The Weight of Unspoken Words

The world was so cruel and so fucking miserable, so cruel and so fucking miserable, that the rain came down in sheets—Shaaah—. Rain was falling.

The sky over the National Cemetery had sunk low, and the clouds clung to the tombstones like soaked rags. Black umbrellas stood in orderly rows. The umbrellas of noble officers, of military officials, of the priest, of the bereaved families. Among that sea of umbrellas, only Irina stood exposed to the rain.

Her uniform had absorbed the water, growing heavy from the shoulders down. Her silver hair stuck to her cheeks, shedding streams of rainwater. Droplets fell from the brim of her cap, gathered beneath her chin, then slid down her neck and slipped inside her collar. It was cold. But Irina did not move. She did not raise a hand to wipe her face, nor did she lower her head to avoid it. Standing in the rain was something she could endure. People survived being hit by shells. Rain did not kill anyone. At least not in one go.

“Rowen Hartmann.” The priest’s voice drifted through the downpour. “He was a soldier who accomplished glorious deeds…” The words blurred from there. Irina watched the priest’s mouth moving, but the sound never quite reached the inside of her ears. The rain had drenched every syllable. Glory. Achievement. Devotion. Emperor. Homeland. Victory. Such words came in fragments before dissolving into the wet earth. Irina knew those words. They were the ones the empire trotted out most often once the war ended. Light enough to give to the living, respectable enough to drape over the dead.

The coffin was covered by the imperial flag. The red fabric had drunk the rain and turned a deeper black, while the gold-embroidered crest still forced itself to gleam even beneath the overcast sky. Irina did not like that shine. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What should have shone were the dinner table when Hartmann was still alive, his dry uniform, a properly issued pension statement, and a bed where he could sleep without nightmares. A cloth over a coffin growing wet and shiny in the rain was not particularly impressive.

Beside the coffin lay his military sword. The leather on the hilt looked freshly polished, and black cloth was tied around the scabbard. It had been Hartmann’s. He had never over-maintained his gear, but he had never neglected it either. The blade was probably still serviceable. Weapons remained even after their owners disappeared. People collapsed, but weapons kept functioning. The empire sometimes managed those weapons more diligently than it managed people.

Irina was looking at the coffin. Or rather, at the imperial flag draped over it. The fact that Hartmann lay beneath it still refused to settle in her mind. Last night ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had offered pointless advice, sat like a proper adjutant, and spoken of his wife as if delivering a report. Then he had asked: Did that war have any meaning? That had been the end of it. It should not have ended like that. She should have added something more. After saying she didn’t know, she should have told him to stay alive anyway. She should have said they would think about it again tomorrow even if there was no answer. She should have told him to sleep here tonight and kept watch until morning. If she had told him not to go, she should not have covered it with the excuse that there was still alcohol left. But Irina had covered it. Using embarrassment as an excuse. Using the influence of drink as an excuse. Using the lazy relief of thinking there would still be time as an excuse. And Hartmann had left without even a proper goodbye.

He had tidied the house. Prepared the firewood. Washed the glasses. Neatly arranged his medals. Left a note. What a diligent bastard. Even on his way to die, he had cleaned someone else’s house.

“He demonstrated unwavering resolve and exceptional loyalty on the battlefield…” The priest’s words became slightly clearer again. Irina blinked. Rainwater fell from the tips of her eyelashes. Unwavering resolve. Exceptional loyalty. Easy words to describe Hartmann. Even when his hands shook, he had accepted the glass. Even while saying he was not all right, he had never let his posture collapse. He had organized the news that his place in his own home had vanished as neatly as a military report. Calling that resolve made things convenient for the empire. Calling it loyalty made the funeral look proper. But Irina knew. People could not endure living that way for long. Hartmann had endured for a very long time.

