Horn sat up against a tree. A shell had punched a hole through its trunk. The breeze passed through the decaying wood, giving off a mournful sound like some sort of crude instrument. At least it was quieter than the battlefield. Horn was about to rest for a while, but found herself approached as soon as she closed her eyes. 'Here ye are, Captain!' Bagpipe leaned on the officer, her chin resting on her shoulder. Finding it too heavy, Horn tried to pull away, but Bagpipe's Vouivre strength was too great. 'Took me ages to find you,' Bagpipe batted her eyelashes, her tone pitiable, 'Ages and ages.' Maybe she was just too tired, she fell sleep. Horn felt guilty about it. As leader of Tempest Platoon, she shouldn't have left her people to go off for a nap. How was the battle going? Had Triangle's recon team returned? Was Bagpipe's injury bothering her? A pile of questions clogged her throat. Footsteps and laughter sounded from behind. Oboe was probably telling bad jokes again, Cello laughed a little later than the others but always the loudest, slapping Oboe's shoulder until he begged for mercy. Bagpipe finally let go of Horn's arm, hopped up, and waved vivaciously to her platoonmates. Horn wanted desperately to turn around, but she couldn't. She knew deep down that behind her was nothing but a hole. She couldn't turn around. If she did, those voices would vanish. 'What sort of dream were you having?' Rosalie's voice dripped with her usual teasing tone, 'Wouldn't hurt to let me take first place once in a while, would it? You're so tired you're out as soon as you hang your head. How unlike you.' Horn saw the closed book beside her, with a thin green pen stuck inside. Rosalie had recently taken up felting on the grounds that it relieved the stress of finals. She insisted the tan ball in her hand was Horn's head. Horn repeatedly countered that her hair was a platinum blonde, but Rosalie didn't listen. 'What did you dream about? The war again?' Rosalie put down her unfinished felt, tapping her chin curiously, 'What does the future look like in your dreams? I'm still thinking about what I might do after graduation. Logistics seems a bit boring. Perhaps I'll be a staff officer? Ooh, I wonder what my first fight will be like? I'll have to count these leisurely days while I still can.' Unfortunately, time waits for no woman. The half-finished felt lay on the ground, having turned a muddy color. Horn couldn't guess how Rosalie might craft her face, and she'll never get a chance to find out. She couldn't even remember clearly what Rosalie looked like. The friends had always liked to sit in the brightest places, her bright green hair, her smug smile, they all melted in the fiery sunlight. A pair of rough hands landed on Horn's face. She recalled how every time she napped under the maple tree in the yard, her grandmother would walk over and fan her, relieving the heat of the sun and shooing away the flies. This was still a dream, certainly, but this time she was lucid, and she had no intention of opening her eyes. She used to bother her grandmother for stories about the army, her great-great grandfather, and the feats of White Wolves past. Then, she dreamed of fighting for Victoria, just like her ancestors. Now that the war had truly begun, her dreams turned to her grandmother fanning her. Steady and strong, the rhythm was more comforting than sleep itself. Horn opened her eyes, and Feist gave her an apologetic smile. He didn't want to wake her with his work. Her shield needed maintenance too. Horn lowered her head and a gust of wind blew by, tiny buds falling from the trees, covering the mottled shield. So, the cannonfire hadn't totally killed her tree after all.