Mythurien

This is a little piece I wrote while bored. There is no backstory other than what is hinted at, and it is intended to turn into nothing, at least not right now. It just is what it is.
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"What is it?" the General asked. He held up the glass and examined it in the firelight. The contents were dark and thick.

Hem had been looking out the tent flap. He now turned his attention back inside. "I’m sorry?"

"What is it? In the glass..."

"Hemlock." Hem said it without emotion. His finger rested lightly on the crossbow release, the weapon pointing directly at the General’s chest. It wasn’t shaking even a little.

"How poetic," the General said. "Is it painful?"

"Ask the townsfolk."

"They’re all dead."

"I know. Didn’t you hear them screaming?"

The General shook his head. "I didn’t stay that long."

"Do you ever?"

The General half turned toward Hem. "No."

Hem breathed a laugh. "Ever seen a man die of a heart attack?"

The General nodded.

"That’s what it’ll be like. I was just trying to scare you."

"Well done." The General walked across the room, aware of the crossbow following his path, to the foot of his bed. There were reports strewn about it with some maps of the surrounding terrain mixed in. He pushed these aside and sat down. He looked at Hem. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Hem said. He hadn’t moved at all; he must have had confidence
in his aim.

"Are you a spy or just a traitor?"

"Neither," Hem said. "Or at least, I don’t think so. I’m just a man following his conscience."

"A dangerous thing in the military."

"It’s dangerous anywhere."

In spite of the situation, the General managed a chuckle. "I suppose."

"If you’re wondering, it was —"

The General waved him off. "I don’t need to know your motivation. But I do wonder about your method."

"The hemlock."

"Yes."

"I would have thought you’d see that right away. To answer your earlier question, I’m not a spy. I remain loyal to the crown."

"You remain..."

"...loyal, yes. I do not wish to jeopardize our position in the war. But I do believe that this army can be led by someone better than you. Thus the hemlock. I’m giving you the opportunity to kill yourself so the other side doesn’t get to propagandize the assassination of the general of the enemy."

"And the crossbow?"

"Plan B. If you can’t go through with the suicide, I kill you myself and the other side gets a much needed morale boost. The choice is yours."

The General rose again and walked to his desk. He set the hemlock down
upon it. "Can I write a letter?"

He heard the crumple of paper behind him. He turned to see Hem holding a piece of parchment out before him. "I’ve taken the liberty of writing one for you. It explains everything. Remorse for recent actions, et cetera. You can read it if you wish and write your own if you aren’t satisfied. I just figured I’d save you the trouble."

He tossed the letter onto the floor and the General crossed to pick it up. He returned to his desk and sat down to read it. It was succinct, but ultimately satisfying. He picked up the glass again, looking straight ahead at the wall of his tent.

"Hem?"

"Yes?"

"You were a good soldier."

"Thank you, sir."

The General brought the cup to his lips, took a breath, then tilted his head back and downed the whole thing. It tasted bitter and left a slightly numbed feeling in its wake. He set the cup down and asked, "How long will it take?"

There was no reply. The General turned to see that Hem had already left, the only sign of his passage being the tent flap slipping back into place.