Destan "Doc" Loche Autobiography, Part IV

I, like many other survivors, consider the March of Thirst to one of the lowest points of my life. My dear friend and fellow veteran of the Tenth Lucius Sulla has written an excellent and comprehensive book series detailing the March, so I have decided not to delve too far into it here. A few things of note happened during the March that affected me greatly throughout the years. Some of it still does.

Out of the twenty Healers that were alive and present at the start of the battle in Hegathe, only twelve of us walked into the desert. Of those twelve, only five of us walked out. Our lack of water was the greatest killer, followed closely by the heat. Even after we ceased marching during the day, instead taking cover under makeshift shelters until dusk, men would die from overheating or thirst. Their comrades would go to rouse them from sleep and find them stiff, their eyes staring into the void. It was especially hard on the Nords in the Legion, including Master Lorrick. The two of us shared a shelter that was merely two tarpaulins bound together and lashed down to our heavy packs with a pole supporting the middle. The heat affected him so greatly that at noon I would rise, throw open the flaps and freeze a folded cloth with a simple Frost spell for him to wrap around his neck. He would curse me for a fool for wasting my Magicka, but would accept the cloth and lie back weakly all the same.

Around the tenth day a young Bosmer, one of the carriage drivers, was kicked and then trampled by an oxen that went mad from thirst. His condition was dire, but it was a blessing to old Lorrick and I. Finally we could do something to save someone, rather than sitting by helpless to stop the constant death around us. Unfortunately, while we were treating the young Mer’s battered body, he suddenly awoke in a fit of terror and rage. The ox had struck his head, and he was very confused and frightened. He began to fight, threw Master Lorrick to the ground and pummeled , scratched and even attempted to bite me. I pinned him to the table to stop him from causing further injury, to he and I both, and tried desperately to keep him there. I almost fell over when his body went entirely rigid and his grip lost all strength. I looked to find Lorrick straining to hold the Paralyzing spell over the boy, the old Nord doubled over and quivering with pain. I knew he would not be able to keep the spell long enough for me to find and administer a sleeping drought, so I did the one thing I could think of. I stood, aimed carefully, and drove a punch directly into the Bosmer’s chin. His eyes, the only thing capable of movement, rolled up into the back of his head and I knew he was unconscious. He faded away not a moment too soon. Lorrick collapsed in a heap and suddenly I had two patients.

Master Lorrick passed two days later. The fight and subsequent fall had broken his hip. Combined with the sheer strain of the paralyzation spell, the lack of water and adequate food, and his stubborn refusal of treatment proved too much for his old body to take. I awoke at noon that day, flung open the flaps and prepared his frozen rag, along with a stiff potion for pain. When he didn't stir and didn't respond to my calls, I turned him over by the shoulder. I knew he was dead, but I checked his wrinkled neck for a heartbeat anyway. Even in the blazing heat of the desert his skin was cold as ice. I sat and looked at him for a long time. He looked so frail, so old, this curmudgeonly Master of Aetherius who taught me so much. He'd seemed invincible, more like a vibrant force of nature than a mere man. Yet there he was, lips cracked and eyes vacant. One of the Apprentices came to our tent for supplies and found me there with him. He snapped me out of my haze, and together we managed to scrounge up enough wood to build the old Nord a pyre. We sent his soul to Sovengarde just before dusk, the sun dancing in different shades of orange and pink in the smoke. When the sun set, we packed our things up and moved out.

Many more men died before we reached the High Rock border, and I became totally numb to it. I, being the senior Healer, was promoted to Master and given the unenviable task of cataloging new casualties. I went about this duty with a cold precision, as if I were counting swords or sacks of grain instead of people. We continued to treat those injured in the battle, but that too was like shoveling sand against the tide. Without proper rest, nutrition and clean water, many of the wounds became infected and festered. We lacked enough water to clean them with, and so were reduced to removing the corruption as best we could with our hands and blades. Many of them died of fever. Lucius nearly lost his leg to stubbornness and machismo before the General himself ordered him to report to me and gave him a horse. Several of my Healers dropped dead from exhaustion caused by the constant casting of Restorative spells, so I was forced to forbid its use except under the most dire circumstances. I truly believe that every last one of them would have sacrificed their own lives to save those of their comrades.

