Save your scars, soldier. You will need them; believe me, you will need them.

They serve as a reminder, soldier, a mark on body and soul. Each wound half-healed bleeds when you begin to nightmare, remembering a battlefield upon which hundreds tried to kill you and failed. And soldier, you remember only too well the faces of those who failed in their duty to clan and country to kill you. When you close your eyes, their dead eyes, looking out accusingly from dead bodies are burned onto the inner lids of your eyes.

They will haunt you soldier.

War is no glorious thing.

Your scars soldier, save them. You will need them soon, soldier.

The dull cries of pain come from out of camp; from the wounded left on the field of battle. Your scars, soldier, all of them burn now. It could have been you out there. Instead of your brother, your best friend, a love – it could have been you.

Hearing those anguished cries dimly from so far away in the dusky twilight – are you glad it wasn’t you, soldier? Are you glad that someone else paid the price for your own foolishness? So it is, soldier. So it has been.

War is no glorious thing.

So scarred soldier, this body you save. These scars you bear home to those who have missed you.

And here is another scar for you, soldier. Think of the many who will not return because you took life from their bodies with your weapon. And let this truth freeze your heart and soul, soldier.

Think of them as children, for they were. Children they were, and parents, possibly too. Lives you have ended sear your heart more than brands against your skin.

Once more, soldier, war has proven no damn thing.

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Author's Note: This wrote itself, but I felt it had enough truth to be worth putting up.