Young Writers Society

To My Dearest Sister Lady Prelley…

The letter was not off to a good start.

We hope that all is well on the northern front, for all is well at home. It was pleasing to receive your letter a few days ago: mother and father were happy to hear that you were safe (or perhaps unharmed is a better word? One must never become to comfortable, I hear). They have been somewhat concerned over you as of late, with matters the way they are up your way, but I have assured them that there is no danger. Of course, we are safe as well, and we hope that you could spare some time to perhaps come home for a week this winter–

She began to tear the letter, just at its middle. The crack of parchment broke her out of her stupor, and she sighed, letting it go as she did. Then, with the sort of grace that was hard-pressed to find nowadays, she began to smooth it out, tracing her sister’s words as she did. Like little sewing-needle pricks; that’s what they felt like.

It wasn’t so much the language, she thought as she folded the letter into thirds. More like she could feel how her sister, Reese, had written them–with her sharp-tipped quill that she had gotten on her birthday, probably spending hours making each word and syllable perfectly printed. How she had chosen, at the top, to write Lady and not Colonel.

Reese was her senior by six years. By all rights, she should have been the one in her position. She remembered her sister wearing the military acadamy uniform when she was thirteen, its sharp lines complimenting her soft features. How she had smiled at her reflection in the mirror, reaching out to touch it.

But apparentally that hadn’t been Reese’s fate in life, she thought as she put the letter in the small case next to her bedding. She hadn’t had quite the right temperment for military life, especially not after her injury. So Alicia had been the one to take her place, and with it, her future.

Alicia adjusted the cap on top of her head, shielding her short-haired scalp from the elements, and displaying her insignia. Just below General, and with a good shot of getting it someday if other people’s lives didn’t work out as well as hers had. Straightening out the crisp figure of her overcoat, she walked out of her tent and into the cool not-quite-dawn. Still dim, almost dark, only the faintest of changes had happened in the sky, deep blue turning just a few shades softer.

The sound of military boots hitting packed-down dirt came from her left (a familiar sound, one that she had learned by heart over the last few years). She didn’t quite turn: rather, she leaned her head slightly and flicked her eyes over.

“Colonel Prelley,” she heard. It was a familiar voice: that of Colonel Bartholomew, her fellow leader of this division of the Fourth Army of Kobotia. Together, they led a little over six thousand infantrymen and a handful of warmages, and neither of them had wanted to be assigned to this place. They had wanted a cavalry division (but, everyone had wanted a cavalry division).

Alicia gave a sort of lazy smile to him before matching his salute. A few years his elder, it was generally agreed upon that he would salute first, but it wasn’t really a hard and fast rule. Each morning, they had a few moments together outside of their tents before they had to give out their first command for the day, and they treasured them. Back when they had been a bit closer to the capital, shipments of coffee from Sumsa and Ignidur would sometimes reach them, a pricy luxury that Sebastian would occasionally spend some money on. They’d share it, Alicia paying him back for each cup she had, and they would wait for the bugler to play first call.

Of course, as they had gotten closer to Amaris (and eventually pushed up against its border) those shipment thinned out until they disappeared all together. Sebastian had been snappy for a few days afterwards too, and Alicia herself found that she stumbled a bit more in the morning. They were lucky no one had caught onto their reliance on the drink.

Still, they watched as some of the people on the night watch began to head down from the hastily set up watch towers, trying to catch some sleep before they would march northwards. If everything went as planned, they’d start their march further north towards General Wilrice at 900 hours. It couldn’t be much past 500 now, so Alicia said nothing as those unlucky people shuffled back towards their shelters. She wouldn’t begrudge them the sleep.

As they looked on, first call played. Sebastian winced–a habit he’d never outgrown. They’d been in the same company since they were Lieutenants, never trying to one-up one another but always keeping a careful eye on the other’s progress. It was certainly good for Alicia that they got along–sure, the man was amicable, but the sort of amicable that made someone think that it was a good thing he was on your side.

They watched the sun rise in relative quiet, Sebastian whistling the tune to some folk song as Alicia leaned on the side of a post. As the first rays began to sprawl across the lowgrounds of the eastern plains, the two Colonels stood in the shadow of their watch towers. Slowly, the sun rose high enough that the light shone molten gold in their eyes.

He turned towards her, partially to avoid blindness. “So, you got a letter last night,” he said, probably having seen the messenger. “From headquarters, or was it personal?”

A few years earlier she probably would have evaded the question, if not outright telling him that it wasn’t any of his business (and at the same time comfirming it was personal). But now, Alicia found herself trusting the man beside her, at least with this. Certainly more than she trusted the letter’s sender.

“It was from my sister,” she responded, squinting at the horizon and watching the light bloom across her field of vision. “Checking up on me, that’s all. Telling me how my folks are, that kind of thing.” She did neglect to mention the slight tear in it, or the slight edge to it that made her more than a little wary of writing back.

“That’s nice,” Sebastian said, with nice being the sort of bland word that one would use to describe something vaguely positive, like finding a few extra coins in your pocket. “Makes me sort of wish I had siblings.”

Many of their soldiers had started to work on taking down their tents. Those that hadn’t begun to do so had other duties to attend to, rushing about the camp with a sort of orderly urgency that she’d never seen anywhere else. The routine that somehow managed to persist in war. Alicia watched them before settling on not responding.

“We’d best get started ourselves,” she said, with an air of finality. If Sebastian had any disagreements, he didn’t choose to voice them.