The General

It was the second morning since the battle and the death of The General’s son.

Oh, how The General grieved.

He was not seen on the first day. He never left his tent and it hadn’t seriously crossed anyone’s mind to attempt entry. No cries or angry curses came from inside. No mourning or pleading. Only one thud that caused a few soldiers nearby to hold their breath for a moment, at the end of which, upon realizing that nothing of further interest was to occur, they exhaled and continued to wait. For the most part The General was still.

In truth, as the sun descended, he was sitting on the cold floor of his tent holding a wooden relic of The Mother, guardian of life and children. The Warrior was broken in half, hurled into the corner. Tears glazed The General’s eyes and his throat was tight with anguish. Thoughts of his son dying in his arms played through his head in slow motion over and over, as if to grind the grim reality into the fibers of his being.

The General had been helpless. In the middle of the battlefield, the grass long gone and replaced with bloody, upturned soil, he had held his son’s limp body, marred by the deep, armor piercing cut rent from shoulder to hip. His son’s last breath had left him and there was nothing in The General’s power that could stop it. No amount of pleading, medicine, or prayer could put life back into the boy The General had given the breath of life almost eighteen years ago. The boy who loved philosophy, art and music, not war.

If The General had only paid attention, if he had only acknowledged his son’s differences, the boy might still be alive. 

Cold and windy night followed the long and painful first day. The wind was unrelenting, blowing in from across the vast field to the north of the massive camp. The chill crept into The General’s tent but he made no move to warm himself. He made no move at all other than the occasional shudder of a choked breath. His snow-flecked-gray beard was damp from tears, and his rough hand was cramped from clutching The Mother with increasing force. 

In the sparse forest south of the camp, owls sung a solemn condolence for the boy. The last streak of ruby faded from the western sky, blanketing the world in shadow. Unease among the men was nearly palpable as they huddled around their fires, fidgeting or sharpening their swords unnecessarily. The conversation was thin; hardly anyone spoke above a whisper.

“What do you think he’s doing in there?” one soldier pondered aloud.

“Fine tuning his plans for taking the city,” another replied. “That’s what I’d do.”

“He could be crying.”

“He had to have known this was a possibility. This is war. People die.”

“You never think it’s going to happen to you, though.”

The night grew colder and the men huddled around their fires to keep warm. Still no sound had come from The General’s tent since the thud of The Warrior cracking on The General’s desk. The stars slowly traced patterns in the night sky as the camp drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Morning did not find The General well. The only change in his stature was the heavy slump that had him staring into the ground. His eyes were bloodshot and snot had frozen in his mustaches. The Mother lay in his lap; his fingers too tired to hold her anymore. For that matter, his mind could no longer hold her, either. His thoughts trickled through his head like a muddy stream, cloudy and impure.

As the dim ruddy glow of his tent announced daybreak, The General moved. His body was tight from lack of use, and he nearly stumbled into his writing desk. Lighting a candle, he rummaged through the desk in search of the most recent orders from the His Majesty, orders the General hadn’t questioned before. When he recovered the missive, he spread it out on his desk and read with care.

You are to invade as soon as possible and seize control of their government, no matter the cost.

That line stuck out to him. No matter the cost? The General had paid the dearest cost he could ever afford. If the skirmish outside the capital had yielded such death and destruction, he could only imagine what lay ahead.

He gazed through the piece of paper in the flickering light of the candle long after the light of day rendered the candle useless. Questions flared through his head now, many and varied, and the General was afraid of the answers.

Always eager to forge himself a better place in the world, The General had carried out his orders without question for over thirty years. His superiors were sure to know what was best for him, their country, and the good of the world.

His nation was the model for the new world. They had the most fluid economy, the strongest military, and were founded on truly moral principles. Why they needed to force others to adopt their government and religion The General never understood. It should have been an obvious choice.

 The questions in his head were sparking new thoughts that had never occurred to him. He was beginning to reevaluate the state of his nation.

 Their economy might be the best in principle, but they were in the midst of the largest recession in the last hundred years. People were living in the streets. Many couldn’t even afford food. The interests of the government weren’t entirely focused at the moment. Political unrest plagued the nation like wildfire.

 Their military was undoubtedly the strongest, but some of the soldiers, The General’s son included, were not on the battlefield by choice, it seemed. It should have been an honor to serve for their country, not a chore. Why wouldn’t they want to serve?

