Far We Walk

The rain is nearly deafening, hammering the road and trees in a steady rhythm. The sky is dark enough to pass for night, though it should be midday by now. Cassandra walks with her head held high and her back straight, the way she always does, even now, soaked through, aching, and long past tired. The road stretches ahead, always just as empty as it is behind her, with no sign of shelter, no sound beyond rain and the steady squelch of her boots. Now and then, she pauses, just for a moment, to scan the mist ahead. Maybe she hopes to catch the shape of a building or a torchlight through the downpour. But there’s never anything there. Just trees leaning close to the road and the thick grey curtain of weather. Stopping solves nothing. So she keeps moving. Forward is all that matters. To steady herself, she hums a simple tune and song, soft and steady. The sound carries just far enough for me to hear it under the rain. Her voice is calm, and somehow it makes the road feel a little less empty.

Step by step, the road runs wide,
March with strength and march with pride.
Eyes ahead, keep step and line,
Steel moves clean and cuts just fine.

One for oath, and two for name,
Three for duty, none for fame.
Four to hold, and five to stand,
Six to keep the line in hand.

Hold the line and mind your pace,
Stand as one, and hold your space.
Wind may howl and ground may shake,
But steady feet will not break.

Boots hold ground, and names hold weight,
You march for those who met their fate.
Not for glory, not for gold,
You walk because the line must hold.

Eventually, the rain thins to a light mist. The silence that follows feels strange, almost too still. Water still drips from her cloak and hair, and her boots squish with every step, but the worst has passed. Ahead, through the grey, shapes begin to take form. Low buildings. Wooden walls. Faint smoke rising. A village. Small, worn, quiet. The kind of place people pass through without stopping unless they need to. But it’s there. And it’s enough. Cassandra doesn’t hesitate. She walks through the muddy path between houses and makes her way toward the largest building, a tavern or an inn, judging by the faded sign and the light behind its windows. She pushes open the door and steps inside. It is a tavern and she walks in like she’s not soaked to the bone, head high, back straight, eyes steady. That’s Cassandra. No matter how far she’s come or how hard it’s been, she never lets it show more than she has to. Her cloak is heavy with rain, leaving a trail of water across the floor as she crosses to the fire without a word. She doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t need to. Just picks a table close to the hearth and lowers herself into the chair like it’s the first real rest she’s had in days. She takes off the cloak slowly, movements stiff. The heat from the fire hits her and I see her flinch, just a little, as feeling starts creeping back into her hands. She doesn’t ask for food or drink. She just sits, quiet, eyes on the flames like she’s somewhere else entirely. People glance her way. Travelers always draw eyes, especially ones like her, armed, silent, soaked, and clearly worn down by more than just the weather. But no one says anything. They don’t need to. Most know that strangers in small places like this are here because they need to, not because they want to.