In the front row stood his wife, wearing a black veil, hands neatly clasped, head bowed. Beside her was the secretary from the rear logistics bureau. His face was hard to see. The shadow of an umbrella hid the area around his eyes. Irina did not look at him for long. Looking too long made her start planning how to kill him. Should she cut his throat? Slice off his fingers first so he could never write another document? Shatter his jaw so he could never open his mouth again? The thoughts flowed smoothly. This was usually the kind of habit war left in a person. Murderous intent with nowhere left to go. The habit of sharpening a blade for no reason even in dull daily life.

Hartmann had not killed that man. What could she repay by cutting down someone Hartmann had left untouched? Irina turned her gaze back to the coffin. The rain continued to fall.

Someone carefully approached with an umbrella. “Major.” It was a young officer’s voice. “It would be better if you took shelter from the rain…”

“Take it away.” Irina’s voice came out low. The officer hesitated. “But…”

“Take it away.” At the second command the umbrella withdrew. Once the black shadow disappeared, the rain fell directly onto Irina’s head again. Cold water struck her scalp, ran down her neck, and flowed along her spine. The young officer said nothing more. That was fortunate. If he had kept speaking, Irina might have shoved someone at the funeral. Or done something worse.

The priest continued the prayer. “The empire will remember his name, and his devotion will serve as an example for future generations…” Irina twisted the corner of her mouth at those words. The empire begrudged the living even a single room, yet carved the names of the dead into stone. It postponed the living’s medical expenses citing insufficient paperwork, but covered the dead with flags trimmed in gold thread. It never asked whether the living had a home to return to, yet claimed the dead rested in the bosom of the homeland. The empire was truly kind. Only to those who could no longer speak.

Irina clenched her gloved hand. Inside it was the folded paper—Hartmann’s note. She had not put it in her inner pocket. It might get wet. The ink might run. Yet she could not let go of it. Though she had unfolded and read it not long ago, the sentences were already embedded inside her.

Those sentences were clearer than the priest’s words. The priest had called Hartmann a glorious soldier, yet Hartmann had left behind that the drinks had tasted good. Which one described him more accurately? Irina knew the answer. That was why she was even angrier.

“His Imperial Majesty, in recognition of the deceased’s achievements, posthumously awards him the Imperial Order of Military Merit…” One of the officers stepped forward. In his hands was a small box. The box opened. Beneath black cloth to shield it from the rain, a medal appeared. A glittering piece of metal. The empire’s favorite answer to give the dead.

Irina stared at the medal. It was something Hartmann should have received while still alive. When he had stood before his own front door and could not find his place, what he had needed was not a medal. When he had come to her house carrying alcohol, what he had needed was not a piece of metal inside a funeral box. It had always come too late while he lived. The review was delayed. The budget was insufficient. Verification of achievements was required. Approval from superiors remained. Hartmann’s wife began to sob. The secretary gently wrapped an arm around her shoulder. That hand irritated her. It would feel better to sever his wrist. No. Nothing would feel better.

Irina slowly drew in a breath. The smell of wet earth entered her lungs. It resembled the smell of trenches. Wet earth. Dug-up ground. The scent of wood, cloth, and steel. The pit dug to bury death was not so different from the pits on the battlefield. The only difference was that here people wore black clothes and observed proper etiquette.

“Major.” This time an old officer approached. Beneath his black umbrella, his face was rigid. He had carefully arranged an expression suitable for a funeral. “May we ask you to deliver the memorial remarks?”

Irina looked at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“What would I say?”

“As a comrade-in-arms, as his superior, if you could say a few words about the deceased…”

“A few words.” Irina repeated the phrase under her breath. Words. Hartmann had waited for words from her yesterday. Did that war have any meaning? She had said she did not know. He had taken that answer with him. Now the empire was demanding words from her again. Words to honor the dead. Words suitable for a funeral. Words at which people could nod.

Irina looked at the coffin. The imperial flag over it had absorbed more rainwater and grown heavier. Beneath it, Hartmann offered no reply. Yesterday he had replied. Now he said nothing. That fact angered her in a strange way.

“I have none,” Irina said.

