Chameleon Magazine

*~ A Parable of War Without Wounds at Home ~*

There was once a soldier named Eren, who boarded a ship bound for a distant continent not because his homeland, the Dominion of Vale, was under siege — but because his rulers declared a distant people might one day be dangerous.

They gave him a rifle and a folded flag. “You go to keep danger from reaching us,” they said. But no ships had ever sailed from those lands to Vale. No arrows, no bombs, no threats crossed the sea. Only whispers, spun by voices in marble halls.

Eren obeyed, not out of pride, but out of duty twisted by doubt. He did not drape the flag on his shoulder. He hid it inside his pack, where it remained untouched.

In the Dustlands, the people were not warriors, but farmers, weavers, and old poets. Eren walked through scorched towns his own allies had burned. He saw children who had never heard of Vale. He fought, but his hands shook — not from fear, but from a sickness of spirit.

In one village, a boy asked him, “Why did you come here?”

Eren had no answer.

When the false war ended, the other soldiers stood tall under the bright banners of their nations, declaring victory. Eren stood apart, empty-handed.

An old man approached and asked, “Where is your flag, soldier?”

Eren said, “If I held it high, I would dishonor those who lie buried here.”

The man nodded, and placed a charred olive branch in his palm. “Then carry this instead. It bears no allegiance, only memory.”

Eren returned to Vale and laid the branch on his mantle. It never grew leaves. But he stared at it often. And when his daughter asked what he fought for, Eren answered, “I fought because I was told to fear strangers. I regret that I listened.”

“Bravery without truth is just obedience dressed in blood.”