The question of the morality of his government was perhaps the most troubling to The General. No matter how he puzzled it out, no matter how many angles he tried to take, he couldn’t shake off one thought: What if they were wrong?

From birth, The General had been groomed a loyal subject. He supported his nation through war, recession, crises, and conquest. It had occurred to him that their actions might seem harmful, but he did what he did because he believed his superiors to be wise and trustworthy, focused on the greater good.

Brought up by a father very like himself, one of the best generals of the age, The General grew to accept orders without asking questions. Questions were a sign of disobedience, and disobedience was heavily frowned upon. His mother had often encouraged his father to be lighter with him, to teach him love as well as obedience. No matter how often she tried, she was met with a blank stare and a change of subject.   

When The General was fifteen, his mother was killed in her sleep by an assassin’s knife meant for his father. The city mourned for a short time, strangers offering their sympathies when The General was out with his father. There was little time for mourning, however, The General’s father hungered for revenge; a hunger shared by His Majesty and the prominent figures in the capitol. Following evidence that the assassin hailed from their neighbors to the east, the death of The General’s mother was the striking of the flint that sparked the conquest.

The General lost all his mother had managed to teach him over the subsequent years, and he filled the hole her death left with rage. He enlisted as soon as he was of age and followed his father’s wake. His life became one of planning and preparing to conquer the neighboring nation. All the while hatred grew within him until it infested the deepest part of his soul. A hatred that ebbed and flowed as the tides, sometimes strong enough to turn his eyes red, sometimes tucked away deep beneath a layer of emptiness.

He felt that hatred growing as he stared at the orders from His Majesty. He felt it so strongly that he began to see red. But then he remembered his son. It was only a brief memory, but it was enough to send the hatred scurrying back to the recesses of his subconscious.

The General’s son was thirteen. He was sitting at the base of a tree in the back yard, meditating. The General was watching through the window. His son was so still, so calm. His narrow face was soft stone. He had been sitting like this for well over an hour. The General didn’t understand. He wasn’t one for wasting time with such idleness. Meditation was simply a means of distraction from the problems of the real world, as he saw it.

Watching his son under the tree, however, something stirred inside The General that he didn’t understand, and wouldn’t for quite some time: a tiny bud of acceptance that would take too long to blossom.

“You look tense.” The General’s wife glided over from the sitting room to place her hands on his shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

The General couldn’t think of a response, so he remained quiet. The General’s Son continued to sit under his tree, unaware of The General’s scrutiny.

“Maybe you should take after him,” The General’s Wife teased. “He seems to be happy.”

The General grunted and took his leave. There was military business to attend to, as usual. His wife lingered a moment to watch their son. She was a gentle woman with a kindness that extended beyond formal occasion. She supported her son in whatever choices he made, for she could see the compassion he hid from his father.

Perhaps The General’s Son, at such a young age, had shown more discipline than The General had known was in the boy.

Now The General stood again and walked to the other side of his tent where a local map was pinned to the thick canvas. As he analyzed the map, another memory took him.

The General’s son was sixteen. The slight hint of a future beard tickled his square jaw. He was finally old enough to enlist and The General couldn’t have been happier.

It was an overcast day. Tiny dribbles of rain threatened to turn into showers, but a skin of pride hugged The General so tightly it might as well have been the sunniest day of the year.  The General was watching his son fasten his boots for the walk to the Military Quarter. The boy was dressed well, but not too fine; clothes The General had chosen.

“I’ve waited the last sixteen years for this, my son. It’s time for you to continue the tradition of honor and excellence that has presided in our family for many generations. You have the potential to be as great a general as myself or your grandfather, given time and dedication.”

“I know, father,” The General’s son replied. “I won’t let you down.”

On the walk home, after all the papers had been signed, The General praised his son’s courage and spoke of future battles of glory. He saw the vacancy in his son’s eyes, but dismissed it as nerves.

How could he have misunderstood the look in those eyes? If he hadn’t been so blinded by his own pride perhaps he might have noticed.

Other memories came flooding back as if a dam blocking the river to The General’s past had collapsed.

The General’s son was seven. It was late evening and The General was holding him by the hand, leading him through the darkening streets of the capital. A musician was playing the strings on the corner. It was a beautiful tune, a stark contrast to the musician’s shabby and frail appearance. The General’s son stopped to listen, letting go of his father’s hand. The General tried to pull his son away.

