We have been on march for seven days, and the rain keeps falling. The soldiers, they’re better suited for this; their minds are made up about the hardships of life, and they plod on with a laudable determinism. We’ve been ordered over the mountain, they will go over the mountain, or die. That is all to them.
So far, this retinue has been unnecessary. We’ve suffered no attacks. Still, who’s to say we won’t? And, I certainly wouldn’t have made it this far without them. I suppose the general knew that. They’re as much my wardens as my bodyguards. I think some of them know the secret too, have guessed that I would, if given half a chance, fly away and never be seen again in this war-torn hell.
Home. They sang of going home last night as the rain pelted the tent. It was a good song, full of feeling, and morale is higher now for such dreams. I hid a tear, for I am bound to wander, displaced wretch that I am.
There was a break this morning when the sun rose, and the earth grew quiet for a golden hour save for the toil of the men and the plink-plunks off the trees like fading echoes of the storm. The skies are grey again, and darkness returns.
Tale Told 