The old officer paused for a moment. “Pardon?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Major, even so, for the sake of formality…”

“You’re already doing plenty of that.” The priest. The medal. The imperial flag. The umbrellas. The eulogy. The military boots lined up on the wet earth. Irina’s eyes swept over all of it. “I have nothing more to add.”

The old officer closed his mouth. He seemed about to say something else, but after looking at Irina’s face he gave up. It was not a bad decision.

Irina looked at the coffin again. Saying she had nothing to say had been close to a lie. There were many things she wanted to say. Why did you go? Why didn’t you say goodbye? Where did you learn the hobby of writing the word “will” on a note? I told you there was still alcohol left. I told you there was still some left. I told you not to go. But those were not words one could speak at a funeral. They were too personal, too shabby, and far too late to utter in an imperial cemetery, beneath the imperial flag, before an imperial priest, with imperial officers watching.

So Irina remained silent. The priest’s prayer continued. “May his soul find rest beneath the light…”

Had Hartmann found rest? Had he wanted rest? Or had he simply stopped because he no longer had the strength to keep walking? Last night he had said he was not all right. He had said that even if he was not all right, he could still sit. He had said the war had taught him that. Even after hearing those words, she had failed to notice what conclusion he had already reached. She had read the movement paths of thousands of enemies, predicted where enemy artillery would strike next, and calculated the speed of Magic Cavalry bypassing the southern ridge. Yet she had failed to read that the adjutant sitting before her was preparing to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠go die.

Pathetic. Irina muttered inwardly. She did not decide whom the word was aimed at.

The priest lifted a handful of earth. Soldiers carrying the coffin moved. Wet gloves gripped the wooden handles, and the black coffin was slowly carried toward the grave. Ropes were set. A low command was given. “Slowly.”

The coffin descended. Irina did not look away. Rain entered her eyes and blurred her vision, but she did not blink. With every inch the coffin lowered, a scene from last night rose in her mind. The hand offering a handkerchief. The tremor at the fingertips as he accepted the glass. The face that had said, My wife is having an affair. The voice that had sunk low as he said, I felt like an intruder in my own home. The eyes that had asked, Did that war have any meaning? And the last. There is still some left. At the time Irina had thought he meant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the alcohol. Perhaps Hartmann had meant the alcohol. Perhaps he had also meant the time left to him. Distinguishing the meaning was now pointless. Interpretation was a luxury for the living. The dead did not correct it.

The coffin reached the bottom. The ropes went slack. Earth fell from the priest’s hand. Thud. It was a small sound. Incomparably small compared to the roar of artillery. It lacked the sharpness of a gunshot. It was even lower than the hollow sound of a wine bottle rolling across the floor. Yet at that sound Irina’s breath caught for an instant.

Thud. A second clump of earth fell. Thud. A third clump of earth fell. Hartmann disappeared. Little by little. Irrevocably. Irreversibly.

Irina gripped the note in her hand harder. The paper crumpled inside her glove. Only then did she realize her hand was shaking. The hand that had held a sword on countless battlefields had remained steady. Even amid blood and oil and mud, that hand had never released the sword. Yet now it trembled before a single sheet of paper. How ridiculous. Yet no laughter came.

More earth covered him. The imperial flag was folded. Hartmann’s sword was placed in its box. The medal was handed to his wife. She bowed her head and wept. The secretary remained at her side. Looking at that scene, Irina thought: Did they kill him? A little. Did the empire kill him? That too, a little. Did the war kill him? A lot. Then what about me?

Irina could not find the answer. Combat reports had columns. Killed in action. Wounded. Missing. Prisoners. Ammunition expended. Equipment lost. But this kind of death had no column. There was no place to record who noticed too late, who had painted a joke over the last words, who had been unable to answer a question. So everyone slipped away a little. The empire. The wife. The war. Me. She did not like that.

