with the Coven, though it seemed that Tonnage VI's reckoning would wait until morning. Then, surely, even Legion V's camp would hear of it too. He expected those legionnaires would react much less sympathetically.

It was getting difficult for Skippii to keep track of the rifts his very presence was causing within the legions. Truly, he had no choice. At least, once he was far away, he would no longer be burdened by oaths, and no longer be a strain on his allies'.

"Knuk for tot," he said to himself, forcing his legs to press forwards as all of his boyhood dreams fell at his feet in ruin.

"Hey," a gateman shouted from the tower above. "Name and cohort."

Skippii opened his mouth to speak his honours one final time, but a voice superseded him from behind.

"Let him pass." The Octio strode from the shadows. "Spurius Altivus, Octio of Tonnage Six. Let him go. See him off."

Gritting his teeth, Skippii bowed his head. Bearing the shame, he strode from camp–his home–into the wilderness, still a man, but no longer a legionnaire.

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