Quiet

She cared about him, but she never let him know.  She cared about all of them, really.  Even the ones she was always yelling at.  Especially the ones she was always yelling at.  A commander had to be harsh, mean.  If she wasn't, they all would have died.  Well, they all would have died much sooner.

It wasn't fair, not even remotely, that she was the only one still alive.  She would have died for all of them, for any of them.  But a commander's job wasn't to lay her life down for her men.  The job of her men was to lay their lives down for her.

A tear, a single drop, that's all she was allowed, all she would allow herself.  The red rose she let slip from her hand.  A torn pricked her on its way down.  Her body noticed, but she didn't.  A single drop of blood, that was all it allowed her in way of physical suffering.  The mental anguish was overwhelming.

A commander must be strong and brave.  And a commander must always be ready to train new troops.  Hers were coming tomorrow.  A week to mourn, that was more than enough.

The wind blew her auburn hair across her face.  It had been so long since she had felt the wind.  In another life time, she had enjoyed it.  As she closed her eyes and tried to savor it once more, she let another tear slip.  That was two, double her quota.  If she allowed herself any more, she knew she would be lost.

She opened her eyes again, bright blue eyes sparkling with sadness, and looked down.  The dirt was fresh, but she could already see tiny sprouts starting to poke up out of it.  Her rose had blown up against the tombstone in the wind.  There was no name on the tombstone, just a single star to signify that this man had died a brave death.  Or at least to signify that the man represented by this little plot of dirt had died a brave death.  There was no man anymore.  The manner of his death had robbed her not only of his soul, but of his body as well.  All that was buried here was what little he had left behind:  his clothes, his books, and the remainder of his rations from the day he had died.  The contents of a dead man's locker were bad luck to keep aboard a ship, or even to return to his loved ones who might like to have them.

She blinked a third tear away and pretended it hadn't happened, that none of it had happened.  She looked away from the rose and glanced around to the other graves.  Thirteen in all.  A lucky number.  That's the reason there were 13 in a crew, and one commander, to unite them.  Luck had done nothing for them that day, and their commander had done even less.

She turned away, folded her hands respectfully in front of her, and walked away.  She was glad no one had been there to see.  She felt awkward in the dress, but somehow liberated, too.  For a day, for just one day, sad a day as it was, she didn't have to be a commander.  She knew she needed that.

As she walked down the hillside, she refused to look back.  She knew they deserved another look, one final and absolute good-bye, but she couldn't give it to them, not yet.  If she tried, she was sure she would see their faces and hear their shouts all over again, shouts not of fear or of despair, but shouts of determination, devoted to seeing the mission threw until the end, the very end.  That's what had earned them those stars.  Those simple graven stars that meant so much to you when you were alive and nothing to anyone when you were dead.

Inhale, exhale.  It was quite out here.  Most people feared the dead, even the thought of them, even others in the military, but Ella wasn't afraid, not anymore.  She loved the dead, and the thought of joining them had some mystical appeal to her now.  Death was only scary, she thought, if no one you loved had died.

The wind blew her hair again, this time out of her face, and she continued to stare on ahead as she walked down the path.  It was the dust it blew into her eyes that caused the next few tears to come.  It wasn't the sadness.  She couldn't let herself believe it was the sadness.  The time for mourning was nearly past.  Tomorrow her new crew would be looking to her.  She was respected and brave and true.  She hadn't backed down from the mission despite impending doom, and she had inspired her crew to do the same.  

That was what had earned her her star, the one she got to wear in life, just like the one her men got to wear in death.  She hadn't realized she had been reaching up to touch it until she felt its shape beneath her fingers.  It was cold and shallow and empty, but it was what all commanders dreamed of earning, at least until they stood where Ella stood and realized the surest way to get one was to sacrifice your entire crew to achieve the impossible and come out on the other side still standing.

The wind had died down now so there was no more reason to cry.  It was quiet, still now.  As she got to her car, she opened the back door, sat down, and closed her eyes.  When the computer asked her where she wanted to go, she just said, "Home" and when it asked what music to play, she said "None."

The time for mourning was done, but at least she could enjoy a few more hours of quiet, for her, for her men, for, well, just for them really.  There was no one else that mattered.  Not yet.

Tomorrow would be different.  A brand new day.  But for this day, for what of it was left to her, all she felt the right to have was the quiet.