The funeral moved toward its end. The priest recited the final prayer, the soldiers saluted, and the officers bowed their heads in turn. Umbrellas began to move one by one. Footprints remained on the rain-soaked earth, only to be erased by water again. The living prepared to leave. Carriages waited. Warm interiors, dry towels, clothes to change into, afternoon schedules. It looked as if everyone had a next step.

Irina did not move. Her next step had not yet arrived. Time had stopped in front of Hartmann’s grave. Shaaah—. The rain continued to fall. Over the cemetery. Over the empty tombstones. Over the fresh earth. Over Irina’s shoulders. Over the note in her hand.

The people left. The black umbrellas receded into the distance. The priest’s voice disappeared. The old officer’s footsteps, the sound of Hartmann’s wife sobbing, the secretary’s low whispers—all of it was buried in the rain. In the distance came the sound of the cemetery’s black iron gate closing. Only then did Irina open her mouth.

“Rowen.” The name felt unfamiliar. How many times in more than ten years had she called him by his first name? Hartmann. Calling someone by name brought them closer. And those who grew close remained long after they died. I knew that. That was why I avoided it. But he remained as long as if I had never avoided him at all.

It had been that way from the beginning. From the moment he had opened the tent flap and entered at Krasen Canyon, he had already been at my side.

Irina stood before the grave for a long time, searching for the next words. She had meant to say she was sorry. Her lips would not move. She had meant to say he had done well. The words felt like the cheap flowers strewn across the funeral home. The empire had bought up every flower for its victory celebration, leaving only pathetic artificial wreaths. She had meant to say rest easy. But he might not have died in order to rest easy. She had meant to say thank you. That felt cruel.

In the end no words came. The only thing she could do was stand in the rain. That did not help much either. Hartmann was beneath the earth now. That difference could not be bridged by rain.

Irina slowly lifted her hand and slipped the note inside her uniform. The wet paper touched the inside of her coat, near her heart. Ridiculously, only then did she feel slightly relieved. The paper was cold. She had not known a dead man’s last words could be this cold.

“The drinks,” Irina said quietly. “I suppose I’ll have to bring them from now on.”

No answer came. Of course not. But things that were obvious were not always bearable.

The rain grew heavier. Shaaah—. Only now did that sound become clear. The priest’s words, the empire’s name, the sound of the medal box closing—all had vanished, and only the sound of rain remained in the cemetery. Irina stood listening to it.

On the battlefield, rain had meant worrying about mud. Wagons getting stuck, supply horses falling, trench walls collapsing, gunpowder getting wet. Today’s rain delayed nothing. It simply fell on things that were already too late. On a man already buried. On a note already left behind. On a dawn already passed. On a hand already missed.

Irina closed her eyes. Coward. She told herself that. A coward who had used alcohol as an excuse to keep someone from leaving, then hidden the fact that she had tried to keep him. Had he understood? He probably had. Hartmann had always seen those things clearly. He had seen the tremor in my hand, the shoulders that stiffened at the sound of the door, the way I tried to hide that I was glad to see him. So he must have heard it. The words telling him not to go. That it was not really about the alcohol. He had known and still left.

Irina opened her eyes. The new grave was silent. Rainwater pooled on the wet earth. No name had yet been carved into the tombstone. A blank stone waited for the spot where it would stand. Soon the name Rowen Hartmann would be engraved there. His rank and achievements would be written as well. People would pass by and say a glorious soldier lay sleeping. Irina already hated those words. Hartmann had not fallen asleep gloriously. He had walked for a long time and then stopped. He could not find the house he was supposed to return to, could not find an answer, and in the end had brought a bottle of alcohol to me. The next day he had gone alone. That was all.

That was all, yet the empire would gild it with gold leaf. Without taking her eyes from the grave, Irina spoke.

“Hartmann.” This time she used the surname. The familiar one. The one less likely to make her crumble. “I gave the wrong order.”

The sound of rain swallowed the answer. Irina did not lower her head. She did not salute. She did not want to send him off as a superior. She did not want to honor him as a hero.

“…Just.” I should have told him to smash it all.