'How bloody long is this going to drag on?'

The thought, as shameful as it is to admit, has come more times than Meve would like to admit. How much longer? How much longer will she have to drag herself and her army through swamp, forest and snow, how many more men will she have to lose, how many more scars to collect?

Melitele is silent, if she knows the answer.

The Queen growls. She sits alone in her tent, sharpening her sword. Screech. Screech. Screech. - wetstone glides along the blade. Meve should have squires for it, sharpen her blades, ready her armor, dress, undress, it's queer enough she wears armor to begin with, but to tend to it and arms herself?

'But when have I ever not been queer?'

Meve thinks with a small smirk, but it quickly morphs into a scowl.

"Mghmmm..."

The scar. It aches, it heals, but aches, and whenever the White Queen smiles or even talks, it aches more, and the whole where a tooth was aches constantly. 'White Queen'... 'White' because her head started to grey already, over this campaign! Meve scoffs, shaking a loose strand of hair off her face, a grey strand. More and more grey seem to stripe her hay-colored hair each week. This is what war does - it changes.

'But we go forward.' Meve humms in thought.

"Forward, to victory or defeat, but we move forward..." She murmurs quietly, not to aggravate the wound on her face.

Screech. Screech. Screech.

But then...

A call: "Your Grace!".

The Queen-in-exile jerks her head, eyes squinting, eyebrows furrowing. Another report? Another bit of bad news to add for the weight on her shoulders? Meve barely believes in good news anymore, and won't believe until they're out of Angren swamps.

"Enter!"

The Queen commands, gritting through the wound's pain.

Does the scar make her ugly?...

'Pull yourself together, Meve!' she scolds herself in thought. The Queen is supposed to be strong! And she will be.