An early autumn wind sent cloaks billowing as it swept through the loose ranks of nearly three thousand hard eyed men. A mere fraction of what they’d been when the wind was not so cold. Growing smaller as they watched the same number or more walk away from five years of bitter toil, blood, and the unending horrors of the west. Each man lost in his own thoughts, his own memories and regrets. Many wished to join those who walked, most desired it above all things, but the iron rod of honor held them in place.

At least for some it was honor.

For others it was love. Not the love of land or country as such thoughts belonged to the young. This was a love of brothers. A love that went beyond the understanding of most folk. Only those who bled together knew it. Only those who, together, shivered as they watched the crows gather in lazy aerial rings and thanked the Creator they survived to see it. Their bond was nearly as strong as any the world could offer.

It had not always been such and it never would be again. Not in its entirety. Only in memory. A time when the sun seemed to linger in the sky above just a little bit longer and songs of their deeds spread out before them. A time when they viewed themselves as saviors, untouchable in their cause for good. Undefeatable, immovable, invincible.

But only young men and fools believed themselves to be such.

The wind moved along, whistling across worn straps and cracking scabbards, causing ragged banners to dance an empty, rhythmless tune. It slipped between fractured wagon wheels, weaving about until it passed a mountain of a man.

Chiseled from the deep earth’s stone, it tousled his curly mane of hair; gold seamlessly interwoven with fire. Others stood beside him, as if seeking to draw from his strength and push back against the wind. He pulled his cloak tighter and scowled, as if to defy it. Determined to keep his eyes ahead, unwilling to turn away. There was much of the wind within him, as with all men of the east, but stronger than most and controlled only by a threadbare leash. Torrents pulled this way and that as he watched the others leave, torn between anger and understanding. The wind touched upon him and continued.

It passed every man present. One with dark set eyes and a gaze that seemed to acknowledge the wind as the power it was, his lips whispering a prayer that traveled along it. Another, the wind dipped into the ragged scar that ran from ear to cheek, who cursed the wind’s passing. Another with haunted eyes. Another with clenched fists. Another, and another, and another more.

It moved until it reached the grey eyed figure atop his painted stallion. 

If the wind had a mind, it might have paused as it happened upon him. An oddity amongst them. Neither the strength of it or the sharpness of its cold seemed to alter him. If not for his physical body, it may have mistaken him for the wind itself.

Of course the wind couldn’t know the intensity of its touch was but a shadow of the frozen depths within. It had no knowledge of the decisions he’d made or the weight of his guilt. It had not seen what the grey man had seen, it had not faced what the grey man had faced. Yet, unlike others who sought to control the wind within, the grey man accepted the nature of it and the wind flowed through him unrestrained.

Unable to contemplate this oddity, the wind moved on until it was beyond him and it knew nothing more of this place. 

Silence filled the space the wind had left as the last of those that walked away reached the break of the ridge. Not a soul looked behind. None would. A choice had been made that would haunt the lives of those who left as well as those who remained. 

They would travel further east until they reached their home, where fable said the wind was born. Each would tell stories of what had transpired in the west. Many would be in honored memory of brothers, some of the events that transpired, but above them all would be the terrors brought to life by the people of the west. All of them would carry his regret until their last day. They would wish they had remained, yet in the secret of their heart, glad they had not.

Their purpose was not to be the wind, it was to bring life to it and, as the wind had always done, spread influence to all the places of the world.

The grey man turned his horse and heeled his great mount north. The steady footfalls broke the silence that had settled. Eyes blinked at the sound. Memories submerged for another day. With a practiced pace brought on by years of disciplined service, the remaining soldiers followed. 

Banners rose as the pace picked up and another wind joined them; returning to the east where all currents go. Crimson waved as the wind returned and the standard of the Ebony Eagle, tattered, but unbroken, flew once more.