Lyara sat, knees curled against her chest, in the dirt beside the wagons for hours. For most of that time she barely felt anything—not the passage of time, not the chill in the autumn air—but eventually a beam of warm sunlight broke through the cloud cover. She drew in a breath, craning her neck to peer at the sky.
How could the sun still shine the same?
She’d covered Maierva’s body with a blanket. That wasn’t much, but it was something, and the most she found the strength to do.
One Fidelis—a middle-aged woman Lyara had never met—poked around camp, mending wounds between furrowed glances at the battle beyond them. It was only after she bent down with a grunt to inspect her stained dress that Lyara realized they might really be the same age—her eyes were bright enough, anyway. Those wrinkles on her cheeks must be a testament to the life she’d lived.
The company returned at sunset, cheering.
Lyara pushed herself to stand, searching the crowd for her husband’s face. She found him easily. He was smiling, surrounded by well-wishers. He scanned the camp for her gaze and found it in a second, before more hands and shouts pulled his attention away. Someone must have asked to see it because he drew that sword, the dwindling light reflecting gold off the blade.
She smiled, though she didn’t deserve to feel it. They’d succeeded. She’d succeeded. That was worth something, possibly everything.
A heart-wrenching cry tore her from her thoughts. A soldier had removed the sheet and collapsed to his knees beside Maierva’s body. Whispering her name, he pulled her limp form into his arms.
His wide eyes stared aimlessly into the distance, his mouth hung open but he didn’t cry. He was stained with mud and blood but seemed uninjured, bodily. Cradling her forehead against his cheek, he rocked her gently as his dreadlock braids fell over his shoulders. He looked so young—she might as well, to older eyes, but compared to her he was a boy.
Lyara sank back to her knees. She had no right to watch, but she did—she deserved to know some semblance of that pain, at least. All of Edras—all of Avaron—deserved to know.
Her gut clenched at the thought, but her hands drifted to her satchel anyway, pulling out her sketchpad. She’d ask permission to print it, but for now she’d draw like the heathen she was. Perhaps this—however small, however heartless—was the way to be sure Maierva’s death was remembered, to be sure those in safety understood the sacrifices made on their behalf.
Especially by those who hadn’t really chosen to make them.