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Spending most of his time in the training room or recreation area, Tilen occasionally pondered the recent "adventure" that had befallen his team. No, the deaths of his comrades had long ceased to bother him, nor did his own injuries, but sometimes they stirred up gloomy thoughts about the meaning of this pointless existence with its single, predetermined end.
He remembered his old army buddy. Krin was a couple of years younger than him, short, with short, spiky blond hair and funny, hastily trimmed mustaches. In their unit at the time, it was hard to find a more cheerful prankster, prone to jokes and anecdotes, which he seemed to memorize by the hundreds before going to bed, because no one had ever heard him repeat them. Or maybe he just made them up on the spot?
Krin never doubted for a moment that the Front would win the war, and he made confident plans for the future. At home, a beautiful wife and a little son were waiting for him. He kept a special notebook of expenses, where he calculated the cost of moving to the capital, and, carried away, he received a well-deserved slap from the commander. In victories, Krin was always the main star of any celebration, and his drunken toasts, accompanied by energetic hand gestures, ended with thunderous applause from the soldiers, who were fond of loud words; in defeats, he always had a bottle or two of liquor on hand and could pour out his soul in friendly conversations.
Sometimes Krin liked to cause trouble, and sometimes the poor fellow even had to be tied up to calm him down, but he never crossed the line, never violated his personal ideals and principles. Once, helping an old merchant fight off a gang of raiders, he received strange fruits from the latter as a reward, which, lacking the necessary stability, he immediately swallowed, not bringing them to the camp.
A week later, Krin was already lying in a military hospital, screaming in terrible agony and begging his comrades to bring him peace. No medicine could save the unfortunate man, and soon he breathed his last, asking only "why?" and "for what?", as if the Creator himself could descend from the heavens to answer him on these last questions. Perhaps he will meet Him in the next world and ask himself.
Tilen involuntarily clenched his fists, remembering how, shortly after the capture of the capital, he delivered Krin's last letters to his wife. As it turned out, his son died of a fever, never waiting for his father's return. A disgusting scene. Perhaps it is good that he chose a different path for himself. At least, no plans, no dreams, and no empty promises. And no one will be worse off if he rests in peace. No. When.
Небо
Ple-Sen
