As the sun shone brightly, a beautiful woman sat cross-legged beneath the shade of one of the many trees in a forest, a soft smile curving her lips. Her long ebony hair draped around her head like a curtain, framing the delicate features of her face perfectly. She was dressed simply, consisting of a plain pink cotton gown and a white shawl. She hummed quietly to herself as she picked away at her embroidery hoop. She had no particular focus on it, but rather enjoyed the simple task of focusing on the smooth thread, poking in and out of the stretched aida.
Joon watched her through half-lidded eyes, a small frown tugging at his lips as he looked at her, hunched over a basket on the ground sitting before her. After a moment, he let out a soft sigh and turned back to look at the clear sky, a few wisps of sugar-spun clouds moving with the warm breeze blowing gently from the east. A gust picked up a few stray leaves, fluttering down onto the blanket of grass below him. They settled against the bare, dirtied bark of some nearby tree, twitching slightly in the light breeze, and then lay still.
He closed his eyes, but not out of exhaustion or tiredness; he just enjoyed the feeling of being outdoors. The sun warmed his skin and his clothes. He breathed deeply, feeling its warmth settle in his lungs. The scent of earth mingled with the fragrance of flowers, creating something almost magical about it all. Joon leaned backward, resting his head against the tree trunk. He felt the rough bark press pleasantly against his scalp.
The woman broke her humming and began to sing. It wasn't anything particularly impressive, nothing that stood out, but there was an air of pure joy in the melody that caught his attention and held it fast. His heart melted, the sweet tune wrapping around him, filling his ears with sound.
"For in the fateful, promised morning, the sun shall shine on faces bright," she sang, her voice soft and rich with emotion. "All traces of their previous mourning—"
"Now a requiem to the night, their faces alit and adoring," he finished the verse, singing quietly.
The woman laughed, setting her hoop down into the basket next to her. She sat up, smoothing her skirt and holding her arms open wide. "Come here, Joon. My precious son," she cooed lovingly.
She stretched out her arm, and this time Joon took the invitation and stood, stretching languidly. With practiced ease, he lowered himself onto the blanket, sitting directly across from her. He propped his chin on his hands, smiling widely at the scene that unfolded before them.
"I feel like I haven't seen you in a lifetime," she said, gently stroking his hair. He hummed softly, leaning forward to give her better access. She grinned and started combing through his strands, humming along softly as she did so.
Joon sighed, looking off at the horizon, letting his eyes roam as he listened to her words. "I wish I could stay here forever," he confessed softly.
She smiled. A pang of bitter sadness twitched in his chest. "I must leave, my son." She brushed aside the stray strands from his face tucking a piece behind his ear. "You know that as well as I do."
He stood up. "Please, don't go," he pleaded, turning around to face her.
His eyes snapped open, arm outstretched. Sorrow curled in his chest as his dying words lingered on his lips. Above him, a dark green ceiling loomed, shadows converging at its center like silent sentinels. As his hand instinctively tightened into a loose fist and fell to his chest, he became aware of the weight of his unspoken burden.
With a deliberate movement, he sat up, the coarse woolen blanket rustling beneath him. A sigh escaped his lips, carrying away the remnants of the fading dream that clung to the edges of his consciousness. In the dim light, he rubbed at his face and tired eyes, feeling a deep sense of weariness in his body. Dreams and hidden wishes seemed to choose the most inconvenient moments to haunt him.
The growing ache in his shoulder demanded attention, and he began to nurse it, fingers kneading the tense muscle until the knot loosened. Another sigh escaped, carrying both relief and a sense of resignation. Pushing the blanket aside, he rose to his feet, the cold floor chasing away the warmth lingering in his muscles.
Only now did he truly take in his surroundings. The tent, once bustling with activity, now seemed nearly deserted. Neatly made bedrolls lined the space, interrupted only by the presence of two men wrapped in bandages, deep in restorative sleep. The flap of the tent was closed, allowing only a thin sliver of daylight to penetrate the dim interior. Along the sides, packs of supplies and rolls of maps stood in organized rows.
His senses heightened. Why abandon a camp and leave essential supplies behind? As the realization settled in, his head jerked toward the tent flap, and he tensed at the distant sound of a triumphant whoop, cutting through the hushed atmosphere.
A commotion was gathering outside. Raised voices and shouts drifted toward him. He stood up, slipping his hooded tunic over his head and pulling a cloak over his shoulders before stepping out into the clearing. An older man was speaking, gesturing wildly with his right arm while gesturing toward someone standing behind him. Another young man, much younger than the first, was watching in awe as the other spoke. A middle-aged man with brown hair stood near them, looking on in disbelief as if entranced by whatever was transpiring around him. Two more men— one wearing armor with a dark blue sash wrapped about his waist, the other dressed completely in white— stood next to the group, their weapons sheathed.
"My lord," Joon greeted the elder man before him. "What's the situation?"
The man turned and nodded, acknowledging his presence. The Duke's greying hair was cut short, and his clothing was the standard issue of military uniforms for generals— black breeches, boots with heels, a blue doublet, and a white shirt under a navy blue cape. Despite his formal attire, however, he seemed relaxed as he regarded Joon. Elated, even.
The young man next to him— Arlan, an enthusiastic scout with a head of messy golden curls— interjected, jumping with joy. "The war. It's over!" he announced gleefully. "We won!"