She stands, proud, strong, and secure. Her armor is buckled tight, shining like new, as she prepares for battle. She is nervous but seemingly unafraid, with a determined look and dignified smile. She clenches her teeth and heads for the battlefield.
The day is rough and battle is rougher. She fights with intensity, a feat for a small, seemingly slight girl, yet her strength is impeccable and her attitude ferocious. She is not afraid to run out to the front lines, to give herself up for her comrades, her cause, her country. There is pain, but she ignores it. There is no time.
The war is won. Her armor newly polished, her face triumphant, the crud of war washed away, she is given honor, honor for valor, for courage, and for strength. There is now peace and justice in their fair land. Comrades laugh, embrace, and drink to victory. There are wounds, but now is the time for celebration. She celebrates harder than them all, feasting and drinking because life is too short.
The night is over. She is in her chamber, her armor on its stand, her weapons put down. There are no clothes for war, feasting, or even play but merely a soft, thin garment, enveloping her muscular yet small, graceful figure. She picks up her beads, to pray for thanksgiving, protection, and peace. As she does, she finally notices she is wounded, the blood staining her soft garment, the pain spreading down her side.
It is only in that garment, the garment that does not protect but exposes (even her bare breasts), with the beads, the beads that symbolize the most heartfelt of prayers, that she allows herself to acknowledge these wounds. And then, only then, she begins to cry. Even after the victory of battle.