Ashe wanders through the seemingly endless rows of headstones in the graveyard, a little knot forming in his throat as he passes each one.
This kingdom is not his, he knows this, but he still turns his eyes to the engravings on every one, as if any will bear names he recognizes. So far none do-- of course they wouldn’t. His friends are far away from here, not buried underground in some ancient graveyard, but the feeling of dread simply refuses to pass. He sees, in some small part, how this could turn into a very cold reality in Faerghus.
( Perhaps it already is, in places he doesn’t see. The war has been going on for so long now. How many have they buried? How many will yet be returned to the earth before it’s won? )
He doesn’t want to think about it, but it lingers regardless. A war isn’t won without bloodshed on both sides, much as he detests it all. Much as he hates to be responsible for shedding so much of that blood. His faith in the church, the kingdom, the prince... it all guides him forward in spite of his upset. For just a moment, looking out over the veritable sea of the dead around him, he feels that faith waver ever so slightly.
Lost as he is in his thoughts, however, he neglects the passage of someone else among the graves, his back turned to them and head downcast as he kneels to read the inscription on another tombstone. Unfamiliar names, all of them, but someone knew them, once upon a time. Is anyone left to remember them now?
