The Griffon on the High Hill

It was the night before he and his supporters would strike, the night before their march on the Griffon capital of Weter. They had set up their camp in the woods a few kilometers away. They couldn’t risk being spotted now.

When the night came upon them, Erwin had ordered everyone to put out lamps and fires and go to sleep early. The following day would be a long one, and, possibly, their last one. They would need all the strength they could get.

Highhill himself, however, was restless. He retreated into his tent and sat down at his desk for most of the night. He would study different maps of Weter and the government district. Map after map he would point arrows, draw circles, write notes. He had always been a great planner. Rarely did he improvise, though he was also rarely unprepared. One way or another, this habit demanded not only time but also patience.

Patience he rarely had.

That night, a sergeant entered his tent to check on him.

“Sir,” the young Sergeant reported with a salute. Erwin refused to look over.

“What? I’m busy!” he snapped, staring at his map.

“Me and the others, we, uh... we’re a bit worried.” Erwin slowly turned his head towards him. His judging eye immediately fell upon the sergeant’s dirty uniform, which had multiple brown stains all over it. “Are you alright, Sir?”

The aged Field Marshal gave out a deep sigh in response. “Tomorrow is our big day, soldier. My big day. Do you know what this whole operation is going to cost me if we don’t succeed? Do you?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” the young Griffon replied.

“Of course, you don’t. Nobody understands.” Highhill took a deep breath. “Do you still remember the days of the Empire, soldier?”

The young griffon shook his head. “No, Sir. I’m afraid I wasn’t born back then.”

“I served alongside Governor Teafether back then. Of course, he wasn’t quite Governor at that time, just yet. Our paths split, however, with him pursuing politics and me visiting further military training. As you can imagine, we both rose through the ranks fast, with me becoming General and eventually Field Marshal and him, well... Governor.”

“So Teafether and you were friends, then?”

Highhill slammed his fist on the desk. “Friends... never! I always knew he was corrupt and incompetent! And what happened? What did he do? He ruined this country!”

The sergeant remained silent.

“He ruined my country...” Erwin said quietly. “I still remember the day the empire fell. We all went outside to listen to the town crier as he spread the news. The Griffon Empire was no more! After all these years, after all the glory and power we possessed, it was our own people that were our worst enemy.” He nodded his head. “I see that fact clearly now. Teafether had been unprepared for any such thing as ‘independence’ from the empire, let alone the complete destruction of it. He is the reason for why so many Griffons starved! He is the reason why Griffons freeze in the cold winters up north! And worst of all, he let us become weak and fragile. He and his democratic principles caused the fracture that you see today. It is democracy, it is Teafether why we see violent clashes between radicals these days. It is he who is the reason for why our own people must beg for something as simple as bread today.”

“I know, Sir. My father told me about Teafether’s policies before.”

“Then I hope you know why we are here, and why we have to do what we have to do.”

“Of course, Sir,” he replied with a gentle nod.

“Very well. Now, if you don’t mind, I still have a lot of work to do for tomorrow. Dismissed, soldier.”

“Sir!” the sergeant said, saluting his leader before dashing out of the tent.

Once again, he sat at his desk, plotting. Questions shot through his mind, the creeping suspicion that he had forgotten something in his plan. And what would happen if the Council didn’t back down? And what if the citizens do not approve of his reign?

He tried preparing himself for the worst, rather than the best case scenario. There were some things he could prepare himself for, though he was powerless against most. It was up for fate to decide. He would be the one to shape his country or he would not be at all, that much he knew.

When it was two in the morning, Erwin finally dropped his pen and went to bed. As much as he wanted to stay awake and as paranoid as he was about possible errors in his plan, he knew that an exhausted, tired leader was as valuable as no leader at all.

The Field Marshal’s slumber was troubled. Even in his dreams he couldn’t escape his anxiety. But even then, with doubt plaguing him, he slept. And he would wake up to command his troops and write history. He could only hope that fate would be merciful, and that the history books would remember him as the saviour of Griffonia, not a traitor.

The March on Weter would soon begin.