Basilio Cortado
The trees swayed in the twilight, the air heavy around him. Basilio's mind was hazy, all organized thought faint and distant. His head ached, and he couldn't see a thing. Where was he?
He opened his left eye, his right eye having swollen shut. As his eye adjusted to the dimming light, the first sight to greet his vision was Rufilio's distraught face. No, not distraught, that wasn't quite the expression. He looked terrified and in considerable pain. But something wasn't quite right about that, either. His mouth was open far too wide, and his skin was slack and pale. What was that smell? It itched something in the back of his mind. He shoved the thought aside.
'R-Rufi-lio' Basilio managed to stammer out. Why was talking so difficult? His mouth felt rubbery, his jaw and teeth lose. His ribs ached as if they were broken, and why couldn't he feel his left arm? He looked back to his best friend, again, straining his mind to remember why he, no, why both of them were here in the forest. 'What did they do to you? I came to help you, to save you.' He tried to move forwards, only to find himself unable to budge. He glanced down, and his brain slowly processed the ropes that secured him to a tree. What? Why was all of this so familiar to him? An echo of history? The itch in the back of his mind came back.
Suddenly, Basilio remembered. Horrified, he looked up again, to see Rufilio's gaunt, lifeless corpse tied to the tree across from him. He let his eye drift past him to the myriad trees bearing identical bodies with uniforms and ropes. 'No,' he uttered, each dead face staring blankly ahead in an eternal expression of agony, each body conveying a name and a rank that seared itself into Basilio's mind.
The wind rustled through the forest, carrying the stench of rotted corpses straight into Basilio's face. The wind also carried the voices. Slight murmurs on the wind drifted into Basilio's ears. Immobile, he couldn't help but hear what was being said. Scraps of words teased him with semblances of coherent phrases. Slowly, he pieced them all together. With horror, he stared at his fallen comrades, now turned to stare accusingly at him with unseeing eyes. They screamed, they howled....they didn't make a sound.
He could hear the words of the dead.
This is all your fault, alL YoUR fauLT, ALl yOUR FaULT, ALL YOUR FAULT
Basilio woke with a start. Cold sweat covered his face. He lay there for a while, collecting his thoughts, separating fact from fiction. The memories of that awful night still haunted him, keeping him awake at all hours of the night. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't! Right?
He sat up, startling the snake that had curled up near him for warmth as he had slept. It slithered away in surprise. As Basilio watched it, a mosquito buzzed past his ear, landing on his neck for a midnight feast of blood. The woods! Bah!
*Smack!* Ugh, bug guts, to boot. Basilio sighed and stood, making his way towards the river. He didn't care if the spy watching him did kill him for leaving his camp, he needed to wash up, and a cold bath would help keep him awake for the rest of the night.
As he washed, he heard a curious sound. Basilio, his interest piqued, followed it to the ground, of all places. He layed flat on the forest floor with his ear pressed through the leaf litter. Faintly, he heard clinks of metal against metal and the creak of leather stretching. He moved himself to a sitting position, contemplating what he had just heard.
So. The rebels were off. The supply shipment would be taken and the rebels would feast triumphantly on Zankor Imperial rations. But they wouldn't hold the supply route. Basilio would see to that.