Rain fell in sheets over the fields of Kazimierz.
Not the gentle sort farmers prayed for, but a hard, unrelenting downpour that soaked cloth through to skin and turned the earth into a sucking mire. The sky was a dull, unbroken gray, pressing low and heavy, as though it meant to flatten the world beneath it.
The tall youth drove his shovel into the ground again.
Water streamed down the handle, slick beneath his grip. Mud clung stubbornly to the blade, heavy and reluctant, and every time he wrenched it free the earth seemed to pull back, unwilling to let go. His boots were half-submerged now, the ground around the grave churned into a brown slurry that swallowed each step.
The soil of Kazimierz did not give easily—especially not today.
He leaned into the work, shoulders hunched against the rain, cloak plastered to his back like a second skin. The fabric had once been thick and dark; now it hung heavy and faded, rainwater dripping steadily from its frayed hem. His hair clung to his face and neck, darkened and tangled, strands plastered across his eyes until he shoved them aside with the back of his hand.
Another shovelful.
Then another.
The grave was deep enough. He knew that. Deep enough to keep the wolves away. Deep enough that the rain would not wash the dead back into the light. Yet he kept digging, breath coming hard, muscles burning beneath soaked wool and leather.
If he stopped, the rain would have nothing to compete with.
If he stopped, there would be only silence.
Behind him, laid upon a sodden cloak spread carefully over the grass, lay the body of Sir Arlan of Brzozowa Polana.
Rain dotted the old knight's peaceful face, beading in his beard and gathering in the hollows of his closed eyes. The youth had wiped the water away more than once, as if the dead man might drown otherwise, but it always returned. The sky did not care.
Sir Arlan was wrapped in his knight's cloak—the green one, its silver stitching dulled to a ghost of what it had once been. A device had been there once: a tree beneath a crescent moon. Now it was barely visible beneath age, wear, and rain. His sword lay across his chest, hands folded around the hilt with a care that felt wrong for something so final.
The youth swallowed and drove the shovel down harder.
Stand straighter, lad. Knights don't stoop.
The voice came unbidden, as clear as if the old knight stood at his shoulder, rain dripping from the brim of his helm. The youth clenched his jaw and worked faster, mud splashing up his legs.
He had always been big. Too big, some said. A head taller than most men, shoulders broad, limbs long and ill-fitting, as if he had been stretched too quickly and never quite settled into himself. Sir Arlan used to joke that the land itself had overreached when it made him.
"Gods needed a ladder," Arlan would say, chuckling into his beard. "So they made you."
The rain swallowed the memory—but not before it cut deep.
The shovel struck stone with a dull, jarring thud.
The youth froze.
Frustration surged up his chest, sharp and sudden. He yanked the shovel free and slammed it down again, harder this time. Mud splattered his legs, his cloak, his hands. The earth refused him still.
"Kurwa," he hissed, breath ragged.
He planted the shovel and leaned on it, shoulders trembling. Rain streamed down his face in rivulets that felt too much like tears.
For a heartbeat, he wanted to stop.
Then he straightened.
Get on with it.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and dug again.
Behind him, a new sound cut through the rain.
Hooves.
He stiffened, turning slowly.
A lone rider approached at an easy pace, black horse moving sure-footed through the mud. The man wore a hooded cloak, plain and travel-worn, rain running in dark lines from its hem. He did not hurry, nor did he linger at a distance.
"Ho there," the rider called out.
The voice made the youth's chest tighten.
Old—but strong. Weathered, yet full of life.
For a breathless moment, it sounded like Ser Arlan.
The rider drew nearer and reined in his horse. Beneath the shadow of the hood, the youth glimpsed a thick beard streaked with gray, rain dripping from its ends.
"What's all this, then?" the man asked, friendly and curious. "Digging in weather like this."
The youth swallowed.
"I-I'm burying s-someone," he said.
The rider nodded once.
"Someone dear, I take it."
"My mentor," the youth replied. "Ser Arlan."
The man bowed his head.
"My condolences," he said quietly.
Rain pattered between them. Then the rider looked at the grave, at the shovel, at the youth's shaking hands.
"Need help?"
"Yes," the youth began—
But the man was already dismounting.
"Eh," he said, landing lightly in the mud. "I'll help you anyway."
He laughed as he stepped closer, eyes bright despite the rain.
"Subhannal—," he said, looking the youth up and down. "You're taller than I thought. Almost as tall as my wife! Ha!"
The word lingered in the youth's mind as the man led his black horse to a nearby tree, tying it alongside the youth's three horses.
Subhannal?
What does that mean?
The man returned, pushing back his hood.
"Ah, crap." he said, glancing around. "Didn't bring a shovel."
He held up his hands.
"I'll use these. You use yours."
Then he extended one mud-ready hand.
"Don Quixote," he said cheerfully. "Or Ser Don Quixote, if you must. And don't you worry about me, I'm quite strong and resilient, been digging ditches with hands during campaigns."
The youth hesitated, then took it.
"Dymitr," he said shakily. "Dymitr. S-Ser—"
Don Quixote laughed, loud and warm, and clapped him on the shoulder.
"No need for that. Call me Don."
He nodded toward the grave, expression softening.
