Bayan remained seated alone on the small, rocky hill where the Commander had left him. His mind was a battlefield, torn between two immense forces: his heart, which craved peace and quiet, and his mind, slowly beginning to accept the Commander's harsh truth about the necessity of fighting.
He stared at the blood-stained parchment in his hand—the list of the fallen and the slain, a testament to his own guilt. He did not know if the next sunrise should be met with a sword or with a quiet, simple life.
Just then, the Commander returned. He stopped beside Bayan and placed a firm, yet light hand on his shoulder.
"Bayan, there was something vital I forgot to give you," the Commander said. He pressed another, different list into Bayan's hand—a piece of old, yellowed parchment.
Bayan looked at it. "This… what is this, Sir?"
"This is the second list," the Commander said quietly. "These are the names of the people destroyed after we lost that war ten years ago—the war that ruined my wife and daughter. This list bears the names of those whose families were annihilated by the enemies you now consider 'innocent.'"
Bayan's eyes met the Commander's, questions burning in his gaze.
"You want to know whether war is right or wrong, don't you?" the Commander asked. "Your first list holds the names of those you killed; this one holds the names of those who were killed."
The Commander's voice lowered, taking on a challenge. "Go to these people, Bayan. Listen to their stories. Then decide whether war is necessary. Go, and find your answer."
The Commander left him there.
Bayan was now alone, seated between two opposing truths. In one hand, he clutched the list of guilt and sorrow; in the other, the list of revenge and pain. His journey had truly begun.
---
The Departure and the Dread
Bayan slowly pulled himself to his feet. The fierce zeal of the young soldier had vanished, replaced by a strange, quiet stasis suspended between certainty and sorrow.
A flicker of hope ignited within him—he was seeking the answer to the profound question for which Tinol had paid the ultimate price. Yet this hope was immediately drowned by grief. He was abandoning the one thing he had ever truly desired: war. The realization tore at him from the inside.
He clenched both parchments tightly and looked back at the main camp before beginning his slow descent from the hill.
Through the center of the camp, his former comrades stared. Words died on their lips. He was no longer their eager companion but a ghost—a shade moving deliberately beyond the intoxicating lie of war. He left his sword behind, but he did not drop the lists.
---
The Cost of Glory
Bayan left the camp, walking without direction, propelled by a crushing moral obligation to face the first name on his list. He could face twenty armed men without blinking, yet the single image of Tinol's mother paralyzed him. How do I tell her he's gone? How do I tell her he died for a cause that was nothing but a lie? The words "Oh, my General" echoed silently in his mind—a constant, choking scream.
He arrived at the outskirts of his village. Immediately, the small community erupted in excitement. Faces alight with the feverish thrill of war, villagers rushed toward him.
"Look! He's back from the fighting!"
"How brave! Look at the blood on his uniform!"
A small boy tugged at Bayan's sleeve, eyes wide with curiosity. "Brother, can I see your sword? How fast did you cut them down?"
Bayan looked at the boy's face and saw his younger self mirrored in the innocent gaze. He felt sick, unable to respond. The celebratory awe of the villagers was unbearable.
What do I say? How do I say it?
Then he saw her. Standing a few feet away, separate from the celebrating crowd, was Mother Iyana. Her eyes scanned the returning soldiers, finally resting on Bayan. She recognized her son's closest friend—but where was her son?
Bayan's heart stopped.
Iyana slowly approached him, her voice trembling. "Bayan… my boy. Where is Tinol? Where is my son?"
Bayan opened his mouth, but no words came. His mind screamed: Oh, my General… he is gone!
He did the only thing he could. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out Tinol's belt and scabbard—the only items he had managed to retrieve—and held them out to Iyana, his entire body trembling.
"He… he died for nothing," Bayan finally choked out, the words ripped from his soul. "He didn't deserve that death. He…"
Iyana didn't even touch the scabbard. Her eyes widened as she saw the empty belt. The truth struck her like a battering ram. Her hand flew to her mouth, a small, keening sound escaping her lips. Before Bayan could utter another word, her legs gave out, and she collapsed, unconscious, onto the dusty ground.
Bayan knelt beside her, shaking, the weight of both lists pressing down on him. He knew this was only the beginning. His path—the path of bearing both guilt and pain—had truly begun.