Captain

It was quiet in the infirmary as wounds were tended to and bandages were changed out. More than twenty four hours had passed since the end of the battle, and everyone was still recovering. There were no prisoners of war. Those who had been left behind had been injured, crippled, and dismembered, and when the medics had come to recover them from the field, they had already ended their life, rather than be taken. So they had been piled and burned, their ashes taken by the night time wind, and the only ones left were the victors.

Maria stood in the doorway of the infirmary, one hand clutched to her chest, the other hanging limply by her side, wrapped in bandages that were stained with blood from the inside. The wounds she had suffered in the battle after the loss of her shield had opened during the night. Her fingers were pushed against her leg to minimize the shaking in her wrist. She had parried blades with her bare hand, tearing it apart and lowing most of the feeling and control in it. But it had saved her life.

She looked over the men whom she had led into battle. She knew them each by name, she knew where they had come from, and she knew about the families that they had waiting for them at home. She had trained many of them for a long time, taught them how to fight and survive. She had warned them about what might happen on the field of battle. How it was important to keep their heads about them, to keep their eyes open, and to do whatever it took to live.

And she had been more aware of all of that than any of them. She had seen countless battles throughout her life, and throughout her climb through the ranks to get to her position as captain and commander. She had survived. She had won. And she had passed on everything she had learned onto her men so that they might do the same.

But looking over the men as they lay in cottages, some only slightly and temporarily injured, others having to deal with long term effects, she couldn't help but feel responsible for what had befallen them. She had taken them into that battle. She had doomed them to their injuries and fates. Some of them, she felt as though she had killed.

A hand rested gently on her shoulder, and she looked to her right to see her right hand, a man named Ricard. "Maria," he said gently. He had been a soldier for a long time, much longer than she. But he had no interest in leading. He wanted only to advise. "It's hard. But remember. The ones here you kept alive. Focus on that."

She nodded slowly, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard. "I'll try," she whispered.

"Good. Now go get that hand rewrapped, before it's too late."