“Wait, I want to listen!” he protested.

“We don’t have time,” The General replied.

“Why not?”

“Because there are more important things in the world than music.”

The musician’s melody followed The General as he dragged his son down the street.

The General’s son was ten. He was playing with the other boys from his class while The General drew up documents for the year’s new recruits in his study. He wondered vaguely how many years it would be, now, until his son’s papers would rest on his desk.

The General peeked out the window to check on the children. They were playing war in the courtyard, whacking at each other with sticks and throwing rocks. One boy, however, was off in the corner, drawing in the dirt with his fingers. The General squinted to get a better look, and upon realizing it was his son, turned red with shame.

Other memories flashed through The General’s head, weaving a tragic web of ignorance and misunderstanding.

He remembered the look on his son’s face as they prepared to leave home, and the reassuring smile he gave his mother.

“It’s alright, mother. I’ll come back.”

The General had no words for his wife. She had seen him return from battles before, and she would see him return again.

The General’s son was nine, and The General was late returning home from a council meeting. When he pushed open the front door, he beheld his son sitting on the polished wooden floor of the foyer, painting a picture of a bird. When the boy saw his father he eagerly held up his artwork for his father’s inspection.

“It’s... nice I suppose,” The General frowned. “Have you been studying your military history?”

The boy’s face faded from animate to stone. “Yes, father.”

“Good,” The General nodded. His son let the painting slip from his fingers and departed for the outdoors. The General plucked the art from the floor and studied it for a moment before tucking it away in his knapsack.

It was the day The General’s son died. He remembered the last conversation they’d had, The General sitting on his horse, while his son nervously checked the straps of his armor.

“You know I was about your age when I fought my first battle,” he assured his son. “There’s no cause for worry. You’ve been trained well, better than most. And you have a strong guard. You’ll live to see tomorrow.”

“I know, father. It’s just a lot to think about.”

The General grunted in agreement.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” his son continued. “So I carved these.” He proffered two wooden relics, The Mother and The Warrior. They were old world relics, believed by ancient peoples to bring luck. The Warrior to give the soldiers strength, and The Mother to watch over all of her children, old and young.

“I know you don’t believe in that kind of stuff, but, like I said, I couldn’t sleep and -”

The General cut his son off with a clap on the shoulder.

“That’s enough.” He gave his son a sharp look. “Compose yourself, we have a battle to win.” As he rode away leaving his son to his nerves, he tucked the relics into his saddlebags.

 The last memory of his son was the one that truly broke The General.

It was a chill evening yet The General was numb to the cold. His soldiers were arrayed in perfect order, their crimson armor bleeding in the light of the dying sun. Across the valley stood the enemy, armor as green as the grass beneath their feet, ready to defend their kingdom with their lives. 

The battle took longer than The General had anticipated. Like most battles, The General only remembered flashes of a skirmish here, a dead soldier there, and a lot of blood. He wasn’t the kind of general to sit idly in his tent and wait while his soldiers fought his battles. He liked to be right in the midst of the battle, boosting morale and offering quick tactical alterations.

Then he saw his son, alone, locked in a fight against five men in green. Why was he alone? Where was his squad?

The General ran to his son’s aid, feet pounding the blood-soaked earth with increasing vigor. His son’s sword was deft. He slew one, two of the men. He was magnificent; in perfect rhythm with his enemies, but he was mortally outnumbered. He cut down the third and fourth, but suddenly he was surrounded by a whirl of enemies, a lone flame in a sea of green. In the commotion, The General’s son glanced over and locked eyes with his father for a brief, agonizing moment. He blocked the sword arcing through the air towards him, but another was too quick to follow; he couldn’t lift his sword in time. The General’s heart froze as his son was cut down.

Fresh tears welled up in The General’s eyes as the memory left him. He choked them down and sighed deeply. For the first time in his life, The General felt as though he understood his son for who he truly was.

“It’s not too late,” The General mumbled to himself, his voice rough from lack of use. “I can redeem myself in my son’s eyes.” He looked through a hole in the rough leather roof of his tent and to the sky.

. . . . .

Inside the Capitol, sitting in his high throne of gold and jewels, His Majesty received unwelcome tidings from a messenger.

“Majesty, I hesitate to relay a particular piece of news, for fear of your retribution.” The messenger was prostrate on the cold stone floor. Great black tapestries hung from the vaulted ceiling like jagged teeth, each depicting scenes of war and triumph. High, narrow windows spaced evenly across the wall behind His Majesty cast him in a halo of dust motes, giving him an almost god-like appearance.

