The night was similar to all the previous ones. Clouds coursed through their air filled ocean as they hide their glowing jewels called stars. Pyetar's purple light often missing throughout the night, making the children who have no other to sing feel a loss.
The same can be said for adults, traitors and thieves. Especially in the deserter's camp, a place of conflicting identities. Not long ago they were fighting for a foreigner's cause, to shape the world with the one chance they got to do so.
Red is a vibrant and deep color with many emotions attached to it. Still even a painter gets tired of using it too often, seeing his brush stained with crusted red. Whilst his white canvas simply transforms to a red colored one. Splashing even more red on top of it as he hopes to change the outcome. There will be a point in time that the painter comes to realize. "Was this what I wanted to paint? Is this all? This over and over again? Just for it to stay red?"
That's when the painter has to decide. Does he continue? To obey this simplistic idea of his, in the hopes that one day his red paint will come alive and grant him whatever he thought it would be or perhaps the other way around. Maybe a red painted canvas was all he had to desire, how he realized that perhaps his creativity and ingenuity was unrealistic. To stick with what he has been doing and to bargain against himself. "This is the best I can do, and I will continue to do so."
But it doesn't simply have to stop there. The possibilities are after all endless. Even the smallest variables can cause the greatest of changes.
What if suddenly a man wearing the finest of clothes passed by and saw that painter. Enjoying the passion, he buys him a bucket of blue paint. A small thing for the wealthy man but a whole new world for the painter. But what if another painter had the same issue? A man passed him by but instead bought him another bucked of red paint. What will that truly change?
Did they realize the stark differences in their gifts? What were their goals? Is it wrong to buy a man who's painting with solely red another bucket of red paint? Is it stupid to buy such a painter another color?
Now their worlds are entirely different, one realizing how limited he was. Whilst the other still has no other option.
Another choice follows: "Do I quit or do I continue?"
A soldier's life is similar in that aspect. Especially those whose brush has been painting with one color and have only ever known so. In the beginning they all had hopes and dreams. Some strove for the beginning of equality whilst others simply wanted riches of their own. Yet it did not matter how longer they served, how long they painted. They simply had to do the same thing, over and over.
With every passing battle they had to ask themselves. "Was this what I imagined? Is this worth it?"
Many told them themselves it had to be. Otherwise, why would they have left behind their families. It simply had to be worth it.... It had to be. Others were luckier and received attention of outside influences. Offered jobs in other armies or even wedded into nobility.
They could now paint their canvas differently. Yet none of the individuals in the deserter's camp had that chance. They all had to continue painting with red until finally one quit and the others followed. Ignoring the orders from their superior as they fled the camp.
In the span of minutes the foreign cause they entrusted their lives had become the noose they could be hanged for. Their original monarchs would not welcome the idealists that tried to overthrow nobility without a healthy suspicion.
Their suspicion only lightened when they lie six foot under or locked up behind iron bars, so they can mutter their ideology against the wall.
Now where is a deserting band supposed to go? They didn't know. They simply followed Salex as he was the first to leave. Through the forest, through the day and through the night but not through starvation. Finally, reaching civilization they begged for food but were quickly turned down.
"We don't have enough." The villagers said.
"I wouldn't give anything to men like you." The villagers said who recognized the scoundrel.
"May Asariel guide your journey." The elder priestess said as she blessed their path. The little food they received not even able to satiate one soldier's hunger.
They had to eat, They must eat. They had abandoned their ideals once, so it wasn't that hard to do it again. That same day they drew their weapons, killing those who resisted whilst they sacked the villager's houses. Finding the bundled supplies they had hidden.
It didn't matter that the leaves were falling from the tree and the nights were growing colder. The deserters, the outlaws, the unwanted were hungry now and were simply for fulling expectation. Even those who did not directly participate could not refuse the bread they were offered even if the hand was bloodied by the corpse of the grandparent shielding their child.
Now fed they made camp. Now fed they realized what they did.
They never stopped brushing their canvas with red. Because they no longer knew how to. They had done it for so long, it just became instinct. Give them another white canvas, and immediately they will try to paint it red. Unless they managed to break out of this self-made cycle.
Accept or repent, that was the choice. Around 20 killed each other that same day, unable to bear the consequences. They left the camp with haste, poisoned their cups and gave it to each other. The holy light had given them life after all and destroying it themselves was considered a grave insult. Yet their lives were mere tainted lights and killing each other a token of respect for the goddess.