At dusk, the celebration began. The air, once heavy with the grim aftermath of battle, now hummed with a fragile but powerful joy. The flickering firelight danced across the faces of soldiers and villagers alike, their shared experience forging a new kind of camaraderie.
Lyra found herself at the center of the gathering, a cup of ale in her hand. The crowd began to chant her name, the sound a wave of gratitude and reverence.
"General!" they cheered. "General!"
The chanting died down, and a hush fell over the crowd. They were waiting for her to speak. Lyra's gaze swept across the faces before her—the weary but hopeful eyes of the villagers, the tired but proud faces of her soldiers. She raised her voice, her tone resonating with the weight of the last few days.
"Everyone, this celebration... it came at a cost," she began, her voice steady and clear. "Look around you. This victory, this moment of peace, was not given to us. It was bought. It was paid for with a debt of courage we can never truly repay."
She paused, the weight of her words settling over the crowd. "Some among us will never see their homes again. They will not share this meal or this moment. But their courage... their sacrifice... that is what allows us to stand here tonight."
Lyra's voice grew stronger, carrying a determined conviction. "This isn't just a celebration. It is a vow. A vow to those who are no longer with us. We will not let their bravery be forgotten. We will build this village stronger than it ever was. We will live lives worthy of the price they paid. We will carry their memory forward as our shield and our inspiration, for a tomorrow that they fought for but never got to see."
A new cheer erupted, filled not just with joy, but with a deep, collective resolve. It was a promise to the fallen, a solemn pledge to honor them not with tears, but with a future built on the very hope they had died to protect.
Later that evening, after the speeches, Shawn, Rita, and Elise pulled Lyra away from the crowd. They found a quiet spot near a small fire and offered her a plate of food.
"I saw Rory earlier," Elise said, her voice filled with admiration. "He was helping with the food preparation, working with the others. Whatever you said to him, General, it worked."
"He was completely lost before," Rita added, nodding in agreement.
Lyra took a bite of her food, watching the flickering flames. "I only told him the truth," she said, her voice softer now, away from the cheers of the crowd. "I told him he can't get his moms back. The pain won't go away and from here onwards, he's the only one who can carry his loss. It will become a part of who he is, but he has to go on without them. The only thing he can do is to keep their memory alive. Don't let them die permanently."
A thoughtful silence fell over the group as they considered her words. They had all lost loved ones in the war, and Lyra's blunt honesty resonated with them.
"What?" a flabbergasted voice said from behind them.
They all turned to see Selene standing there, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.
"Hey," Shawn greeted, the cheerfulness in his voice a stark contrast to the tension in the air.
"You told that to a nine-year-old, a child, Lyra?" Selene asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Elise looked from Selene to the General, then quickly stood up. "I need to get more food," she mumbled, making a hasty exit. Shawn followed suit, pulling a stunned Rita up with him as he went, leaving Lyra and Selene alone by the fire.
Lyra blinked in surprise at her friends' hasty exit, then turned her attention back to Selene.
"Yeah," Lyra said, her voice holding no apology, only a simple truth.
Selene's expression softened, her frustration giving way to a pained concern. "Lyra, you can't say something like that so bluntly to a child. You don't know how it might affect him. It could break him, make him believe his grief is a burden he'll never escape." She knelt by the fire, her hands outstretched toward the warmth. "Children need comfort, hope. They need to believe the pain will get better, even if it's a lie. They need to know someone will help them carry the weight."
Lyra remained silent for a moment, watching the flames flicker in Selene's eyes. "And then what happens when they learn it's a lie?" she countered, her voice low and steady. "When they realize the pain doesn't go away? You're setting them up for a greater fall. All I did was tell him the truth. He's a brave kid, and he deserved to be treated with honesty, not false promises."
Selene stood, her arms crossed, the flickering firelight casting long, dancing shadows on her face. Her voice was calm but held an unshakable conviction that directly contradicted Lyra's.
"It's not about setting them up for a fall, Lyra," Selene said. "It's about giving them the tools to stand back up. You can't just throw the truth at a child like a stone. They need time to process, to heal. They need to know they're not alone, that there's a safety net."
Lyra met her gaze, unblinking. "And who builds that safety net? We do. But you can't build a strong net with a weak foundation. He needs to know what he's up against—the truth. I told him he had to carry his loss on his own, but I also showed him that he's not truly alone. He saw the healers, the villagers, the soldiers—all of us carrying our own burdens and still moving forward."
"That's a soldier's perspective, Lyra, not a healer's," Selene countered softly. "A soldier's training is to harden them to pain. A child's mind isn't built for that. It needs to be nurtured, not forged in fire."
Lyra didn't waver. "And what happens when the next fire comes? Do we lie to them then, too? No. We teach them that they are strong enough to endure it. That they can carry their pain and still stand tall."
The two women, one a master of the sword and the other a master of healing, stood in a silent stalemate, their opposing philosophies laid bare by the fire. Lyra's way was one of brutal honesty and resilience. Selene's was one of gentle comfort and hope. Both believed they were right, and both had Rory's best interests at heart. But their fundamental difference in how to help him was as vast as the chasm between war and peace.