The pack wasn't heavy on his back. It wasn’t uncomfortable, nor was it bulky.

It was loud.

With every step, Muk could feel the pressure of the expectation from the old swordmaster. He had been younger than Freya when he had learned the blade, training in the off hours while at the Academy. Then he assumed the commission, immediately taking over his ailing fathers' military company as well as his civilian one. For two years he worked at both, learning the best practices on the job.

Then his father passed, unceremoniously. It had been expected, after all. Jin Chin-Hwa had been sick for a year before he passed, determined to pass along something of value. He passed along his title to his only son, then made every effort to pass along everything he knew.

Woda Uki dying was another blow. The mouse had been like a second father to him. His training might have been harsh and he had more often than not left the training bruised from the practice swords, but it had been fair. They had been if not family, close allies.

For a warrior to die was one thing. For a legendary sword instructor to sacrifice himself to stem a tide of the enemy? It would have been unthinkable.

The weapon had been dredged up from the river, but he knew it.

The star on the pommel? That gave away that it was a swordmaster's blade.

He didn't feel worthy to wield it. True he had been trained, but he hadn’t risen to the level needed to earn it. Three current sword masters had to agree for a candidate to be awarded the title.

There had been six in the regiment, a rare title to earn, but he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been enough. Sure he had learned how to defend himself, but he felt critically weak in full-strength combat.

It wasn’t just that he was a mouse. Up until recently, he hadn’t had anything to fight for, besides getting his supplies delivered in a timely manner. It wasn’t just that, as those fights tended to be one-sided with him as the commander, and more verbal in nature. To imagine fighting with his master sergeant? That wouldn’t work. He needed the company to work together, not at cross purposes.

Really the only way he would get better at fighting, a skill he didn’t even think he needed that badly, was to do more of it.

No path would allow him to do that more than sticking to Freya. But then he would need to give up so much. His title, his lands, everything had to be sworn off. To become a ranger, he would need to dedicate himself to someone else.

He pictured himself picking up the sword and following her, becoming her protector. Is that what Woda would have wanted? He honestly didn’t know. There was no textbook at the academy that talked about decisions like this.

So many times he had been in situations designed to test his aptitude, his command ability. To think about throwing it all away? Muk needed to make a decision.

After four hours, the supply train stopped, giving everyone a chance to eat and rest. Many in the regiment swapped out from riding to walking. He found a spot off to the right and brought out his own sword, laying the package down next to him.

Steadying his breath he began to work through the basic forms that Woda had taught him years ago.

He knew that he only had a short time and he probably should have used it to rest. He also knew that trying to rest would be useless. So, he trained. Around him, his troops watched. Some smiled; most just nodded.

The even rhythm of moving through the first sword form felt familiar to his body and before long, he’d forgotten about his issues. Then the march was called again, from the bloody slave drivers he’d always loved. Well, he’d loved when he wasn’t the one being driven.

Today, the damn thing was that he realized he was going to miss being driven by them. That is, if he up and left. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was directed to take up staff duties if he stayed, despite the fact that it was his company.

He fell into line and then saw a familiar face plodding up next to him.

“Sergeant Yates!” He said, putting his sword back into its sheath.

The fox’s red coat shone in the afternoon light. He beamed at Muk.

“Sir!”

“I heard your family does well in the trades, is that right?”

“Of course Sir, my father doesn’t make the swords, he makes all the parts and services the industry. Someone has to.”

“He’s got hired help, doesn’t he?” Muk replied.

“That he does, and then some, Sir.”

“Excellent. Have you ever thought about pursuing a commission?”

The fox raised both eyebrows at the same time.

“Why no, sir, I’ve never given it a thought before,” the fox said.

“Perhaps you should give it a thought. You do remarkably well running the operation when I’m not around if anything your peers are saying is to be believed.”

“I thank you kindly sir, but I’m just doing me job, is all.”

The fox was slightly more than a head taller than the mouse. Muk did his best to try to appear taller at that moment. Not just more than his station, but taller indeed than the fox. It didn’t work out quite well for him, as the fox barely contained a smirk at his expense.

“All I am saying, Sergeant, is that perhaps if you were to be able to take over a certain commission, you might-and I say with a heavy heart-might do a great job because you’ve already been doing one. Plus you could lean into your flair for the dramatic, I’ve seen you acting out some of those fox monologues in front of the company, and you’re excellent at keeping a crowd together.”

“Sir, but how would I pay for the company's rolls? There are about ninety mouths to feed all in all and … and oh you’ve already gotten a solution as well?”

Muk smiled the knowing smile of a mouse who had captured willing prey.

***

“He wasn’t… he wouldn’t have wanted you to be sad, Freya.”

Old Gran, Freya’s one and only, wore black. She’d had some tea and they’d sat together for a while in front of the pens.

“It’s not up to him, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. I’m fully aware that what he does and how you react are two different things. But you should know, that he was very old.”

Freya looked up. Off to the west, a column of Soldiers all kicked up dirt as they drew closer. Their road wasn’t close to the main passage, so she could see their approach to the regimental headquarters on the north side of the Yellowrock mesa.

“So what, he was old!” Freya said, holding back tears.

“He… he was traditional.”

Freya couldn’t hold her tears back.

“In the olden times, the best a mouse could do would be to sacrifice his life for the creatures to his left and right. A mouse far past his prime? He would dream of walking out into the wilderness and…”

“And killing beasts until he couldn’t lift his sword.”

Freya closed her eyes and let out a wail.

Old Gran held her close.

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

Freya sobbed for a minute there, home with her clan.

Then the sound was a bit louder. The chickens stirred.

Freya wiped back her tears.

On the side closest to the road, the dust had stirred.

“They’re going the wrong way.”

Old Gran stood up. The side of their estate closest to the road was occupied by a large wooden siding, part of the chicken coop.

Freya watched as the line of warriors walked towards their estate, and then the first of their number marched up to the wall.

She heard a large thunk.

Muk had arrived and he had driven a pin into the wood with a mallet. He stepped away, handing the mallet to the fox behind him.

He walked to where Freya and her Old Gran sat and bowed.

Muk tilted Freya's chin up to get a better look at her face, observing evidence of her sadness. He delicately thumbed away tears, saying nothing as his eyes set on her. After a brief pause, her heart skipped a nervous beat as Muk looked her dead in her eyes. His voice was quiet and solemn, his sadness barely contained.

“I cannot make this right, but I can honor his memory. We all can.”

They held eyes as to their sides a line of warriors took turns putting pins into the wooden wall.

“I… I…” Freya tried today something, but her mouth felt dry.

Muk loosened something from his back, placing it gently into her arms. Freya’s ears twitched at the weight of it. The wrapped package held a note that she put away for later, and then Muk was standing next to them, watching the line.

To their side, warriors pinned their little branch pins on the wall. The pins, representing tiny keys, wheels, swords, and bows, all represented their part of the whole picture. Just as they arrived, the weary warriors saluted the druid initiate and her grandmother, and then did a quick about-face and returned to walking toward their headquarters.

And through the dozens of pins, Freya held onto Old Gran. And Old Gran held onto her. Freya barely noticed that she was holding Muks paw until he meant to leave. She gave it back unceremoniously, her eyes finally dry.

He left, squeezing her paw as he did.