All of a sudden, Roric wasn’t be here anymore. His eyes wandered, looking through the window. He stood with a still smile on his face and a clenched jaw. He was looking, but he wasn’t seeing. Roric was back out there again. Somewhere I couldn’t follow. In the plains, in the marching line, with the fighting and the shouting.

“A coin for your thoughts” - I said and put my hand on top of his.

When I sank deep into my mind, he would buy me out of them with a coin. But when I did it he didn’t say anything, just breathed out sharply and gave the subtlest hint of a smile.

I touched his shoulder and hugged him. It took him some time to come back. He stayed with me for a while, then wandered away again, back on the battlefield. He looked down with hunched shoulders, tilting the cup on its rim. I don’t know what gave me the courage to continue this morning. Maybe it was the beauty in the blossoming trees or the sun, but I thought it was time for him to move on.

“Hey… You’re home now…” - I said and took his arm in both of mine - “It’s over. You’re a hero!”

“I am no hero.” - Roric snapped.

His eyes fell on me for no more than a second, but I saw something in them. They weren’t the eyes, filled with love and passion, that I loved so much. There was something in them, something he found out there, fighting the empire. On that day, something looked back from the darkness of his pupils. It was the first and only time I dared call him a hero.

“I’ll go check on Arron” - he said and pulled his hands from mine. He didn’t need my care today.

Arron was his closest friend. Tall and strong, no more than a couple of years older than Roric. They were both raised in the orphanage and they both went to fight that spring. Roric’s scars from the war were invisible but Arron returned with a wounded leg. It destined him to a life of limping, supported by a stick. So my husband checked up on him frequently, maybe out of guilt for coming back unscathed.

The days passed and I got used to this new life. He kept blanking out, sometimes for no more than a few seconds, but I always noticed it. He was trying, I could see that. He smiled and laughed. He spoke tenderly and held me in his arms. But he was forcing his every move through life as if he was running in water. He did things out of necessity not out of desire. It was expected of him to be the strong one and he was, no matter what it took him. I wanted him to share his burden but it was his to carry.

He came back without wounds but whatever they fought there destroyed his character, his personality. He had little needs, little desire for anything. But I cherished each moment in which my Roric managed to break through. I loved our walks around the lake. The backbreaking work in the field and the tea the morning before that. I gave him what he needed - love and patience.

Each year we celebrated the end of winter. There was no room for songs and dances while the war raged around our borders. News of more trouble reached us but we all needed an escape and an occasion for joy. When people’s tears ran dry, we marked the beginning of spring by burning a giant doll of Mora, the goddess of death. The children gathered sticks, leaves, and fur, then assembled them together in what looked like a tall woman with black hair. We wrapped her in a white blanket and made a giant pyre.

“What was the thing with Mora again?” - Roric asked as we watched the flames.

“Every year, Roric?” - I asked.

“Come on, we have one and he’s dead, nothing to do about him than go to church. You’ve got how much… Ten? And they all have their little rituals”

“Still can’t believe no one taught you about them.” - I said.

“They taught me they were forbidden”

“Does this look forbidden to you?”

“Come on, tell me about her.” - he said and laughed.

“Mora, my dear Roric, collects the souls of the fallen and takes them to her realm. We burn her at the beginning of spring to end her reign and give birth to her sister. Lada, the goddess of beauty, rises from the fire to bring new life to the land.” - I said.

“Ah yes she was the one who died each spring and gets reborn in the winter”

“Morana doesn’t die. She turns into Lada. She becomes her sister for this half of the year.”

“Wait, Mora or Morana?”

“Both.”

He took a deep sigh.

“Then who collects the souls of the dead when it’s not winter?”

“No one. They linger around where they died, waiting for the snow to bring Mora back. The same way flowers wait for Lada. Old men wander the houses they died in, drowners swim the waters where they found their doom.”

“And soldiers walk around old battlefields. Good to know. I may get to camp in the mud a little longer.” - he said.

“Don’t even say anything like this!”

The festival continued into the night and Arron joined us when the feast started. Some tricksters juggled with wooden balls, bards that told fairytales, and slaughtered animals to feed us all. We lived in the shadow Bozmaroff’s keep, our village had grown around it like weeds filling every gap between the roads. The boyar made sure we would send away the winter right, even though he had accepted the dead god. Not all rulers were so generous to the old beliefs that people held.

But most of all I loved the music and the dancing. I loved the songs and rhythms that turned my blood into fire.

“I yield, I can’t… Need to rest” - Roric laughed and sat on the bench, all out of breath.

“It appears I have defeated our greatest warrior.” - I said to him - “Maybe next time the enemy would know to dance instead of fight.”

We all laughed, and Arron sang and clapped from the bench. The poor soul, he would love to jump and dance and stomp, but he could hardly even walk. I saw Idania and her husband, hand in hand. When most people had no strength left to dance, they sat at the tables to feast. The musicians played a slower and calmer melody. The singer, a man with a thick mustache and colossal belly, sang an old village favorite with a thunderous voice.

It was a war song, of course. Some people brushed away a tear, for most of them had lost someone. They needed that emotion. Seeing that your pain is shared healed them, at least a bit. An old man let a tear fall down his cheek, and a boy put his hand on his shoulder. It was a simple gesture to show that you know and understand. They looked at each other without saying anything. They didn’t need to. One of them lost a son, the other one a father. But they had each other now.

“To our honored dead!” - A man yelled from one of the tables and a loud cheer rose from the crowd.

“Cheers, boy, you’re a hero!” - said a man and raised his cup to Roric.

The song continued in all its beauty and sadness. Going back to those memories helped. The melody would gently dip you into the past so you could cry out the pain and then pull you out again. We all needed that. All of us but Roric.

With every tear dropped on the feasting table, I saw him going on edge.