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War changes me. There are some days, of course, where things are still the same (or as near to the same as can be), days where my only talk is of battle, of war and tactics and my equipment, which is consistently substandard. The rich bankers, with their oh-so-important stags, have joined the Exigo. I sleep with my boots on.
Then there are the unfamiliar times, when I talk of the past, and not of the present, re embroidering past encounters until memory's thread wears thin, until some encounters, told too many times in their hunt for significance, lose meaning altogether. I'm a story teller. A bard. A minstrel. A liar and a truth sayer. I am what you want to hear.
This is the (ultimate) tragedy of war - its timelessness. The battles are different, sure, but it’s the same fucking thing: you put on your courage (it’s a slippery thing, made of fear and sweat) and adjust your helmet and idly rap your fingers on the blade of your sword like it’s nothing but normal, because it is. Your hands don’t even shake anymore. Your palms don’t sweat every time you grasp the handle. They used to.
I miss it sometimes.
(Sometimes you wonder about the ethics of war, but it’s all you’ve ever known, there are stags to be made and picking apart your identity simply isn’t healthy. You should know.)
You swivel towards the oncoming barbarians. Readjust your shield. Wait. And this, this is the best part, of course, because you won’t need to torture yourself wondering if he’s got a (familychildrenlife) back in (SembiaNeverwinterThay) because you'll win. You always do, unless you think you will, and then you'll end up dead - and because - and this is the beauty of it - you know you can say, yeah, I killed the opposition force, and opposition force is nothing but a meaningless word for the people lying dead at your feet, their blood on your sword. But you can rest easy knowing it’s your face they’ll never find out.
“On my mark. Charge.”
I never bother to reply. I've got nothing to say. I just fight.