Echoes of Ossian
Occasionally, our paths would cross—brief encounters that lasted only a few moments, but in those seconds, there was always something unspoken between us. I would offer him a brief nod, the closest thing to a gesture of respect I could manage. He was the only one deserving of that acknowledgment. Every time our eyes met, there was a pull—something deep inside me that urged me to protect him, to stand by his side, yet I couldn't act on it. Something held me back, a barrier I couldn't cross. The new commander wasn't like any other.
Over the past two weeks, I had seen him in the midst of the generals' meetings. His face was often set in a grim expression, his brows furrowed in anger, lips tight with frustration. There was an intensity about him that made it impossible for me to look away. He seemed so focused, so intent on something beyond the immediate battlefield, and every time I saw him, his eyes—those dark, haunted eyes—would meet mine for just a moment, softening into something that almost resembled pity, before he would look away.
It was clear to me that the weight of his responsibilities was wearing him down. I wanted to do something, to offer him comfort, but I remained on the sidelines, my thoughts swirling with confusion.
The war had raged on for years, consuming countless lives and leaving only the strongest—or the most ruthless—standing. What had begun as a noble defense of the kingdom had long since devolved into a war of attrition, where tactics gave way to desperation, and morality was a luxury no one could afford.
The army, once a proud force of well-trained soldiers, had been stretched thin. The loss of seasoned warriors meant that mercenaries, prisoners, and unwilling conscripts were now the kingdom's frontline fighters. They were expendable, thrown into battles like fuel for an unrelenting fire.
It was during our march south, after a brutal battle that left us barely standing, that the truth began to unravel. The generals, those who commanded from the safety of their fortified tents, were not strategizing to win the war. Instead, they had devised a calculated sacrifice—a way to thin their own ranks of "undesirables" while positioning themselves favorably for the political chaos that would inevitably follow the war.
Their plan was simple, mercenaries-just like me, low-ranking soldiers, and outcasts were to be sent to the frontlines under false pretenses. They were told reinforcements would come, that they were securing key positions—but the truth was, they were meant to die. The generals intended to stage a 'heroic last stand'—where the "unworthy" would perish, leaving the nobility and higher-ranked officers free to negotiate peace from a position of strength.
The noble officers would retreat under the cover of night, leaving thousands to be slaughtered in an unwinnable battle.
They saw it as a necessary evil. Fewer mouths to feed. Fewer men to demand land, gold, or recognition once the war ended. The kingdom's elite would emerge victorious, hailed as heroes, while the dead would be remembered as nameless martyrs—if they were remembered at all.
That was when he stepped forward.
He confronted the generals, standing against the inevitable, refusing to let them discard human lives like pawns in their game.
It was madness. Defying the very people who controlled the kingdom's army meant death. And yet, when he spoke—when he challenged their authority—the soldiers listened. The mercenaries, once treated as disposable, now had a leader.
And war, as cruel as it was, had just shifted.
He wasn't one to accept this fate, and when he discovered the generals' treacherous plans, he made his decision. He intervened. His anger boiled over, but it wasn't just blind fury—it was righteous, the kind of anger that came from seeing the injustice laid bare before him. He defied the generals, rallied the men, and in that moment, I saw him—truly saw him—clearer than I ever had before.
"This is madness," he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing with anger. He stopped when his gaze met mine, and for just a fraction of a second, that fury softened. His eyes flickered with something else—pity, perhaps, or maybe understanding. Then, just as quickly, he turned his attention back to the soldiers around him.
"We're all soldiers here," he said, his voice steady, almost a whisper, but loud enough for all to hear. "Titles and wealth don't matter when death is at our doorstep. We fight as one."
It wasn't a command. It was a statement of truth, one that struck deep into the hearts of all the men who heard it. There were no lines dividing us anymore—no generals, no nobility, no mercenaries. There were just soldiers, standing together, facing the same inevitable death. For the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of camaraderie, a bond that transcended rank.
He had earned the respect of every soldier present. Even the most hardened veterans listened to him. His voice carried weight, not because of his title, but because of the integrity that radiated from him. The respect he garnered wasn't from power or position—it was earned through his actions, his unwavering belief that we were all the same in the face of war.
As the battle loomed, he made a decision. He, along with his loyal men, would fight with us. He would buy us time, give us a fighting chance against the overwhelming forces closing in on us. I could see the strain in his eyes, the weight of the decision, but he didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, as if he had already accepted whatever fate the war had in store for him.
On the battlefield, I followed him. I remained just behind him, where I knew I could always protect him, where I felt safest. I had no illusions—I wasn't a soldier like him, not in the truest sense. He was a leader, a man born for the chaos of war, and I was a mere bystander caught up in the tide of it all.
At times, he would turn to me, gently placing his hand on my shoulder as if guiding me forward. His touch was always careful, tender—almost as though he feared I might shatter if he was too forceful. In a world filled with blood and brutality, his tenderness was a stark contrast, an odd comfort amid the horrors that surrounded us.
Even as we fought side by side, I couldn't help but notice the strange look he would give me when his eyes fell on my chest. There was a furrow in his brow, an expression I couldn't quite interpret, and yet he never spoke of it. I wanted to ask, I wanted to know if he could see the curse looming over me, but the words never left my lips. I didn't understand it, but something in his gaze made me feel… vulnerable, exposed in a way I hadn't before.
After the battle, when we emerged victorious—though weary, battered, and bloodied—there was no time to rest. The war was far from over, and we had to move south to support the nearest camp. Our exhaustion was palpable, but duty demanded we press on. We could not afford to stop, not when they needed us.
As we traveled, town to town, always on the move, I found myself trailing behind him. It was an unspoken rule between us, one I adhered to without question. I couldn't bear to impose on him, to be a burden. Still, I couldn't help but notice the occasional glance he would throw my way. It was brief, fleeting, but when our eyes met, he would smile—radiantly, as if something inside him was momentarily lightened by my presence.
His smile was a rare gift in this cursed existence, and I cherished it more than I should have. It made the horror of war feel just a little bit more bearable. But I knew deep down that it wouldn't last. The war would continue to claim what little humanity we had left. And he, too, would eventually become a casualty of it—like the rest of us.
But for now, I walked behind him, a quiet witness to the man who had shown me that, even in the darkest of times, there could be light.