Ghosts of war

Momme knew he was lucky. He was part of the supply logistics of the Verdant Kingdom's forces and not stationed near the current front line. Of course he received news from it, but far worse than hearing about the horrors that happened, was seeing their ghosts. They came in many shapes and forms, from wounded fugitives who barely carried more than the clothes on their backs, to heartbreakingly despaired questions about relatives and loved ones, to returning soldiers. The latter was the spookiest of them. Some soldiers returned with grey eyes, others wore blindfolds to hide their black ones until they could be cured. Momme saw wounds that refused to heal despite best medical efforts, inflicted by weapon only the cruelest of minds could have invented. But far worse than the physical damages were what had happened to the soldiers' faces. Even if they were fine on the outside, their eyes had an empty look to them, unreachable by the rare smiles that they were able to show. Several of the fugitives had a similarly empty gaze.

The haunting horrors of war seemed to be even worse at night. Momme could sometimes hear muffled screams and whines coming from the quarters of refugees or returned soldiers. Each tume he heard these sounds when passing by, or through an open window, his heart felt as if it was bleeding. If only he could take their pains away, relief them of the terrors that plagued them.
But alas, he didn't possess such powers, and he was not sure if anyone did.

When he volunteered, he had hoped the war would be over quickly if only he would do all he could. It had been a naiive thought, and yet he was still clinging to it. The sooner the fighting stopped, the less people would have to suffer. But he couldn't deny, he worried that his best was not enough, that they weren't making progress fast enough. But he had to remain optimistic. So far it was looking good overall, but he could sense some kind of underlaying gloom, or perhaps tiredness, spreading around.