Morgan's prisoner passed out from shock. After wrapping his leg, Morgan picked him up and placed him on his back, while I searched through the marines' belongings.
We turned off most of the lanterns as they gave away our position. We didn't want any other squads to sneak up on us. I'm glad Morgan took out the marines, but now... Now, I'm not sure how I feel about searching through the belongings of dead men.
The corpses don't move. Of course, they don't, but I still check them, as if they'll sit up and grab my wrist. The filth of the sewer clings to everything. My fingers are slick with something —sewage, blood, maybe both. The stench is unbearable, but I keep moving.
I find a few musket balls and a badge marked with the crest of the Duchy of Seine. But it's nothing we can use to buy time for our lives. I grab one of the flintlocks lying around and place it into my trousers.
The last thing I pull is a letter from a marine with a bayonet through his skull. I barely read through it, but pause on one phrase: "To Mother..."
The letters are written in uneven strokes. It didn't seem rushed, but rather as if the writer didn't know how to express what they really wanted to say. And never will.
The letter is unfinished, the marine didn't think he would be killed today.
I fold the letter slowly and return it to the man's coat pocket. But the letter confuses me. No, that isn't right. The Idea of a final letter is what trumps me.
Why write to someone you'll never see again? Why waste the time to write the words on paper, never knowing if it'll reach the recipient?
No, that wasn't why Mother taught how to read and write. It wasn't for sentimental letters, but to keep surviving. She taught me math so I could understand the costs of our actions. Mother wrote lies to keep us in places like Ewe's Sanctuary, to keep us from wandering more.
She told me never to waste ink on anything that won't help me see another morning.
Behind me, Morgan grunts as he shifts the unconscious marine off his shoulder, dropping him against the stone wall like a sack of flour. There's blood leaking from his ear from when the musket shot next to it.
Morgan squats beside him, still holding onto his hook. He's breathing heavily, his face streaked with grim, blood, and sweat. The lantern's tiny flame flickers, barely enough to see by.
I watch him slap the marine's cheek twice, slapping him on each side of his face. "Wake up, boy. You die down here, you'll be rat food."
The marine's eyes flutter, wincing and groaning as he clutches his mangled leg. "Wh-where am I?" He manages to say.
"In shit and piss, lad," Morgan tells him." The marine blinks at us, dazed, shaking his head. "Oi, lad... Lad? Bloody hell."
Morgan sighs, then turns to me. "He's out cold, nothing I can do about it."
Morgan stands up, grabs one of the lanterns, and continues to follow the sewer. "Are you going to leave him?" I ask. I glance at the marine, who looks to be no older than nineteen, with a pale face, clutching at his leg. He won't get anywhere with that, and the chances of any other marine finding him are low.
"We can't just leave him," I say. "He'll die down here. And if he doesn't, he'll just tell the other where we went."
Morgan turns around, thinking about my words. "You're right, lad. Might as well put him out of his misery," Morgan says as he takes out his hook. "No worse weight than dead weight."
He steps over to the marine and places the hook near his neck. "Wait!" I yell, grabbing his wrist, "Don't kill him."
"Wait?" He repeats. "You've got a better Idea, lad? Because mercy won't keep him breathing long down here."
"Don't kill him," I repeat. My hand stays on Morgan's wrist as he looks down at me.
"You think this one is going to thank you?" Morgan asks. "He'll bite your hand as soon as he can. Soldiers are trained together, and giving him mercy will make him change the fact that his mates are dead?"
"I'm not asking for thanks," I let go of his wrist and look down at the marine, putting a hand into his coat pocket. The marine suddenly shoots up and grabs my arm, holding it tight. "Kee-keep your bloody hands away from there."
Morgan backhands the marine, the sound echoing, chuckling. "The boy still seems to have some grit left, doesn't he, lad?"
I reach into his coat pocket and pull out a rolled piece of paper. It's a map—not just any map—it's the layout of the sewers running beneath Bruis.
"Well, ain't that lucky?" Morgan jokes. The marine's stare is harsh; not only is he in pain, but he also sees the bodies of the others just lying about.
Morgan takes the layout and begins to study it, setting the lantern beside him so he can read it better.
The marine tries to resettle himself, searching for a more comfortable way to sit, but the pain forces him to stop.
"What's your name?" The words slip from my mouth, my eyes glaring at his ruined leg.
The marine takes a look at me as if he's studying me. I'm not sure what he thinks about someone my age being near a man like Morgan. I could see it on his face, the same expression some men made when I worked in the Ewe's Sanctuary.
"Jonathan," the marine says. "Jonathan Kurt."
"Well, John, I'm Cole. Cole Sear. If you just answer any of our questions, I'll promise you'll make it back to your fellow marines."
Morgan glares at me, but looks back at the layout. I already know what he's thinking. Why am I making a promise that I can't keep?
I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it's to calm John so he doesn't do anything rash. Or perhaps there's a chance he'll live despite his wounds. But the most logical reasoning is that I don't want to see him dead.