Story for the Day: A Frewyn Veteran -- For #RemebranceDay

Frewyn Remembrance Day  is the day that the Galleisian war ended and honours all of Frewyn's fallen throughout their nation's history. All of the Westren regiments wear their clan kilts, the Brigade sound their horns from the mountains, Tyr's Tygh is recited, and everyone honours those who have passed with bouquets of rye grass, snowdrops, and daffodils, the national flowers of Frewyn. Some offer a prayer to Frannach, God of War and Peace, and others say a prayer to Menor, Guardian of the nation, in thanks for keeping the kingdom safe, but everyone gives tribute to the Veterans of the Second Galleisian War, for without their valour, Frewyn would have surely perished. The Veterans, however, are left with cares and anxieties for the future that can never be done away:

Boudicca was glad to be alone, her spirit growing sanguine toward the joys of observation, the equanimity of being allowed to stand and survey and say nothing. Being a farmer in Western Tyfferim, having grown up between the byre and the bracken, recommend her for a quiet and secluded later of life, and though she never thought she would look for her father’s style of living again after the war, the idea of retiring to her family farm, to till the soil and build the banks for the potatoes and carrots, was not so disagreeable now. She watched Soledhan skip through the rows, his cousins trailing close behind, their arms fraught with small gourds: they won’t be needing us soon… was her sobering admission. They were getting older, adolescence was coming on, and Boudicca was beginning to harbour that dread that every parent who loves their child must cherish: independence, the time of self-determination was coming, and while she knew that Soledhan and his cousins had been well-prepared for their morning of life, she wondered how the family would do without them. They might stay, to continue their education and remain in Diras, to flourish as paragons of the kingdom, or they might be taken elsewhere, either to the north with the Frewyn Foreign Legion or away by some other means. An eager spirit might go anywhere, and with no war to keep them home-- 

                “What is that wistful look about?”

                “Hrm?” Boudicca roused herself and found Dobhin standing beside her, reaching for the sugar tart. “Oh, it is all nothing really,” said she, with a little embarrassment. “Maternal speculation about a future that will probably never happen.”

                Dobhin watched her gaze follow the children round the corn rows. “Are you already scheming about husbands and wives for them? MacDaede, you astonish me. You are as bad the grimalkins who terrorize you.”

                Boudicca smiled and shook her head. “Your arch accusations plague no one but Alasdair, Dobhin, and there I daresay he leads you on.”

                “Oh, he is so endearing when he flumps,” Dobhin exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “His face reddens, and the way his nose wrinkles—I could eat him up forever over how gorgeous he is when angry.”

                “One day soon, he might grow immune to your proddings if Aoidhe has anything to say about it.”

                “Never,” Dobhin scoffed. “If Brennin hasn’t hardened himself to japes by now—“ He bit into the sugar pie. “I know how you feel, MacDaede.”

                Her brow wrinkled. “Do you.”  

                “Of course. So does any loyal solider of the realm with a family they love.” He looked toward Connors and Nerri, who were traipsing around the dormant strawberry beds, hastening after one another and attacking each other with corn stalks. “Soldiers who live through a war like we did cannot consider times of peace. We never dare dream of it, even though we might be living through it: there is always a war going on somewhere-- there is always a town being pillaged or an allied nation being overrun—we must always be prepared to march off at any moment, Foreign Legion or no, and though we have had relative peace for sometime now, who knows when the next insurgence will be? Tomorrow? Next week? Ten years hence? We fight in the interests of peace, but soldiers secretly hope the peace is never lasting. We are made useless by ease and prosperity. Men like Old Suilli and the Elites cannot wait for another good war. They love to be made useful and prove their valiance to their Lord and King, but children make men poor soldiers. We stop living for nights of patrol and the thrill of the skirmish, and we start looking forward to Gods’ Day, that we might spend a few hours with our family at home.”

                A knowing smile passed between them, and they each watched their own child dart happily across the field, their giggles following them through the rows.

                “I used to love spending the evenings patrolling the city,” Dobhin continued, with an amorous look. “I could walk from the docks to the far districts and back and never be tired. All those evenings spent learning from Vyrdin, all the books we used to argue about, all the bruises he used to give me—I used to complain of Gods’ Day, of being let off for a few hours with nothing to do but vanish to the library and wonder whether Vyrdin and Brigdan were going to be practicing in the far field when I got back. I was young and had no idea what to do with myself if I was not reading or fighting or secretly pining after Brennin. How gallant we were in wartime, running drills during the day and sleeping standing up at night—I will never forget our survival training, freezing half to death in the early winter rains, with nothing but the forest canopy for cover—it was a magnificent time! Arrows raining down upon the trenches, Brigdan shooting men down from the next village over, Vrydin decapitating every enemy in his way, Suilli smashing shield by the might of his moustache --and now, where I was used to sleep in my armour with my sword at the ready, prepared to be called to arms at any moment, now all I can think of is sleeping in a warm bed, with my wife on one side and my daughter on the other.” Here was an expressive sigh. “I know, I am beginning to sound like an old General, pining for the good old days, when men were made on battlefields and stubbornness was confused with bravery, but it was so glorious! There is everything to mourn for in a war and everything to envy in those who have lived through it. There is a connection which being in a war creates that can never be replaced or explained away-- a something like family, only the bonds less breakable. Trauma does wonders for making familial ties. Those who do not have siblings will certainly find them in the Forces. We love orphans,” eyeing Boudicca complacently. “They make the best soldiers: they live to defend their brethren and they die to protect our realm.”

                “Almost die,” she corrected him. “And I am not an orphan any longer.”

                “My point exactly.”

                Another smiled was shared, and each leaned back against the table, with arms folded and looks wistful.

                “We are grown old, MacDaede,” said Dobhin, “old for a soldier’s life, at any rate. I will gladly serve out my term of thirty years, but,” with a doting expression, “I am grown fond of fatherhood, and can think of nothing but spending time with Myella. I never thought I would do well with children—my own father was such an old stick, I had no idea whether I would do the trade any justice—but watching Brennin and you—you especially—I did not despair of myself as a parent. I know that at times I am too indulgent, but that is a failing on the right side, a failing that every soldier who lives through a war ought to practice.”

                Boudicca must agree here, and she watching Soledhan weave through the rows, chasing after his cousins with an old sunflower in his hands. They were laid out with the dried corn stalks, and the boys were taking turns tagging one another, running after each other with their botanical staves and rubbing the dried sunflower seed beds against each other faces when caught. Alasdair, too, was standing by and watching them: he stood beside his wife, who was talking to Meraleigh about the baby, and everything seemed so lovely, the tinkling gaiety tintinnabulating off the surrounding hills, the drone and occasional fulmination of farmers talking in clusters around the field, the stacks of bushel baskets lining up at the edge of the orchard and meadow, gleaming under the amber light of the setting sun, that all those looking on were satisfied to invigilate in silence, preferring to feel the holiday spirit rather than engage with it.