Cathmor only waved up at the gatekeeper, his face downcast, as the thick wooden gate opened before him, and he made his way across the inner yard of the outpost, passing stables and cabins in the dim quiet of morning�s first light. He slowly approached the door of his lodging in a quiet corner of the outpost. He reached for the door and stopped; then turning around, he sat with his back to the door, buried his head in his hands, and wept. This was not his first loss, but it was one of his hardest.
He thought back to when he had first been stationed there. He had been there for quite some time watching a nearby village, sometimes meeting the people who had business outside the village. In the beginning they had mixed feelings of this stranger who roamed the nearby roadways. He was unmistakably from the King for he wore the dark clothes and white cloak of a warrior from the great palace. Mischievous children would often leave their village to search him out and spy on him. Eventually, they began to talk to him more openly. The villagers were rather friendly and, to a degree, respectful of him when they realized he would not venture into their village. He remembered one boy, Benjamin, was particularly fond of hearing of his travels and would often spend a great deal of time walking with Cathmor along the road that ran out from the village. He could remember demonstrating his technique with the sword and the look on the boys face as Alitheia shined. He even began teaching the boy a little of swordsmanship. But the boy�s parents were not so fond of the warrior. He would�ve been safer had he never returned to that place of destruction, but Benjamin�s father discouraged him from spending so much time with Cathmor.
The thought that plagued the warrior�s mind was the knowledge that given the order he could�ve halted the destruction of that village. These were the weaker of the enemy�s horde and were easily dispatched, but by then it was too late for the villagers. He came to know many of the villagers; some thought of him as a friend. But they knew why he was there. They would often tease him about the lost cause for which he was stationed telling him they would never give in to the King. Because �this village isn�t like those other villages; this village is self sufficient, not like those weaklings who need the King�s aid.� The words of the villagers rang out in his ears. How many times had he heard it all before? He couldn�t remember.
He remembered watching from the roadside only hours before, as the village was burned, and its inhabitants destroyed. Their cries still rang in his ears, but even in death, the stubborn pride of the villagers prevailed. He was never allowed a place within the village, so he could do nothing to protect it. But he knew once the raiders left the village they would be fair game to him, so he lingered and watched from a distance, his hatred and anger for his enemy growing with the carnage he was witnessing. By the time the marauders left what had once been a thriving village, Cathmor�s rage had built to the point that if he had not at least run one through, he felt he would explode. He felt a sort of relief after carving out part of the enemy�s hide, but he didn�t really feel better.
�Why my Lord? Why did they have to die? Why did Benjamin have to die? Why did you put me here?� he whispered under his breath, as he now watched the sun rise.