The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 4 (Morana)

The header is a recolored picture, what I imagine the soldiers' uniforms to look like.

Original picture: https://i.pinimg.com/236x/a0/9b/cd/a09bcd2974108f149c89cf2c0061193c.jpg

Let me tell you, though, the recoloring... it took a while. But it's worth it, if not for your imagination then for mine.

The day of Davor's funeral was unsuitably cheerful: the sky was the color of a kingfisher's plumage, and the snow was a flawless, glistening white. It crunched under Morana's boots as she made her way to the church. The entire procession was silent but for their footsteps and the slight creak of wood as the man carrying the empty casket shifted his weight.

Morana looked over to Rolan and Ivo, walking beside her. Rolan's face was red from the cold, and also— though he would never admit it— from crying. Not good at all, he'd said, and she could see it. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but now wasn't the time, and even if it was... what would she say? Nothing she said could ease the pain. It hadn't all those years ago and it wouldn't now.

She let out the quietest of sighs and shifted her gaze away. All she could do was keep her eyes on what was in front of her and keep going. One step at a time, one day at a time.

Ahead of her now was the church. It was built with dark stone, weathered by age but still sturdy. There were many traceried windows, all with scenes of saints' lives immortalized in the stained glass and all surrounded by detailed, intricate whirls and patterns carved into the stone. Sharp spires sliced through the sky, and flying buttresses were connected to other, shorter spires. In appearance, it was a cold and formal building, but for her, it was home even if she didn't live there.

Outside the church, the commander waited. He gave them a small nod before they stepped inside. He had to stay out; only their kind were allowed, but it was clear that he wanted to be as close as he could.

Passing through the doors, Morana glanced at the windows to her right. Saint Alexej on the first, Saint Marika on the second, Saint Janek on the third... more than a dozen windows to this side, and all martyrs. The scene for Saint Janek showed only a small, dark-haired boy in a soldier's uniform, head bent in prayer at the foot of the church. He was too young, Morana thought. They were all too young. Davor's image would be added soon, and it felt like a knife was twisting in her chest to have to see him here instead of training with them or making jokes about the commander during dinner.

None of them should have been there at all, but they were, living in glass instead of flesh.

She settled into the pew, Ivo on her left and Rolan on her right. They all watched as Zlatka walked down the center aisle, turning back to face them once she passed the pews. She was barely past thirty years of age, but as the oldest, she was expected to lead the service.

"We gather here today to celebrate the life of Davor Hanek," Zlatka said. Although her voice was quiet, it echoed through the church. "Our brother was a brave, pious man with one of the strongest hearts and most steadfast devotions in all of Moravsko."

He wasn't a man, Morana wanted to say. He was just a boy.

Zlatka continued speaking, but Morana didn't listen. She didn't want to hear how brave he was, how loyal he was— she wanted to remember the time he'd climbed halfway up the roof of Pevnost Dukovníka on a dare and the time Ivo had chased him around the dining hall after he'd placed a bowl of soup in Ivo's chair.