More than my position changed after Lorrick died. I slept less and less, and not simply because of the increase of my duties. Every time I drifted into deep sleep I began to see the battle at the gate, but more surreal and impossible. The Altmer I killed after the line was breached was suddenly nearly ten feet tall, and my mace hung so heavy in my hands I could barely hold onto it. He would bend down, leering at me, taunting me with a rictus grin and bulging eyes. I would finally manage to swing my mace of stone, the motion always agonizingly slow and the blow itself flaccid. By sheer weight alone his face would split and deform, bones turned to powder and rearranged, but still he advanced. Always menacing, always leering, growing ever larger with every step. I would then, without explanation, suddenly find myself searching for the dying Redguard’s heart, arm buried in his chest. I would reach and reach, until my shoulder stopped my from going any further, but found nothing aside from hollow space. The man stared at me and told me of his children and his wife, demeanor calm and collected. His brother, hysterical, stood above me and dug claw-like fingers into my scalp, screeching madness the entire time. I could feel my flesh being peeled away beneath his talons and the blood that ran hot down my back and dribbled off of my brow. I would find myself standing in the street, just in time to watch the massive fireball arch through the air and feel it smash into the lines at the gate. Searing hot air blasted me and blistered my skin. There was no exaggeration to the smoking pile of gore and corpses that remained. It was a perfect recollection of every detail. Every piece of burnt flesh, scorched cloth and heat deformed metal was exactly as I remembered it.

 An Old Nord drug himself away from the carnage, pulling his lifeless body with a single arm. He crawled towards me, flesh sloughing off in grotesque lumps that stuck to the cobblestones. I would try to go to him, to render aid, or even to put him out of his misery, but remained frozen and silent. Finally his eyes would rise to meet my gaze. Eyes the pale blue of thick ice, hair white as a northern snow. Master Lorrick would stare up at me, his face burned nearly beyond recognition, flesh dripping from his bones. Every time I slept he would raise a skeletal finger to me and utter a single sentence.

“Death is coming, boy, Death is coming for us all.”

I snapped awake soaked in ice cold sweat, the smell of seared flesh still dangled faintly in my memory. Terror gripped my chest and I felt as if I were suffocating. Every day I had the same nightmare. Lorrick, the Altmer and the Redguard brothers terrorized me while I slept, and haunted my memory while I marched. I became anxious to the point of paranoia, Lorrick’s cryptic message repeating itself in my head. It became almost a mantra at times, my steps mirroring the tempo of the words. I became incredibly irritable and increasingly paranoid. I attempted imbibing a sleeping drought, alleged to give the drinker a gentle and dreamless sleep, but found that it made my dreams more vivid and terrible, and did nothing for my general level of distress when I was awake.

I attributed it to stress caused by the Legion’s dire situation. While I was recording the deaths of three soldiers, two Imperials and a Dunmer, I found a half empty bottle of Colovian brandy and a large jug of Sujamma among their belongings. Even though I was aware that consuming alcohol would greatly increase my thirst, I was desperate for relief from my constant torment. I started with a few swallows before lying down. That night I dreamed of fishing with my father in Autumn, the world red and orange and yellow, the breeze coming off the water giving us a slight chill. Father threw a fur across my shoulders and gave me a smile. When I awoke to the brutal reality of the March, I began drinking in earnest.

Even after we were saved by the roaming Alik'r, who led us from oasis to oasis until we reached the High Rock border, I continued to drink. It calmed my constant anxiety and returned my compassion for others. I convinced myself that I had it completely under control, and attempted to monitor my consumption and set a hard daily limit. I would always find some reason to have another swallow though, some horrible image or creeping panic. I soon found myself unable to function normally without at least a few drinks in my belly and just a general discomfort would find me reaching for my flask.

The Alik'r happily provided the Tenth with a stout brew made from fermented goats milk, and this became my drink of choice until we returned to civilization. I was consistently drunk, even as I made tally of casualties and supplies, or delivered reports personally to the General. I was given a commendation alongside several other officers and around a dozen common troopers once we reached the border, and was drunk the entire ceremony. My award was specifically for, “Composure and dedication under extreme adversity, and consistently performing above and beyond the expected duties.” General Decanius gave these awards to us himself, looking each man in the eye and addressing him personally. He pinned the ribbon to the tattered and ragged lapel of my robe and took my hand in a grip that defied the tired look in his demeanor.