"Come on. Your master's cold already. Let's not make him freeze any longer, Mother nature's embrace will warm his final rest."
Don dropped to his knees and began digging with his bare hands.
Dymitr inwardly felt guilt.
Guilt at letting an elderly digging a ditch with no tools, while he himself had the tool.
But, he cannot say, nor think anything clearly about it.
Let's make this quick.
So, he lifted his shovel.
Side by side, in the pouring rain, they worked.
Then his expression softened, and he nodded toward the grave.
"Now come on," he said gently. "Your master's cold already. Let's not make him freeze any longer."
He dropped back to his knees and resumed digging with his bare hands.
Dymitr swallowed, then lifted his shovel again.
Side by side, in the pouring rain, they worked—one with steel and wood, the other with earth-stained hands—until the grave was deep enough at last.
And for the first time since Ser Arlan had drawn his final breath, Dymitr did not feel quite so alone.
========
The hole was finally deep enough.
Both of them stood for a moment, bent at the waist, breath steaming in the cold rain. Mud caked their cloaks, their boots, their hands. It clung stubbornly to skin and fabric alike, dark and heavy—but the rain washed it away as fast as it gathered, streaking them both clean and filthy all at once.
Ser Don Quixote straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders, rain running freely down his beard. Dymitr leaned on his shovel, chest heaving, arms trembling from effort and cold.
"It'll do," Don said at last, nodding toward the grave. "Got a good depth."
Dymitr said nothing. He stepped past Don and knelt beside the body.
Rain had soaked Sir Arlan's cloak through, darkening the green until it was nearly black. Water beaded along the lines of his face, traced the deep creases of age and laughter alike. Dymitr hesitated, then slid one arm beneath his mentor's shoulders, the other beneath his knees.
Sir Arlan felt lighter than he should have.
That frightened him—but what struck him more was the expression on the old knight's face.
At peace.
No tension pulled at his brow. No bitterness clung to the corners of his mouth. He looked as though he had simply laid down to rest after a long road.
"I've got you," Dymitr murmured, though he did not know who he was speaking to.
Carefully, with steps measured and reverent, he carried Sir Arlan to the edge of the grave and lowered himself in with him, boots sinking into the wet earth. He laid the old knight down gently, adjusting the cloak at his shoulders, straightening the sword across his chest one final time.
Then he climbed back out.
He took up the shovel.
For a moment, he stood there, poised to begin.
Then he noticed Don.
Ser Don Quixote had stepped back, arms raised slightly, palms open to the rain, head bowed. The posture was familiar—halfway between prayer and offering.
Dymitr hesitated.
Don opened one eye and smiled faintly.
"It's up to you," he said gently. "When you'd begin a prayer for the dead. Many cultures across Terra I've seen have their own ways. Their own moments. You can do it now, or later. The main point is the peace in the heart to let go."
Dymitr swallowed and nodded.
He planted the shovel upright in the mud.
Awkwardly, uncertain of his hands, he clasped his forearms across his chest as he had seen others do—knights, mostly, before battle or burial. He lowered his head. Rain pattered against his neck and soaked into his collar, but he did not move.
For a long moment, nothing came.
Then, quietly, he began.
"I... don't know many words," he said, voice low. "Ser Arlan didn't care much for long prayers."
Don inclined his head, listening.
"He taught me to stand straight," Dymitr continued. "To keep my blade clean. To eat when there's food and sleep when there's shelter. He said a knight doesn't need much more than that."
His throat tightened.
"He gave me his name before he gave me his sword. Said that meant more."
Rain ran down his face unchecked.
"If there are roads beyond this one," Dymitr said, haltingly, "I hope they're dry. And straight. And quiet."
He bowed his head deeper.
"And if there are battles," he added, "I hope he doesn't have to fight them alone."
Silence followed, broken only by rain.
Then Ser Don Quixote cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"Here rests," he began, voice steady and solemn, "Ser Arlan—"
"—of Brzozowa Polana," Dymitr said softly.
Don paused, then nodded.
"Here rests Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana," he continued, "a knight of the road, a keeper of old ways, and a teacher of those who still walk them."
He gestured toward Dymitr.
"He held no castle, commanded no banners, and bent his knee to no lord—but he carried his honor with him, and that was enough."
Don's voice softened.
"He stood when standing was hard. He taught when teaching would leave him poorer. And when his road ended, he left behind what all true knights hope to leave behind."
He looked to Dymitr.
"A better man than the one he found."
The rain seemed to ease, just slightly.
Dymitr picked up the shovel.
The first load of earth struck the coffinless body with a dull, final sound. He flinched, then forced himself to continue.
Shovel after shovel, he laid the dirt down.
Beside him, Don knelt and pushed soil in with his hands, fingers working steadily, lips moving in murmured prayers too quiet to hear. Mud caked his knuckles, washed away, then returned again.
Neither of them hurried.
When the last of the earth was laid and the mound rose firm and whole, they gathered stones and pebbles from the nearby stream, placing them carefully atop the grave. Each rock was set with intention, weighing the earth down, marking the place.
When it was finished, the mound stood solid against the rain.
Two figures remained beside it—silent, soaked, and standing watch.
A knight laid to rest.
And two still walking the road.
His story, begins.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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