Page 31 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

“It was loud,” Seren said.

The soldier blinked, disappointed perhaps by the plainness of it. Disappointment was kinder than truth. Seren turned her eyes back to the road before he could ask for more, because if he lived long enough, war would answer him itself, and if she could spare him that answer for one more day, then perhaps peace, inconvenient creature that it was, had not made her entirely useless after all. Seren considered giving the answer people expected. Something polished, something suitable for young soldiers who still thought courage was a clean thing. She had learned enough from politicians to produce a speech if required.

Instead, she replied, “Mostly wet.”

The scout stared at her. Roran barked a laugh.

She continued, because now several others were listening and it would be cruel not to disappoint them thoroughly. “History leaves that part out. Everyone remembers speeches, banners, decisive charges, heroic last stands. They forget the mud. The rain. The socks that never dried. The horses that bit. The food that looked suspicious before it went bad and worse afterward.”

A few of the older guards laughed. The young scout looked uncertain. “Really?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Seren adjusted the reins as the road curved through a stand of leafless trees. “Mostly it was marching. Marching toward places someone important believed mattered. Marching away from places someone important had just realized mattered less than expected. Waiting. Freezing. Trying not to starve. Trying not to kill whichever officer made the latest terrible decision.”

Roran lifted one finger. “To be fair, some of those decisions were yours.”

“Exactly,” Seren said.

That earned louder laughter from the company. The scout relaxed, his shoulders dropping as the myth of battle gave way to the more manageable disappointment of logistics.

“So, it wasn’t—” He trailed off, searching for a word that would not offend her.

“Glorious?” Seren supplied. His ears reddened.

She looked ahead toward the road. “Sometimes."

Her fingers flexed around the reins, bringing warmth back into the joints. "Briefly. Usually in memory, after enough people died for someone else to arrange it prettily.”

The laughter faded somewhat. She had not meant to kill it, only to let the truth breathe in the space where fantasy had been standing. Young soldiers deserved that much. Perhaps everyone did.

Seren glanced back at him. “Courage is mostly doing unpleasant things while frightened and hoping someone later mistakes it for nobility.”

Roran made a sound of agreement. “And occasionally while wet.”

“Mostly while wet.”

The scout smiled faintly, but this time there was thoughtfulness beneath it. Good. Let him keep that. Let him learn early that stories had edges sharp enough to cut the people living inside them.

The road descended into a shallow valley where dry grass spread in pale waves beneath the wind. Snow lingered in shaded pockets under the trees. A narrow stream cut through the low ground, half-frozen at the edges, catching the weak sun in silver fragments.

Seren’s smile faded before she realized she had stopped wearing it.

She knew this valley. No one else seemed to. Of course they didn’t. The battlefield had vanished years ago. Grass covered the scars. Young trees reclaimed the edges. The stream ran clear now, not black with churned mud and blood. No broken shields lay half-buried near the bank. No bodies sprawled where men had fallen too quickly for anyone to drag them away. The world had done what the world always did.

It had moved on.

Seren slowed her horse without meaning to.

Thirty-two.

The number rose in her mind, exact and merciless. She remembered every name. Every face. Thirty-two soldiers lost in a skirmish nobody wrote songs about because the battle had not changed the course of the war. It had not opened a city or broken an army or inspired a speech repeated in taverns by men who had not been there. It had bought three days and a safer road for refugees fleeing east. That was all. Only three days. Only a road. Only several hundred people who never learned the names of those who died buying them time.

The world remembered victories. Not exchanges. Not the ordinary arithmetic of survival. Not the young woman from Merrow who had sung terribly and loudly every morning. Not the brothers from Cael who cheated at dice with such enthusiastic incompetence that everyone allowed it out of pity. Not Jessa, who had carried three injured men from the stream before an arrow found her throat. Not Pol, who had been seventeen and lied about it badly.

Grass grew over them now. Grass grew over everything eventually.

Roran guided his horse closer. His voice lowered so the others would not hear. “You all right?”

Seren looked away from the field. “Fine.”