Mira sighs in frustration. "For God's sake… can't you see I'm trying to relate to you? Can't you see I'm trying to reconcile with you?"
Mira shakes her head. "See, this is why we could never see eye to eye. Because you don't—"
"We couldn't see eye to eye because you maimed me," you interrupt. Anger, only bolstered by your own self-hatred, begins to seep into your voice.
"I was drunk."
"I was seven."
She sighs. "Must we do this now?"
You swallow hard. Trying to pull the rage back within yourself. Trying to contain it all, like you always do.
You need to throw something. Break something. Hurt something. Just get it out of you. Release the pain.
And Mira's in front of you.
She seems oblivious to the storm spiraling within you. "What's wrong, bastard?"
So many dead. All their lifeless faces haunt your mind, driving you halfway to madness.
And Mira has just broken the dam.
Your fist slams into the side of her face, knocking her backward. She stumbles to the ground. You take a step forward, staring down at her stunned form. Mira looks up at you, rubbing her jaw.
All eyes are on you now. Everyone stares at you, seething above the crumpled form of a widow.
Before she can speak, you…
You drop to one knee beside her and strike again, slamming her back to the ground.
She rolls onto her stomach, holding her chest up with her arms as she spits blood into the grass.
After a moment, the woman turns to look at you. Eyes distant, she's in another world as much as you are.
Mira says, "Oh, Sobik… you haunt me still."
From behind you, a soldier calls out, "Marshal! There ain't honor in a man beatin' a widow!"
You ignore the statement and seize Mira's jaw, forcing her to look you in the eyes. "I believe I've made myself clear."
"I was just here… to fetch you…" She runs a hand over her mouth, wiping away blood. "Elya. She wanted me to get you."
You release her jaw and leave her to wallow in her pain.
Next
The tents and pavilions of the nobility are in the same state as those of the peasantry. It's a party. A party celebrating death.
You hear talks of the battle, the glory of combat and the men slain. Do they not know the dead are their own countrymen?
It only makes you feel more isolated. It feels as if everyone but you is merry and joyful. You feel alone, trapped in a cage of misery, left only to your own thoughts for company. I am the reason they're here.
And your thoughts rarely have anything pleasant to say. I am the leader, the cause of this horrible violence.
As you walk to Elya's pavilion, a familiar face catches your eye. Milon is sitting among his peers, circled around a campfire, feasting and drinking.
As you walk by, you notice a crutch resting against the chair he's sitting on. From your brief glimpse, you see no cast or splint. You wonder what injury he may have sustained.