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“Remember who you fight for.”
She’d heard the phrase from a grizzled old sergeant, back when she had first been chosen for service in the Levy. His type was rare these days, one of the few veterans of the petty conflicts that came before the war: many of his kind had been killed in the early days of the conflict, their experience with traditional foes almost a disadvantage when facing a foe as vile as the one they confronted now.
He was among those that survived the early battles, one of the few who went on to lay the foundations for the institution that would become the Levy. He wasn’t particularly important in the greater organization, the lack of literacy making him unsuited for the logistical difficulties and communication complexities of a command role.
Instead, he utilized his experience to cultivate the experience of the innumerable young recruits to the Levy. Something about her, she wasn’t sure what, had made her stand out to the older man, enough so that he had placed no small amount of effort in training her in the ways of proper soldiery rather than the petty massed combat of the chaff that composed the rest of the levy.
When they first met, she’d only been familiar with the barest basics of martial combat, something that he sought to correct as best he could during the countless sleepless nights on the campaign trail. He didn’t talk that much, his few words always being gruff and to the point, each carrying a lesson of some sort upon them. In the year that she knew him, he never shared anything about his own history: all she knew about him came from overheard gossip and hearsay from the other young recruits of the Levy.
He was the only one besides Horse that she had truly trusted since her parents died. The only one besides Horse that she bared her struggles to.
He listened when she cried about her parents, lost to the war and the freezing cold of winter.
He listened when she cried about her dead comrades, the half remembered childhood friends that had survived the winters and raids.
He listened when she cried about her first kill, not one of the monsters but a militiaman, sworn to some local headsman who was foolish enough to defy the mandates of the Levy.
He always listened, was always there. He didn’t offer words of comfort, mere acknowledgement and the invitation to turn her sorrow and despair into the fuel she’d need to excel. The Sergeant was hardened and unkind, his training painful and exhausting… but it worked.
She lived.
Others didn’t.
With every battle survived, every life taken, she grew more and more familiar with her new life. The Sergeant helped her understand the path to survival: while so many of her so-called comrades in arms simply viewed their duties as a job, they could only be properly approached as a lifestyle. If one wishes to survive war, they must live it.
It was easier when he was alive.
Their final battle together hadn’t been particularly climactic.
She was in the cavalry, the fearless Riders who would storm forth and break the enemy’s flank while the general infantry clashed with them on the field.
The enemy force, a small detachment of minotaurs, died easily. The infantry took losses, as always, but they were easily within the acceptable margin.
The Sergeant was among them.
He wasn’t technically dead when she reached him in the medical tent, though from the haphazard medical lessons he’d provided her over the last several months, she knew that it wouldn’t be long. He hadn’t known enough about healing to instruct her on much beyond the basics of tying a bandage, though their tours of the filthy medical tents made her all too familiar with the appearance of one nearing death.
He clutched her hand when she reached him, the most familiar he’d ever been with her, weakly trying to pull her closer. His words were weak, only barely gasping through his dry lips.
“Remember who you fight for.”
She stayed with him until he died.
She cried with Horse for a long time after that.
The Sergeant never had much to say about her troubles so Horse’s lack of responsiveness to her rambled stories was hardly an exception to the norm.
She focused only on Horse after that.
She didn’t need much to live and more possessions would only slow her down.
Besides her armaments, she possessed the standard array of provisions and supplies afforded to a Rider of the Levy: marching gear, provisions, and a small selection of tools comprising the bulk of her pack. Her one true luxury, the one exception to her austere lifestyle, was the grooming kit.
The bag itself was made of treated leather, a difficult material to acquire in a nomadic army, held closed by a steel clip. Within were her grooming accruements, the tools with which she cared for her only friend.
It was a regular sort of ritual for her: the stables were only ever sparsely inhabited, particularly when the common soldiery had begun its courrousing, something that made them one of her favorite places to hide away from the world.
The stables themselves were built in the same style as they always were, the freshly cut wood having been assembled into a proper structure by the veritable legion of camp followers who supplemented the mobile forces of the Levy. She passed by the other horses, focused only on finding her stalwart companion.
While the camp followers were able to tend to the horses, she didn’t trust them to treat Horse with the respect that she deserved.
So she handled it herself.
She began by using the curry comb, the small metal teeth of the tool intended to loosen dirt and dandruff while massaging the body of the horse. Her movements with the curry comb were small and circular in nature, a steady pattern of varying pressure manifesting as she worked her way across Horse’s body. With some regularity, she tapped the curry comb against her boot, dislodging the detritus it had released from the mare’s fur before continuing.
The body brush was second to leave the small bag, the varnished wooden handle giving way to the tightly packed bristles that lined the bottom of the tool. With the debris in Horse’s fur loosened by the currying, the body brush served to lift it out of the fur and distribute the natural coat oil in a healthy manner. This time her movements were slow, flicking motions intended to cast away the dirt that clung to her beloved steed, only stopping to clean the brush against her curry comb.
The finishing brush was the softest of those available, the handle also made of varnished wood, though the bristles were sourced from horse hair fibers. Intended to remove the remaining dust exposed by the previous two brushes, she skillfully ran it across Horse’s body in a series of rhythmic, short flicks across the body. The brush served a dual purpose, evenly distributing the natural skin oil, providing a shine to the coat of the mare.
Next, she moved on to the mane, Horse’s tangled silver mane providing a suitable opponent for the main and tail brush. She started at the bottom, gently brushing small lengths of hair as she worked her way along the main and tail, careful not to force tangles out of the concern that it would break the hair.
Finally was the hoof pick, the hooked metal blade of the tool perfect for removing the dirt, rock, and manure that would build up in the hooves of any active horse. This process was far quicker than the others, almost an afterthought as Horse easily lifted her legs to allow easy access to the Hooves. She quickly cleared them, ensuring that the space along the frog was properly clean and free of the padded dirt that would build up.
She always felt good when she finished.
Satisfied.
It was a struggle to work up the motivation to care for herself, to do more than wade into the river to clean her body of the blood and mud from battle or cut down her hair to prevent it from getting in the way. It was far easier to care for Horse, far more satisfying to cleanse her friend of the acquired detritus of day-to-day life.
When she heard Horse knicker in appreciation at the end of her cleaning, she felt clean.
“Remember who you fight for.”
It was easy to justify fighting for the Levy, for humanity's survival, but it wasn’t what really motivated her in the end.
She fought for the one who kept her warm at night. The one that she’d known her entire life. The one that charged into battle with her without fear or betrayal.
She fought for Horse.