Elena's stroll took her past the big cauldrons where the overnight oats and bits were stewing for the morning meal-for those who had the stomach for it. Every night the routine was to check and see that they were ready and that the night cook and sentry were both on-duty before she went to bed, herself. These two were a much older married couple, ensuring that they had the maturity to stay on task, as burnt food or spies poisoning a meal could happen with inattention.

Everything looked normal, so Elena took the time to clean out her mug then wander around inside the camp, making sure that foodstuffs were being stowed away properly before giving up and making her way back to her fairly large tent. A woman who had nothing to spend her pay on and access to the wagons could get away with better lodging than her status called for.

Semmael leaned against the pole supporting the tent flap, waiting for her. "Why do always drag these young ones into your tent before a battle Elle?"

Confrontation. He wasn't one for a fight with her, so what was with him, this night? "They are barely grown kids, Sem. Leave it be."

"I want more time with you Elena."

"We've got five more years of work. You can get all you want from me after that, Sem. What's gotten into you?"

"Abbot wants you in his tent." Semmael changed the subject-at least that's what Elena thought.

"To see me at this time of night? Sem, he's not one to sleep around before a battle."

"Not tonight, after the battle. And he's already given the order for your personal gear to be stowed with his direct company."

It took Elena a few moments to say something, as she thought it through. "I guess he's being called from the front lines."

"Why are you taking this so calmly?"

"My contract is with him. If he's splitting, that's the way it is." Elena moved closer to Semmael, close enough to rub her nose along his beard line. The conversation was too loud for her liking. "We both knew this could happen, Sem."

"But why does he need a cook?"

"He needs a defender of the larder and apothecary, as well as a second hand at logistics. I was a cook to keep me out of the bone-saw's clutches, not because that was what I trained for, all my life."

Semmael tilted her chin up with the tips of his fingers and turned his face towards her to gently nip her lower lip. The quirk of her smile was all the answer he needed before he drew her in for a deeper kiss.

Even so, they couldn't stand and kiss away the night. There was a sense of finality when he pulled away from her.

"I'm not kicking them out, Sem."

"I know, but I won't stay and watch you play mama cat to a bunch of grown toms on our last night together. Goodbye, Elena."

She watched one future walk away that night with a limp. Sem had wanted a good time instead of a safe sleep. Elena fully expected to hear rumors of him hooking up with another woman before she met with the Commander to find out what her new future would be like-but that was tomorrow's worry.

Inside the tent, a half dozen warriors in full gear were collapsed on top of the pillow pile she kept on the great rug. No one undressed the night before a serious skirmish in case of an ambush. Elena smiled faintly and wormed her way into the pile and drifted off within minutes, the way only those who were trained to heavy labor could sleep. Briefly, the last thought that crossed her mind was of a different future where her life would have been goosefeather beds.

~~~

For some reason, formal battles that were done with honor would camp the night before and get up before breaking the fast to fight while hungry-that is, the more foolish would gorge the night before and half their armor would be off in the middle of the night, leaving them exposed for less honorable battles.

Elena never did catch what had the nations of Miracleese and Winterland start this spat. Probably told the men fighting that one or the other insulted their god's nose length while trying to settle a disputed boundary with death instead of negotiations.

The dawn's preparations were what Elena expected: cooking lunch, checking on breakfast, one hand on her sword's hilt in case the fight swung straight into the camp as it occasionally did, wincing at every crash of steel that bounced over the battlefield. Winterland had three separate Paladins in this formation aside from their Commander. Who knew how many the enemy had? They couldn't easily call on power without a clear target, so being a Paladin could sometimes be as useful as a man's teat.

The lightning strike came when she'd finally given up on any pretense at being prepared for a fight to dice potatoes for the boil, causing her to jump. One of the Paladins found a target.

She set the potatoes aside, drawing her sword, then called out to her own rabble, "Brace for incoming!" Thankfully everyone hunkered down, weapons bared, some behind wagons, others behind barrels of flour, and unlucky herself behind a fiery cauldron. Elena sighed as she searched the sky, barely catching a glimpse of the cow before it plummeted into the camp.

The trajectory was off.

"Oh, shit!" was all she managed before the still steaming carcass clanged head first into her pot, lump side landing opposite of her, washing her in lukewarm potato starch before upending the whole lot, putting out the fire.

Quite a few curses tumbled past her lips as she sheathed her sword. She tugged her wet hacqueton, hoping for better balance. "Our God has declared victory! Someone get the damned priest's butchers!"

That's all it took for her people to erupt into full-on preparations and the usual lukewarm cheers. The opposition's leader had surely been struck dead by lightning for this fine sacrifice from their God.

Crude bowls of bread were filled with oats as warriors limped in to break the fast. Not that Elena was a part of that-she had wrangled the youngest pot-scrubber into helping her move the cow's head far enough for the cauldron to roll itself back upright after raking out the worst of the wet fire and laying it anew.

True to expectations, the pot whipped upright as soon as the cow's head cleared it, right back onto the smoking blaze. The paddle fell out with the head, showing a large crack across its surface.

"Well, that one is done in, Wren. Get Brax to haul in one load of water and ask Dinah for a new paddle."

The young man scampered off as she went back to dicing potatoes. Thankfully, she wouldn't need to replace what was lost-the butchers would replace that space with bits of meat that they trimmed off the cow.

One small blessing is that the beast landed in a clean kill. She didn't have to fight God's gift while it was in pain.

Elena was on the last dozen when the priest showed up with his two servants. Gaile had a thin but long nose that made him look like he was sneering at you no matter his feelings. It was no different this time-head tilted slightly back, eyes peeking round the tip-he was likely far-sighted. That he held the new paddle showed that he swiped it from Wren on his way in. "The Commander wants us to finish the pot off and find someone else to tend it, M'Lady."

Elena nearly stabbed her thumb. "What's with the M'Lady?"

"The Commander mentioned something about your true status a few days ago. I meant no discourtesy." Whether Gaile meant being rude for all these years by calling her Elena or for using the title in what would be their last conversation, who the hell knew? There wasn't enough time for city protocol on a battlefield, and she grew up rural as it was.

"I let the title die with my family, Gaile. I don't think I'll have a use for it, anymore."

A knowing look was all the priest gave her-hard for him to pull off-but it left her feeling exposed. Just as quickly, the expression left his face. It came with a change of subject. "The Commander did say he would wait for you, at your quickest convenience."

Elena almost threw the last potato in, whole, but restrained herself until it was properly in the pot. "Are you really going to care for lunch, Gaile?"

"Until Wren gets Uma's attention on it? Yes. Now go, I'll see you off tomorrow."

" 'Til the Morrow, then." She handed the paring knife hilt first to the priest before marching off-still wet-to the man who had the most control over her future.