No Love Lost

When you write you choose. You choose between words that are pleasant to the eye and ear, and word that convey exact meaning, uncaring how much is lost as a sentence slowly homes in on a specific idea, hooking in comma after comma, like pitons of a weary climber. You can opt for verse or prose, rhyme or alliteration, but with every choice something is gained and something is lost.
Here a man sits quietly at his desk, and reads a note many times. He reads it first to see what the author was trying to say, and then again to see what it says about the author, and a third time to see what the author is not saying or trying to conceal.
He reads it as a poem, rhyming reason with season, then fear to clear and dear, then reads it again critically, deciding why the author selected the words she did. Finally, out of habit, he reads it a cypher, looking for any messages hidden within it. Satisfied that there weren't any, he folded the note away, and stepped outside.
The sky was glowing red, even thought it was long past sunset. A servant appeared at his elbow, offering him water, wine, a fresh coat. He took the wine and water, although he left the coat. It was warm and dry, as if the weather had decided to at least lend an air of normalcy to the night.
Another servant approached him, this one holding his weapons. His family's heirloom was a naginata; a six-foot haft ending in a two-foot blade. The weapon had long since fallen out of favor as it took significant skill to make and even more to use effectively. It was magical however, and the silver blade glowed with blue runes that marked it as a weapon of power. Each generation (who could afford it) had added to the weapon, improving it little by little until at last it was a device of savage power.
To compliment it he carried a belt knife of mithral and black leather. It wasn't particularly old or special, but it was sharp and light and easy for one to grab in a hurry, and that's all he asked of it.
Properly armed, his next servant helped him don his armor, an O-yoroi of mithril and adamantium and dragon tendon. It had been made by the same ancestor who'd first crafted his naginata, but unlike the weapon the armor had been perfect from the moment of it's creation. Over the generation it had stopped countless blows, bolts and bullets, and had never once failed in its duty. There were some days when he thought that the armor was more reliable than any soldier under any banner, and would joke that as a result "no man could ever be buried in it".
The final servant opened the door ahead of him, showing him into a room with 11 other figures who sat hunched around a large table. Although he was did not outrank any of them, they'd all waited for his arrival. He was the first among equals.The others shuffled papers and cups of tea. Some smoked, others fiddled with bears and buttons to distract nervous hands.
One woman who wore a red robe over her plain black-leather armor made eye contact with him. Normally her gaze would be full of warnings and threats, but today her expression held only curiosity thinly masking dread. She nodded; it was time to begin. 
He spoke quietly, with the authority of knowing that all present were holding on to his every word. 
"What news from the western border?"
A thin man with long black hair and effeminate features cleared his throat awkwardly before replying. "We've lost two units, but are holding it for now".
Two units. 96 citizens who would not be there next harvest; who would leave empty houses and quiet forges behind them. A waste of blood and iron. He took the offered bait. "For now?"
"Without reinforcements, we cannot hold the border. The enemy is too great in number and power. I need more men."
"No. I could give you a thousand of the best men, and you'd squander them."
He turned to the woman in the red robe. "Break the South District dam. Flood it, and burn what remains. Then, take your troops to the west border and relieve the garrison."
He paused, to see if any were going to make a token mewing sound about the South District. Ordinarily everyone around the table would have instantly started plotting and scheming around this new development. Tonight, they just nodded, and looked down at their hands. What strange things unite men, he thought. Not the fear of an outside threat, but a fear that their whole nation would look weak to the outside world. Looking weak was the only thing they feared more than each other.
He looked at each of them in turn, and gave them instructions. None argued. One day they'd look back on this night and repaint it in their minds. It would be them giving the orders, them leading the nation to victory. A dozen people, who would split into a dozen truths at least. 
When it was done, he stepped outside, and took the offered coat. The woman in the red coat joined him, and they looked up at the sky and smoked. He wondered if she wanted to say something inspiring, something to remind him of the friendship they'd once shared, some piece of common ground in this turbulent time. Instead she said "South District still has a few weeks food in the granary. I'll dispatch the 104th, the 32nd and the 34th to clear it early tomorrow. Have a wagon train ready at Riverhead to get it all to high ground."
He nodded. She tapped her pipe into a silver ash tray before handing it to her servant.
"Good night, Shen Peng Yan"
"Good night, Shen Jun Jun"