If words could win wars, we’d be home already.

The hardest journey of my life has officially begun. And all I can think of is

Am I ever going to see them again?

That thought doesn’t just show up—it digs in, pulls at everything I’ve got holding me together.

Every step feels like betrayal.

Step one: leaving my family.

Step two: pretending I’m brave.

Step three: believing that I’ll be back.

My feet keep moving, which is honestly impressive considering my brain is actively trying to sabotage the entire operation.

The wind picks up, brushing through the grass, tugging at me like it’s asking,

Are you sure about this?

No, I say out loud. Not even a little.

Great. Now I’m talking to the wind.

This is going well.

I finally walk far enough that I think—okay, maybe now I can handle it—and I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Bad idea.

They’re still there.

My father lifts his hand.

My mother blows me a kiss.

My sister…yeah, she’s not even trying to hide it. She’s curled up in the fetal position on the ground.

I snap my head forward and start sobbing so much that I can no longer see the ground.

No more looking back, I tell myself.

Because if you do that again, we’re done. Heroic war journey canceled due to emotional instability.

I quicken my pace, try to put some distance between us.

And… I’m ok for a few minutes.

Then, my heart starts to really pound—not just from the pace, but from everything else clawing at the edges. My mind drifts—because apparently now is a great time for memories.

Moriath.

Twenty. Strong. Built like someone who actually belonged in a war. I remember watching him walk this same path like it was nothing. Like fear didn’t even apply to him.

As my older brother, I thought he was unstoppable.

I still kind of do.

Which is… not ideal.

Because I am not Moriath.

Fear hits again—harder this time, because now it’s got evidence.

He was twice my size. Strong from years of work. I look down at myself—lean, wiry… who am I kidding-scrawny—and yeah… this isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.

Once someone yelled out, “hey Amarion what are those strings on your clothes? Oh wait, those are your arms.”

I almost laugh and cry at the same time.

How exactly am I supposed to stand against seasoned warriors? I mutter, mostly to the dirt, which at least has the decency not to answer.

My hands twitch at the thought of a sword. And not in a confident way.

Doubt builds fast and its very convincing.

“I talk to myself sometimes too, some of my best conversations in fact.”

I stop.

Because that voice definitely did not come from my internal spiral.

I turn.

And there he is.

A small halfling of a man. Much shorter, scrawnier and younger than even I am.

I blink.

“Deacon.”

I stare at him.

He squints at me, like I’m the confusing one.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I give him a look.

“Going to war.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Same.”

I frown, scanning him again like maybe I missed something. Growth spurt? Sudden maturity?

Nope.

He’s still twelve.

He is walking way too relaxed for someone walking toward a war. Hands clasped behind his head like he’s on a casual stroll instead of heading toward possible death.

There’s a pause.

I wait for the part where he realizes the weight of that statement.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, he adds—completely serious, completely confident:

“I beat my little sister all the time in sword fights. I won’t have a problem with the Lamanites.”

I just look at him…

For a long second.

Fantastic.

This is what we’re doing.

This is who I get.

“Your… sister,” I repeat slowly, because maybe if I say it out loud, it’ll sound ridiculous to him as well.

“Yeah.” He nods. “She’s fast, but predictable. Once you figure that out, it’s basically over.”

Great. We’re comparing trained warriors to a small child.

“Good,” I say flatly. “That’s reassuring. I was worried for a second.”

He grins – satisfied- like I just confirmed he’s some seasoned warrior.

We start walking again.

Well—I start walking again. He just… keeps being there. Like he was always part of the plan. Like I somehow picked him up along the way and now I’m stuck with him.

“Did you know that goats can climb things they shouldn’t be able to climb? Like straight up rocks. I feel like that would be so useful in battle.” Deacon says.

I don’t even look at him.

“We don’t have goats.”

Right,” he says immediately, undeterred. “But if we did, I’d definitely ride one.”

I exhale slowly.

Patience.

We’re choosing patience today.

“Why are you following me?” I ask

“I’m not following you,” he says. “We’re going the same way.”

“Going the same way doesn’t require commentary.”

He considers that for a moment.

We take two steps of silence.

Three.

Four-

“So I’ve been thinking about battle formations” he starts again.

“Not the normal ones—those are predictable. I’m thinking more… unexpected. Like what if we all just ran at them at slightly different speeds? That way they can’t time anything.”

I glance at him, trying not to let him see my annoyance.

“Well… that’s one plan, I guess.”

“It’s one of several,” he says quickly. “I’ve got lots of ideas.”

“Of course you do.”

“Also,” he adds, raising a finger like this is the important part, “I’m pretty sure yelling makes you stronger. I’ve tested it.”

“On your sister.” I ask.

He nods, “she’s very competitive.”

I have a million comebacks that would crush him and his theories at the tip of my tongue.

Instead I choose silence. Why dash his hope now? Do I stand any better chance of surviving than he does? I mean he’s probably a better fighter than I am, he has at least beat his sister. I have never even picked up a sword, real, or imaginative.

I shake my head and look back at the road.

The path stretches ahead—long, uncertain, leading somewhere I’m still not sure I’m ready for.

My chest still feels tight. The fear’s still there, sitting exactly where it was before.

But now it’s… different.

Not gone.

Just… interrupted.

Distracted.

Split between war… and whatever this is.

I take another step.

Then another.

“…if we did have goats…,”

I close my eyes briefly. Patience severely wavering.

Apparently this is my journey now.

War on one side and Deacon on the other.

And no clear way out of either.

“we could train them. Like really aggressive ones. Imagine that—goats charging into battle. No one would expect it.”

If words could win wars, we’d be home already.