Dear mother,
It has been some time since I last wrote. The past moons have been a test of endurance and sheer will, and the hardships continue to pile atop one another. I was unsure whether I could again face you with the same pride and courage I displayed when we departed for our mission, in what feels so long ago. And this question I have pondered for a while, and I have deep disdain for the answer. I cannot retain that pride and courage, for I have lost all sense of it.
Everything changed when we passed those godforsaken mountains, and entered the vastness beyond. It began slowly, but it soon became clear we were on foreign soil and at our wit's end. The swift victories of the capital turned into sour defeats—many a man fell when they descended upon us like a pack of hungry wolves. The lucky ones perished with haste, and the others' fates I care not even describe. Regardless, battered and rundown we carried on, and our so-valued discipline and order turned into vicious savagery.
Once we finally tasted victory again and beat them back, we lost what little honour, civility and wisdom we managed to drag with us past those mountains. The Mesasi showed little mercy in battle, but what we did that day yet continues to haunt me.
Those men who survived the battle we cut down—some received what we called "swift justice", others were in agony for days. Justice we called it. Men were cut, bled and defiled, and left to rot under the sun to be feasted upon by all manner of critters and beasts.
The following day we reached their women and children. We cut down all the boys old enough to walk, and then those who could not, and ensured every woman with child was with child no longer. We cut down their priests and elders—anyone with any apparent worth. We raped and pillaged and tortured; channelled all the rage the realm held for these people, as the field turned crimson.
Good soldiers follow orders, but what mind was there to follow such orders, to cut down children in front of their mothers, to murder infants in face of the fear of what they could grow up to be.
We erased a people that day.
We committed abhorrent sins beyond those mountains, such that deserve us no rewards, nor praise or glory. But at home we would be hailed as heroes; the brave soldiers who saved this crumbling empire from an army of savages. We call them savages, but if they are savages I do know not what that makes us. Every word of appreciation brings me so much shame.
I fear I cannot brave facing you again, nor can I face anyone back home. I died the day those mountains faded into the horizon.
I ask not for your understanding nor forgiveness—I am not sure if even the Great Mother could grant me that. I only ask that you allow the me that left that day to fade away, for the monster I returned as deserves no less.
—Goran
