The Quartermaster’s desk stood silent far longer than any honest man would have wished, whispering of abandonment.
The ledgers lay as he had left them, pages half-brought into order, columns halted mid-reckoning, as though the numbers themselves had lost the will to proceed without him. Ink had set and darkened in the wells. Wax had hardened in crooked drips. From a distance, it would have seemed a desertion.
Let none believe he fled or faltered - crushed by the strain, or tempted by quieter halls and softer duties. They would be wrong. This was still his post, the station to which his pledge bound him; his oath demanded his return, and it had never been abandoned.
His desk and the work on it just had to wait.
And yet the Quartermaster knew how frail that distinction would seem to those who bore the war upon their bodies and souls. To men crouched in blood-soaked mud, watching comrades ground down into crushed bone, torn flesh, and bent iron, waiting and abandonment wear the same countenance. To the people at home - those counting coins by guttering candlelight, skipping meals so a parcel might still be wrapped and sent with hands shaking as they tie string around bread they themselves will not taste - the silence would look no kinder.
There is no voice here to explain, no ledger to justify. There is only absence, and absence is easily named betrayal. Knowing this sat in him like a rot, eating inward, leaving him emptied long before any accusation could ever be spoken.
For orders had come, and with it the knowledge that no sorrow, no pledge, no fear of judgment could stand against it. He went, because there was nothing else he was permitted to do.
Those orders came not from the line where men sink into blooded mud, where warmth, rest, and certainty have long since been spent, and survival is counted by the heartbeat. Nothing upon them spoke of mud or hunger or fear. And for that very reason they weighed more than any blood-soaked command, as though the war itself had spoken - not from the earth, but from above it - demanding obedience without ever having to endure what it decreed.
And the Quartermaster, honor bound, obeyed. Even as it tore him apart inside.
He feared the men would cast their eyes rearward and find only stillness where once there had been certainty. Feared they would believe he had chosen shelter while they chose endurance; that the one who had sworn to keep their world measured, supplied, and remembered had let his word slip.
That fear did not merely trouble him. It took hold. It gnawed and lingered, turning inward, until it became a presence of its own.
For he is a man made of vows.
But such is war.
And in this, the Quartermaster learned another lesson, carved deep into the soul rather than taught. What the war demanded, it demanded wholly. Honor was of no consequence. Pledges were weighed and found wanting. Reputation, trust, even the shape of a man’s name - none of it held value when the machine began to cry out.
It screamed for more bodies, for more iron, for more hours wrung dry. It howled for strength it had already spent, for obedience without consolation, for sacrifice offered without witness or thanks. And when it demanded of a man, it did not bargain.
The Quartermaster gave what was asked.
There is no escape from the beast of war. No soul passes through this war whole, no matter its distance from the line. Many surrender flesh, their riches, their future - but all give up a portion of themselves, worn away without mercy. The war takes from everywhere and everyone.
From the front it takes bodies of sons and husbands. From the rear it takes conscience, one decision after another. From the home it takes hope and laughter and the future that was meant to be. Different wounds, but all a loss. By the time a man understands what has been claimed of him, the war has already moved on, and there is nothing left to do but endure.
Morale is a thing more delicate than supply.
Let the men believe they are forgotten, and no ration will suffice.
Let the people at home believe their sacrifice vanishes into disorder, and their giving will falter.
The Quartermaster knew this. He had always known it. And still, he was ordered away.
There are works in war that draw no thanks, no witness, and no later absolution. They must be done precisely because they will never be understood by those they preserve. Into such labor the Quartermaster was sent, and he bore it in silence, jaw set, spirit slowly fraying.
The ledgers had to wait.
Not forgotten. Not cast aside. Waiting while his hands were set to other reckonings - uglier ones, necessary ones - where delay would have spread ruin faster than any shell burst. He complied, setting aside name and conscience alike, aware that some duties demand not blood, but the slow unmaking of the man who bears them.
Now he has returned.
He comes back to his desk with no illusion of forgiveness earned. He knows time lost cannot be unlost. Yet he sets himself again to the task, because duty does not end when it wounds the soul.
Because even a thing that will not be remembered must still be done.
The Quartermaster dips his pen and writes once more, carrying with him the weight of unfulfilled promises - and the resolve to make good on those that still remain. Glory is for others, for him only duty awaits.
And so, the work resumes.
---
This is my way to apologize and explain that I sadly had a few distractions recently.
Health issues and my business and finances and so on.
Didn't have a lot of time recently to work further on the game. But I wanted to let you know I continue now again and to make sure you all know this game is not given up on.
I WILL finish it, one way or another. Not sure in what timeframe, but it WILL be done.
Thank you all for your interest and support as usual!