Days had passed, and the village, though still bearing the scars of the attack, was beginning to breathe again. Slowly the charred remnants of walls were replaced with fresh timber, new rooftops rising over carefully swept streets. The villagers, guided by the soldiers, were rebuilding, hammering and sawing in rhythm with a renewed sense of purpose. The air smelled of sawdust and smoke, of fire put out but never fully forgotten.
The village head, a weathered man whose face carried the map of years in the sun, approached General Lyra. His voice was rough, worn from age and labor, but full of genuine respect.
"General," he began, bowing slightly, "my people and I… we have prepared a small token of our gratitude. Some food, some ale. We would be honored if you would celebrate with us at dusk."
Lyra, who was not fond of celebration was about to refuse the village elder's offer, intent on not slowing down the rebuilding efforts. But as she opened her mouth to decline, Lieutenant Shawn, standing beside her, quickly spoke up.
"Chief, that's a generous offer," he said, accepting on her behalf. Then, turning to Lyra, he added in a low, convincing tone, "Lyra, A break like this would be a huge boost for morale. The soldiers have worked incredibly hard. They've earned this."
Lyra, seeing the wisdom in his words and the genuine need for a moment of peace, nodded. The celebration would be a brief respite, a chance to not only rebuild the village but also to restore the spirits of her weary troops.
Lyra walked toward the training ground, where she found Elise training five children—three with bows and the younger ones with slingshots. Lyra was about to continue on her way when she saw Rory standing apart from the others, staring at the training camp with a distant, faraway look in his eyes.
The General approached him. "Rory," she said.
The boy looked up, his expression hollow.
"Follow me," she said. That was all. Her tone left no room for argument, but Rory's mind swirled with confusion.
First, the armory. Lyra spoke with the soldier in charge, checking inventory, discussing weapons, their purpose, and their limitations. Rory trailed behind, noticing the respect the soldiers gave the General, noting the way they deferred to her judgment without hesitation.
Next, the healers' tent. Even now,days later, the wounded lay in neat rows, murmuring in their sleep, bandages wrapped with careful hands. Robin, chief healer, gave Lyra updates on supplies, on critical cases, on recovery. Rory watched her greet each recovering soldier with a nod, a soft word, or a hand on a shoulder. Each gesture felt deliberate, heavy with meaning.
"Um, General," Rory said, voice barely audible, "what… what do you want me to do?"
Lyra glanced back, voice even, leaving no space for argument.
"Just follow."
And Rory did, still confused, still small amidst the adults' purposeful stride.
They soon came upon Selene. The General stopped to talk with her, and Rory noted that she seemed more at ease with Selene than with anyone else he had seen. Selene noticed Rory and smiled, making him feel a little shy as he remembered how much he had cried in her arms.
"What are you doing, Rory?" Selene asked gently.
"I'm... following the General," he stammered.
Selene was then called away by Robin. She excused herself, smiling warmly at Rory as she left. "Good luck, then."
"Huh?" Rory said, his confusion deepening.
"Rory, come here," Lyra said, gesturing for him to follow.
Lyra led him onward, through clusters of villagers repairing homes, their voices soft but full of gratitude. Rory noticed the small acts—the helping hands, the careful stacking of bricks, the proud lift of new timber. He felt a twinge in his chest, the weight of absence gnawing at him again.
Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around him. It was Finn.
"Rory, I heard what happened," Finn said, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Rory froze, forcing a tight smile. "It's okay. Thanks."
"I haven't really said thanks for saving me, you know, from the orc," Finn added.
Rory frowned, his heart twisting. In his mind, he hadn't saved anyone; he had almost gotten them all killed. "The General saved you," he insisted.
Finn shook his head. "But you came back."
Just then, Finn's mother arrived and hugged Rory tightly. "Rory, thank you for saving my son."
"I didn't save anyone," Rory repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
Finn's mother looked at him with gentle eyes. "You didn't leave him. You were so brave... just like your moms."
Tears began to fall down Rory's face, and overwhelmed by the weight of her words and his own grief, he bolted away, escaping into the crowd.
Lyra eventually found Rory huddled behind a large oak tree, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Go away," a muffled voice said from behind the tree.
Lyra didn't move. Instead, she simply sat on the ground a few feet away, her presence a quiet, patient anchor in the boy's storm of grief. Minutes passed in silence until Rory, unable to bear it any longer, stood up and burst out in a torrent of anger.
"Why are you making me follow you?!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "All I do is follow you! You talk to a bunch of people, and I'm doing nothing! I have nothing!"
"You're right," Lyra said, her voice steady and blunt. "Your moms? You'll never get them back. Your loss is something you'll have to carry on your own forever."
Rory stared at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger and shock.
"I can't tell you to just get over it, or that the pain will eventually go away," Lyra continued, her voice unwavering. "That's not how it works. You're the only one who can carry your loss. It becomes a part of who you are. But you don't stop. All you can do is keep them—their memories—with you. Don't let them die permanently."
With that, Lyra stood and walked away, leaving a shocked Rory alone with her harsh, honest words.
A long, tense silence hung in the air after Lyra's words. Rory, his fists clenched, felt the anger drain out of him, replaced by a profound, hollow shock. He stared at the ground, the general's words echoing in his mind.
He couldn't get over it. The pain wouldn't just go away. It was a part of him now, a heavy, unshakeable burden he had to carry. Rory remembered his moms, their bravery a sharp, painful memory. His mom was a natural leader, and his mother, her encouragement was a steady light in his life. He remembered the other villagers' stories of how his moms had fought to the very end. They hadn't stopped, even when they knew they couldn't win. They had gone on, kept fighting, and now he had to do the same.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it away. He looked up at the empty space where the general had been, her words ringing with a brutal, unyielding truth. She hadn't offered him comfort, only a stark, difficult path forward.
For the first time, Rory felt a tiny, fragile pinprick of resolve. He still had nothing, as he had screamed, but maybe, just maybe, he could keep their memories alive. He would carry their brave hearts and their fighting spirits with him. He wouldn't let them die permanently.
He stood up, his small body straight and firm, and turned back towards the camp. He didn't know what he would do, but he knew he wouldn't hide anymore. He would find something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, something to keep their memories alive.