The tears continued to fall, silent and unashamed, streaking across weather-beaten faces that once would have snarled at the very notion of weeping.
Men who had cut down foes without blinking, men who had slept under the naked stars with blood still on their hands, now sobbed freely, clutching each other's shoulders or simply standing there with their heads bowed under the weight of the moment.
And Alpheo too — he did not turn his face away, nor wipe hastily at his tears as if to deny them. No, he turned fully to his men, baring the rawness of his heart before them. No shame could exist between brothers who had fought and bled together.
His tears glistened in the open sunlight, visible to all, and he let them fall, just as he had let his words fall, honestly, without armor.
From somewhere nearby, a familiar rough voice broke through the thick, heavy air.
"Hells," Jarza muttered, crossing his arms and tilting his head "the bastard's actually crying."
