i.

"Then sergeant was having a bloody-well go at me, then," the young hare concluded. He was nearly shaking, chest swelling with pride. "That's a good lot to be proud of. So why'd he go on and say Eulalia means nothing, sah?"

The older hare hardly looked up from the flint and stone in his hand. "Because he's right," he replied.

He had a sad expression on his face, but his voice was stern and hardened. "Hell, I agree with him so much I'll repeat it, wot? He's bloody well right. 'Eulalia' is every single one of my old friends that left for battle and never returned. The old friends who died for Salamandastron and came back home with their skulls split open. Every single damned ally that I once walked with. The old mates that I had to carry through the damp woodlands with a trail of blood behind us. All of that and more is right what that word means to me. It's an old, old friend, is what it means to me."

"What do they mean to you?"

"Old friends don't mean anything."

(THE TIMES ARE COLD)

'ye really aren't cut out for this,' the stoat calmly observes.

the spear is shaking so much in Owain's grip that he nearly drops it.

the stoat hisses: 'look me in my eyes. you are too weak to kill.'

Owain plunges down the spear, closing his eyes just before the impact he flinches before he even pierces flesh

then

his ears are greeted by a soft thump and a watery gurgle.

opening his eyes again, he sees that he's managed to miss the midpoint of the throat and instead bury the spearhead just above the stoat's collarbone at the base of the neck. panicking, he jerks back on the wooden handle, partially uprooting it from its burial in the bandit's flesh and fur. a fresh stream of blood erupts from the wound, and the stoat begins struggling underneath Owain. the hare panics again and jams the spear back down and the stoat convulses once, twice, three times before staying still, silent the whole time.

letting go, Owain turns away. crouching, holding his head in his paws.

it's just vermin.

he's going to be sick.

just vermin.

he's killed another living being.

it's just vermin.

he's bloody done it.

he turns back to the stoat lying on the ground, spear sticking out of the dying vermin like a vulgar target practice dummy. the sand around him has turned a brilliant, nauseating shade of crimson.

eyes clouding over, the stoat raises his head ever so slightly for one final time:

and the silence between them is enough to span lifetimes

and the stoat says

'I would have done the same to you, lad'

and chokes, and dies.

alone.

Owain has already ran from the body, one paw his on his weapon and another wrapped around his mouth.

as light falls, there is much celebration back at camp for the youth in honor of their first battle. the same air that was filled with the sounds of clashing steel and flesh is now host to drunken ballads. no one notices that all the young hares seem to be staring at the ground, or at their own paws as if the blood is still there.

Owain, one of the proverbial guests of honors, excuses himself and tells his colleagues that he's going to sleep.

his allies congratulate him yet again on his first kill. 'rest well, lad, you've earned it.'

he stops outside camp to vomit, and spends several minutes staring at the waxing moon.

(THE TIMES ARE COLD)

ii.

.

.
no one dares to speak.

the procession is muted. not within itself.

.

.

.

.

the silence ends by way of a horrified wail.

the old guardshare's wife has seen his corpse.

his fellow soldiers stand deathly still as she tries to cradle what is left.

new gift for old friends. see you around.