Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

December 15st, early morning.

"My friend, are you really not going to stay a few more days?"

Peter stood before the castle gates, his voice filled with genuine reluctance. Today he wore a dark blue belted coat, over which was a cloak embroidered with golden griffins, and at his waist hung the longsword that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies.

Jessica bowed slightly, a resolute glint in the eyes of the weathered veteran: "Lord Peter, we appreciate your kindness. But the King's safety is a matter of life and death for all of Bohemia. We cannot delay; we must proceed to Coutenburg as soon as possible to join Sir Sokol."

Michael, the adjutant standing beside Jessica, said, "Lord Peter, thank you for your hospitality these past few days. You are a true knight, may God bless you."

As the fast horse Hert adjusted his saddle, he said gratefully, "Lord Peter, once we have rescued the King and Marquis Prokop, we will surely return to drink with you!"

Peter smiled and patted them on the shoulder.

At this moment, Henry and Father Goodwin also approached. Henry's expression was slightly grave; he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and said in a low voice, "Sir Peter, we've also come to say goodbye. I must go and save Hans. He's my best friend; I can't abandon him."

Father Goodwin made the sign of the cross and said gently, "We have decided to travel with Jessica to Kutenberg. May the Lord bless this land, and may He bless you, Sir Peter."

Peter looked around at everyone, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him. He recalled the joyful moments shared around the campfire the previous night, the shared experiences of fighting side-by-side. He took a deep breath and smiled, "In that case, I won't try to stop you. Have a safe journey!"

He turned to his servant and ordered, "Go and fetch some dry rations and wine, and prepare some silver coins." Peter, who now had complete control of Trotsky, was very wealthy.

Soon, the servants brought over a dozen bags. Peter personally distributed the food and money to everyone, his movements slow and solemn, as if he wanted to remember this kindness forever.

"Jeska," Peter said, shoving a heavy bag of food into the fearless warrior's hands, "you said Sir Sokol was at Sukhdor Castle?"

“Yes,” Jessica nodded, “my old friend, the drunkard Hynek, is there too. It’s said that the Marquis of Jobust is planning a big operation.”

Peter said thoughtfully, "Remember, no matter what difficulties you encounter, Trotsky will always welcome you back."

The farewell scene was deeply moving. Peter embraced everyone tightly, giving each person a firm pat on the shoulder. When it was Catherine's turn, she blushed slightly but still gracefully accepted the hug.

"Take care, Lord Peter." Her voice was as soft as a whisper.

The sound of horses' hooves echoed on the stone path, gradually fading into the distance. Peter stood for a long time in front of the castle gate, watching his friend's figure disappear into the morning mist.

"Perhaps I will go to Kutenberg in a while, after all, the hundreds of thousands of Groschen at the Italian Palace are too tempting, but not now."

Peter sighed. His territory was in dire need of rebuilding, and he probably wouldn't be able to leave for some time. But that wouldn't stop him from sending out intelligence agents, such as Barbara, who was itching to see the big cities; she'd always wanted to open a bathhouse in a major metropolis…

Bathhouses are great! Bathhouses should be built. People are most likely to speak their minds when they are honest with each other, aren't they?

After allocating the funds and instructing Jerry to make the necessary arrangements, Peter went to the cemetery, where another grudge awaited him.

The cemetery is located on the east side of the castle, near the main road close to the Apollonian quarry. A low wooden wall encloses the cemetery, inside which stand rows of tombstones, which are usually carefully tended by gravediggers. The damp scent of earth mingles with the fragrance of wildflowers, and a few crows caw hoarsely in the ancient elm trees.

As Peter entered the cemetery, the first thing he noticed was the newly erected tombstone. It bore a simple inscription: "Amy, my beloved." A bunch of fresh wildflowers lay before the tombstone, the dew still clinging to the petals. Perhaps that womanizer, Oda, had been here.

Keep moving forward.

"My lord." An old voice came.

Peter looked up and saw old Martin helping an old woman slowly walk towards him. The old woman was hunched over, her face covered with wrinkles, and her cloudy eyes were filled with shame and unease. She wore a faded coarse cloth dress, and her hands trembled incessantly with nervousness.

"This is Margaret." Old Martin's voice was unusually calm, but Peter could see that his tightly clenched hands were trembling uncomfortably.

Margaret dared not look Peter in the eye. She lowered her head and whispered, "My lord... I... I am guilty..."

"Speak, Margaret. Tell the truth before God."

Margaret took a deep breath and began to recount the story that had been buried for thirty years. Her voice trembled and choked with sobs, as if every word was stained with blood and tears.

"Thirty years ago..." Her gaze became distant, as if traveling through time, "Martin and John, those two brothers... were both good lads..."

