While most are abed, I am in the saddle patrolling the High Bridge Road. I have ridden for weeks, seeing nothing but destruction and the dying embers of this war. Like my campfire, where the flames die down and then unexpectedly spring up with fire again; the fight dies down and then springs up with fight again. Our army was cornered, cut off from all supplies and any escape, but today our troopers kept High Bridge from burning, so that shall be our route to safety, my path back to you.
I am coming home to you; if you will still have me. I must confess; I am more a hobbled greybeard than the shy swain that rode off to adventure. I have changed considerably; my eyes from the inside do not change, but when I happen upon my reflection it is so different. There is no nimbus around my head, no medals on my chest; war was not at all like anyone imagined.
It has been almost a year since our last evening together, though it stands clear in my memory. The whispers of the wood fire, its glimmer lit a halo in your hair; there were few words; I said nothing and you said only, “Hold me.”
We stopped time that evening; we stopped war. Words will not heal our wounds; words will not make us forget, but if we can just embrace each other long enough to stop time once more, perhaps there is a chance to start a new time; to craft a new life.
I shall make it so.
I remain yours,