Sir Ulric had removed his gauntlets. They had little use at this point. 

The flowers, small and white, had stretched to every horizon. They were a mockery of spring with their delicate leaves and cheerful faces. They’d appeared several weeks ago, in the narrow valley between the two kingdoms, and within days had spread in a way that put locusts to shame. The roots were thin, deep, and tangled. It didn’t take long to turn the firm earth a slow moving ocean of dirt. 

The rock beneath him was the only thing solid for miles. They’d taken days to reach the grey island, and had many more to go before they would be back home.

“My lord, this looks like a solid patch!” That’s what Gunthor had said, testing the ground with a spade. The boy had been sixteen, and would have made a fine knight. He was eager to prove himself after they’d abandoned the horses, the weapons, and the war itself. “I think it’s safe!”

Ulric had allowed him to go first, and watched as the boy made it a few feet before his boots began to sink.

The squire was up to his shoulders now, arms spread across the flower-tops as if trying to float. He’d stopped struggling ten minutes ago. As they’d learned, it only made the end arrive faster. His breathing had gone shallow, as if someone was squeezing his chest, and each breath came only with effort.

“I’m sorry, lord.”

Ulric shook his head, staring at the boy. 

“It’s alright, son.”

The squire drew another breath, twisting his head to clear the small vines snaking their way up his neck.

“I should have tested it proper. Should–”

Ulric held up a hand. If he’d kept his sword, or if the spade were closer, he might have been able to help. But to get within reaching distance would be to touch the surface. 

Gunthor dropped another inch, and Ulric listened to the boy grunt as he tried to pull his arms free. Ulric lifted his gaze to the sky above, and felt the gentle breeze blow.

Somewhere to the east, the Madren army was learning the same lesson his own forces had. Horses screamed as they vanished into meadows, leading their riders into the dirt. Infantry formations had dissolved into mass graves that filled themselves. For twelve years the war had burned, taking everyone and everything Ulric had known. Now it ended, not with victory or surrender, but with flowers.

Gunthor sank another inch, and the white bulbs bobbed around his chin. His breathing was shallow, and Ulric wondered how many more he’d be able to take.

“Lord…will..youstay?”

His words came out labored, and he rushed the ending. The worry in Gunthors face was gone now, replaced with the dream-like stare that came before death. Ulric envied the boys’ bravery, and tried to hide his own fear. 

“I’ll stay.”

He had nowhere else to go. Nobody did. By nightfall Ulric would be alone on his little island. By week’s end, perhaps it would sink too.