Memories of the Storm – Volume 3 : The Age to Die

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It seems to me, at times, that the noise of war manages to slip through the cracks of time. To come for me, decades later, in the comfort of my bed. I then wake with a start, forehead damp, screaming the name of a comrade I no longer even remembered.

War has its own complex music. The thunder of arquebuses. The dull sound of blades striking flesh. The screams. The weeping. The echo of shame and despair.War travels wherever it pleases and owes no one an explanation. It lingers over patches of mud for years, only to later devastate the blooming fields of lands that once believed it too distant to be real. It also finds its way, with its clamors and its silences, into the wounded soil of my memory. It comes when I least expect it, as if afraid I might forget it.

The year I turned fourteen, while I was serving among the She-Wolves on the bloodied borders of the Dominat, war became a thread stretched tight between past, present, and future. I was about to walk that dreadful tightrope—between the haunted memories of my comrades, the urgency of our mission, and the darkness to come.