Happiness Is Freedom

 

Somehow, a few civilians from the Duke's burning town had attached themselves to Kyllen's ragged squad.

Civilians. Kyllen had been a civilian just a year ago. Now, there were no civilians anymore. Everyone was in the war.

One of the new followers was an old man with a bandage on his head and soot on his face. He had built a small fire, and he poked it obsessively, his eyes unfocused. He sat on a log, a naked sword was across his lap.

A lady and a young girl, both in ragged skirts that once showed their high status, cut up some green apples and dropped them into their makeshift stewpot: a dented Garg helmet filled with water.

Watching these mundane camp chores unfolding quietly around him, Kyllen was strangely empty of the venomous hate that had driven him for months. A numbness of spirit had settled over him. He had no desires, no hunger, no thoughts for the next moment. Perhaps cows lived like this, he thought. Placid and empty until the slaughtering time.

He sipped from his water skin out of habit, not actual thirst, and a distant memory came to him. Kyllen's long-departed grandfather, a prosperous baker, was sipping from a wine skin, his face sweaty, his nose still bleeding a bit. Kyllen's grandmother was bandaging his knuckles, and clucking about "ruffians" and the "sad state of young people today."

But his grandfather was smiling. He had bested two younger men who were intent on stealing a cake.

He had looked at young Kyllen and said, "Well, m'boy, I don't like fighting, usually. But this was a good reminder. We live free here, and we're happy. Ya know why?"

Kyllen had shrugged.

"Well, my grandfather always said the secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom is courage." He dabbed at his nose. "Sometimes, ya just gotta do some unpleasant business to have a happy life."

Kyllen stared at the sputtering fire. The memory warmed him, but he did not smile.

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