“Master Loche,” his deep brown eyes beamed with pride, like a father seeing his son excel for the first time, “it is my opinion that this Legion would not have survived at all were it not for the efforts of yourself and your Healers. The loss of Master Lorrick saddened me tremendously and was a great blow to the Tenth. But you rose to the occasion and filled his daunting boots with great determination and commitment. I am honored to know men like you. Wear this with pride.” The words came off as rehearsed, yet truly heartfelt. I nodded and swallowed a lump in my throat and thanked him. He moved on to the officer beside me. I swayed a little before catching myself.

We staggered into High Rock and bivouacked near the river that marked the border. For three days all semblance of military discipline and order were abandoned, ironically, by command of the General. Men sat on the bank of the massive waterway and lounged about beneath great oaks. I taught a few of the lads how to cast, my rod having bizarrely survived the entire March in perfect condition on our cart. Folk from several nearby villages brought us hundreds of pounds of pork and beef, kegs of ale and cases of wine, bushels of apples and bunches of vegetables fresh from their gardens. The men prepared the meat and ensured not one Legionnaire’s tankard ran dry, whilst the women cooked and served delicious chops of meat cooked with onions and leeks and tomatoes. They glanced at us with genuine concern, and a few held pity in their eyes, but all were kind and generous. An Alderman presented the Staff officers with an entire case of locally brewed liquor made from grain and sweetened with strawberries. It was fantastic.

We were in total shock at having survived our ordeal, and we laughed and truly let our guard down for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. At night, however, you could hear men crying out in their sleep or the soft weeping of a soldier fresh from some horrible nightmare, followed by the gentle reassurances of his comrades. It was joy tinged with sorrow, elation tainted by guilt and a hollow sadness. When I think on it now I realize that we were simply children, tired and scared and yearning for home, with only each other to rely on. There was a desperate feeling in the air as well. Many knew that they would not see the passage of another year. Three days was just long enough to allow us rest without giving the men too much time to reflect on their ordeal. I, for one, spent the majority of the convalescence in a total state of drunkenness.

On the final day Lucius and another Captain from our reinforcing Legion forces, along with several other officers, arrived in our camp. There was a Legion wide feast and after General Decanius gave a galvanizing speech, that included a somber toast to our honored dead, the jubilation went on long into the night. We celebrated our survival, mourned our dead, and excised the final bits of anarchy and wildness. The next morning we arose as one with the dawn and set about the task of building the Tenth back to strength.

     I had the wondrous task of giving a final count of all surviving Legionnaires and Officers to General Decanius. I started out attempting to account for the missing and dead, but quickly realized it would be easier the other way around. At final tally the Tenth had 4,307 men surviving, including wounded. More than half of the Legion had died in the invasion, or lay buried beneath the shifting sands of the great Alik'r. Of those who remained nearly all were malnourished and over half had injuries of some kind. The General collapsed into his camp chair when I gave him the report and even his chief Legate, an enormous and dour brute of an Orc the men called “The Beast”, looked as if he would be ill.

“Spurn of Malacath,” the Legate growled. He spat, either in disgust or to ward off some evil spirit. General Decanius rubbed his palm hard over his face and sat with his hand mouth over his mouth for a long while. His face became hard, and I watched the muscles in his jaw work. His countenance became terrifying, so great was his fury, and he jumped up so suddenly I took a step back. His fists slammed down onto his battered old desk.

“There will be a reckoning for this, I swear by the Nine.” His eyes shot up to mine and burned fiercely with rage. “Prepare yourself, Master, for there will be much and more blood very soon. Dismissed,” he barked. I spun on my heel, careful not to stagger, and sped away from the General’s wrath. I heard him bellow into the night for a long while. I went and found Lucius, who I had seen little of during the March because of our respective duties, and we drank ourselves into a stupor and spoke very little. Both of us knew there was much more violence ahead. Neither of us knew if we would survive it.

End Part IV