“Tell me.”

“A letter arrived from The General; he has abandoned the conquest. He refuses to march.” The messenger flinched. Disbelief cracked His Majesty’s wrinkled visage. Only one word found it’s way to his lips.

“Why?”

The messenger shook his head. “His son was killed in action. The rumors have it he’s holed up in his tent mourning. Hasn’t seen anyone.”

His Majesty took a moment to compose himself. “Summon him here, now.”

“He will not come, exalted one.”

His Majesty couldn’t believe it. The General, one of his oldest colleagues, abandoning their conquest? Sure, his son’s death was regrettable, but he should have been prepared to face such consequences. This conquest was a product of their efforts; an endeavor wrought from the mutual understanding that their cause was just.

 His Majesty rose to his feet, his next words heavy as stone.

“Insubordination is met with execution.”

“But, Majesty, his family has been loyal to our nation for generations, perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding?”

His Majesty’s head was pounding. If he didn’t punish The General, he would lose the respect of his subordinates, and potentially the war. This was a cumbersome situation: a true test of His Majesty’s devotion to his cause. He rubbed at his temples and the corners of his mouth twitched as he hissed, “we are too close to winning this war! I can’t allow the entire conquest to fail on the shoulders of a broken man. To disobey me is treason.” His Majesty descended the few steps to the floor and bid the messenger to rise.

“Prepare my contingent, we ride for the battleground.”

“Sire?”

“Do as I say, else your fate will be as his. I intend to win this war myself.”

“Yes, Majesty.” The messenger bowed low and scurried out the ornate oak double doors to the palace foyer, calling His Majesty’s retainers in a shrill tone.

His Majesty would be damned if he didn’t get to the bottom of this himself. What madness had consumed The General’s mind?

. . . . .

The General was sitting cross-legged on a rock near the edge of the woods as His Majesty’s contingent arrived at the camp. He had taken to meditating each day since his revelation. His soldiers were starting to grow restless; they respected The General’s word, but many were conflicted between what was right, and what was dangerous. He had told them to go home days ago, but only a handful of soldiers had left. The rest remained steadfast. Loyalty, The General knew, a bond deeper than fear.

His Majesty rode to The General with a frown, men parting like a dagger cutting silk. The General stood to meet His Majesty with a patient gaze, ignoring the accusing scrutiny.

“What’s the meaning of this?” His Majesty spat.

“We were wrong,” The General stated simply. “War isn’t the answer.” He motioned around him. “This fighting, this death and destruction, it will never be the answer.”

“How can you say that? After the murder of your mother, the wars, the skirmishes, the political scheming... have you lost sight of the bigger picture?” His Majesty’s face was flushed with scarlet rage. “I thought you a stronger man than this.”

The General allowed himself a smile. “Strength isn’t defined by the ability to swing a sword. It is defined by the ability to recognize when not to.”

A few moments of tense silence filled the void left by The General’s words. His Majesty was loath to continue, but The General left him no choice. “Go,” he commanded. “Lead my army to battle, or die for high treason.”

The General inhaled deeply and slowly through his nose, held the breath a few seconds, and exhaled the same way. “My army isn’t marching to battle,” he replied. His Majesty was not pleased.

“You leave me no choice.”

His Majesty motioned and two of his personal retainers stepped forth, grabbed The General, and threw him face-first onto the rock. A third approached with a sword. The General didn’t struggle.

“No, no!” His Majesty waved away the third man, “I’ll do it myself.” He dismounted his charge, drew the sword from his hip, and stood over The General with the authority of a tyrant, cold and cruel.

The General, face pressed into the cold stone, surveyed the eyes of his soldiers surrounding the scene, thousands deep. Many that the General had personally trained, young and old alike; loyal friends that would follow him to the end of the earth. Their eyes were sharp and ready. Some shouted out for His Majesty to stop. Others simply frowned, caught between the hammer and the anvil.

In the last moments of the General’s life he felt peaceful. His worries had disappeared with his condemnation. He was content with his actions because he had no reason not to be. His son would be proud. Somewhere amidst the commotion he thought he saw one, no two of his soldiers draw their swords.

The General closed his eyes and pictured his son at age thirteen, meditating under the tree in the back yard.