Elya blows out a breath and leans forward onto the table. "I can't do this, Arthur Hornraven."
You raise an eyebrow. "Can't do what?"
"Fight this battle… win this war." She chuckles grimly and wipes her eyes. "Before, when I was thinking to myself, I knew it would be hard. Hell, I was mentally preppin' myself for all this. But now, with it starting… tomorrow…" She trails off.
After a breath, she looks up into your eyes. "God, it feels so much more… real." She pauses to consider for a moment. "You understand me, right? I know of war, of violence, from history books or from stories or… hell, from atop the palace walls. But never once have I been so close and involved in it."
"So it seems," she says. "Because… I just wanted to live my life. But now people, my people, are going to die."
"I haven't killed anyone… ever," your sister says shakily. She looks down and takes a deep breath. Her voice low, she asks, "Will I have to?"
You shrug. "Hard to say. You've no combat training, so you're not goin' on the frontlines. Especially 'cause you're the damn queen."
"But I've sword-fought with you—"
You break out laughing. "Ellie, a real battle ain't a goddamn sword fight. It ain't a bunch of honorable knights dueling each other, it's a bloody fuckin' mess of boys, desperate for life, beating the ever-lovin' shite out of each other with clubs and spears."
She sighs. "I'm not an idiot, Arthur Hornraven."
"Debatable," you reply flatly, trying to lighten the mood. She rolls her eyes.
Elya continues, saying, "I just feel as if I'm abandonin' them."
Okay," she replies. She nods to herself. "Okay."
You raise an eyebrow. "And you'll be all right?"
"I… I think so," your sister says.
"Am I dismissed then?" you ask.
A sad smirk spreads onto Elya's face, and she offers you a rough salute. "Dismissed, soldier."
She chuckles grimly, a bizarre, foreign sound coming from your sister. "I'm not the one on the frontlines."
"For the record, I ain't gonna be on the frontlines either."
"Fuck. You know what I mean."
"Aye. I'll stay safe. Relatively."
"Asshole," she mutters.
You chuckle and move toward the exit of the pavilion. "G'night."
"Good night."
With this final statement, you leave the pavilion.
Back into the cold.
Back into reality.
Next
Darin is standing just beyond the pavilion's entrance, having been waiting for you to finish your conversation with Elya. As you leave, he limps toward you, falling in line on your left as the two of you walk away from the command pavilion.
You walk in silence for a few moments before he speaks up, saying, "I's gonna be busy fer the night."
"How come?" you ask.
"I gotta distribute orders 'n shit. Also got to make sure everyone knows who to report to. Gotta organize work crews as well." He cracks his knuckles. "I's leave foragin' parties for yer direction tomorrow."
"Nah, I'm good," Darin says.
"Are you sure?" you ask the limping man beside you.
Darin chuckles. "Sometimes, lad, ya jus' gotta accept some fuckin' generosity."
"It don't sit well with me, gov'nor. Passin' the work off on others," you say with a sigh.
"Lad, you's been workin' yer whole damn life. Jus' let me take care of it, aye?"
"Fine. But I ain't responsible for your inevitable sleep deprivation," you deadpan.
"Yeah, yeah. I's deal with the consequences in the morning."
You glance around your surroundings. After having exited the command pavilion in the center of the camp, you've walked to the outskirts near the river, staring down the enemy campsite. The cause of your deadlock. Your eyes scan over the enemy camp for perhaps the tenth time this night.
Darin, noticing that you've stopped, limps up to your side. He glances at you as you stare out into the distance.
"Arthur Hornraven?" he asks.
You're snapped from your near trance. "Yeah?"
"I's… gonna go get started. You's free to go talk to who you want, then. Check in with whoever. Make yer peace and all that shite, aye?" Darin says.
"Aye."
"G'night, Marshal."
"G'night."
With his goodbyes said, Darin limps off in another direction, leaving you to look upon the enemy camp, sprawled across the snow, as the sun sets to your right.
Next
You break your gaze from the camp once more. Darin's departing words stick in your mind. You could pay some people a visit before you go to sleep. With the battle looming over your head, it would be difficult to sleep anyway.
You mull over the people you would consider visiting. Of course, there's always the option of sleep.
You decide to finally get some rest before the battle. You make your way to the rear of the camp where your personal tent, rather than a pavilion, resides, directly beside Darin. After all you went through together in Krorid, it's practically habitual to pitch your tent next to his.
You push through the entrance and secure it shut behind you. You detach your scabbard and drop it beside your bedroll before sliding your dagger out of your boot and under your pillow. A second dagger is located on the opposite side of the bedroll from your sword.
You strip down to your undergarments quickly, tossing the dirty clothes onto a sack containing more of your personal belongings. A second chest sits next to it, your armor contained within.
The warmth of your bedroll is a welcome change in the chill of the winter air. The awful exhaustion in your bones fully sets in. Eyes drooping, you lay on your side, waiting for sleep's blissful embrace.
But it doesn't come.
Next
For an hour you toss and turn, willing, demanding your body to rest.
But you can't.
It is truly agonizing, feeling the pull of complete exhaustion but being incapable of sleep. Your mind wanders and races, through memories new and old, unable to find rest. In bouts of paranoia, brought upon by memories of The War, you glance periodically at the entrance.
You know nothing will be there, but like a child afraid of monsters, your anxious eyes scan anyway. It has been so long since true, comfortable sleep. The only times you manage to sleep deeply is when your body is pushed well beyond the point of exhaustion, such as after your mad dash to Wrido or in the baths of Salutis.
But this exhaustion, typical exhaustion for a soldier on campaign, isn't enough to silence the spinning and spiraling of your mind.
Old paranoia from the jungles of Krorid keep you awake. So much of your life now is forged by this paranoia. The experiences you went through, the things you saw, cannot be forgotten.
They are completely engraved into your psyche, and even five years detached from the end of it all, you can't shake them. Being on campaign has only made it worse, bringing the instincts back in full force.
You always face doorways. You sometimes find yourself listening for the rustle of branches—the only true sign of an incoming ambush. You're still immensely uncomfortable with little kids. You can't bring yourself to sleep beneath a forest canopy without a roof covering you.
You pull your blanket down and run a finger over one of your scars. It's a deep one, the stitch marks still visible in the messy line of the cut. It was where a dagger had pierced while you slept. Worst of all, it's not even the worst thing you awoke to in Krorid. As you feel the damaged flesh, your mind drifts…
And drifts…