As she narrated, a vivid picture seemed to unfold before Peter's eyes: young Martin was dashing and spirited, his brother John was enthusiastic, and young Margaret was the most beautiful girl in the village, whose smile could captivate the entire village.

"They both fell in love with me..." A blush rose on Margaret's face, but it was quickly replaced by pain. "But I... I chose another man, a wealthy middle-aged man..."

Old Martin closed his eyes, a complex expression appearing on his deeply wrinkled face. His fingers unconsciously caressed the cross necklace hanging on his chest.

"John can't accept it..." Margaret's voice began to choke, "He went to duel that man...on that cliff over there..."

She pointed to a cliff on the east side of the cemetery, where thorns and wild roses now grew.

"John slipped and fell..." Tears finally streamed down her aged face. "We're afraid of being charged with murder... so we'll say John committed suicide..."

Old Martin's voice was hoarse: "Why? Why lie?"

Margaret fell to her knees with a thud: "We were afraid of being punished... afraid of losing everything... all these years, I've regretted it every day... every night I dream of John's desperate eyes..."

Peter noticed that old Martin's body was trembling slightly. This old monk, who had experienced countless battles, seemed so fragile at this moment.

"I buried John... there." Margaret pointed to the outer edge of the cemetery, "against the wall, where I planted a rose bush. Every year I come to pay my respects... hoping his soul will find peace..."

Old Martin sighed deeply, a sigh that contained thirty years of pain and struggle. He bent down to help Margaret up: "Take us to see her."

They came to the rose bush. The deep red roses were in full bloom, but in Peter's eyes, these flowers looked like congealed drops of blood, telling a sad story.

Without alerting anyone else, Old Martin and Peter carefully began digging. The soil was shoveled away, and the air was filled with the damp smell of earth.

When the decaying skeleton appeared before them, Margaret could no longer contain herself and burst into tears. Old Martin stood quietly, his gaze fixed on the skeleton, as if looking back through time at his brother.

"John..." Old Martin's voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

Peter saw that old Martin's fingers were gripping the cross tightly, his knuckles white from the force. His lips trembled slightly, as if he were saying something silently.

"Sir Peter," old Martin suddenly turned to Peter, "you said...you can see souls?"

Peter nodded, even though he couldn't see anything.

"Please tell me..." Old Martin's voice was pleading, "How is John... how is he now?"

Peter closed his eyes, pondered for a moment, and then slowly opened them.

"I saw him," Peter said softly. "He's a handsome young man with a radiant smile..."

Old Martin's breathing became rapid.

"He was waving at me..." Peter continued, "He was smiling... He said thank you for everything you've done for him..."

Old Martin's body began to tremble, and tears streamed down his weathered face.

"He said... for so many years, he has been attached to the cross necklace, following you through the clash of swords and the sights of the world... He has seen your hardships, your tears, your devotion, and your confusion..."

With each word Peter spoke, old Martin's trembling intensified.

"He said you should let go of your obsessions and live a more relaxed life... He's tired too, and wants to return to the Lord's paradise..."

"John... my dear brother..." Old Martin finally broke down in tears, kneeling on the ground, his thirty-year-old knot of resentment completely unraveling at this moment. His cries echoed like those of a wounded beast in the silent cemetery.

Margaret was also in tears. She reached out her trembling hand, as if to comfort old Martin, but hesitated and withdrew it.

Peter stood quietly to one side, letting the two elderly people release the emotions they had suppressed for thirty years. Morning light filtered through the elm branches, casting dappled shadows on them. The clear, melodious chirping of birds in the distance contrasted sharply with the sorrowful scene.

After a long while, old Martin finally raised his head. His eyes were red and swollen, but his expression was noticeably more relaxed.

"Let...let John rest in peace." His voice was still hoarse, but it had regained its composure.

They carefully reburied John's remains in a corner of the cemetery. Old Martin personally placed the cross that had been with him for thirty years into the grave, burying it alongside his brother's remains. Peter transplanted the rose bush that had grown for many years to the grave.

"Goodbye, John," old Martin said softly. "May you rest in peace in heaven."

Just as the earth was about to cover the cross, old Martin seemed to see that transparent soul wave to him one last time, then turn into specks of golden light and rise into the sky.

The sunlight suddenly became exceptionally bright, as if heaven had truly opened its doors. Old Martin looked up at the sky, a relieved smile finally appearing on his face.

Margaret stepped forward timidly: "Martin...can you forgive me?"

Old Martin remained silent for a long time before finally nodding: "We should all let go of the past."

This simple action, this brief answer, seemed to carry an immense weight. Thirty years of grudges and affections finally came to an end at this moment.

The transplanted rose in the cemetery swayed gently in the wind, as if bidding farewell to everything that had passed.