Valor is of no service, chance rules all, and the bravest often

Host: The battlefield had been long abandoned, yet the earth still remembered. The soil was dark, heavy with the scent of iron, smoke, and ashes. A torn flag hung from a splintered spear, fluttering weakly in the cold wind. The sky, gray and indifferent, stretched endlessly above the wreckage of courage and chaos.

Among the ruins of men and metal, Jack sat on a cracked stone, his armor dented, his hands blackened with soot. His eyes, those steel-gray mirrors, held that look of someone who had seen valor die more often than victory rise.

From the edge of the field, Jeeny approached — her cloak brushing the grass, her face pale but determined. She carried no weapon, only a small book pressed to her chest, as if ideas could still survive where bodies could not.

Jeeny: “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jack: “Where else would I go? The world looks the same everywhere — just quieter in places like this.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s given up.”

Jack: “Not given up. Just understood the odds.”

Jeeny: “Tacitus once wrote, ‘Valor is of no service, chance rules all, and the bravest often fall by the hands of cowards.’ You’re quoting history without realizing it.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Then history finally caught up with me.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in courage anymore?”

Jack: “I used to. Until I watched it bleed out beside me.”

Host: The wind carried the faint sound of metal clinking — the ghosts of armor, the echoes of defiance. The field felt both sacred and desecrated, a monument to what men once thought noble.

Jeeny: “You really think chance rules all? That bravery means nothing?”

Jack: “Out here? It’s luck that decides who lives, not honor. A coward with a crossbow can end a hero faster than the gods can blink.”

Jeeny: “Then why fight at all?”

Jack: “Because it’s in our blood to stand — even when standing does nothing.”

Jeeny: “That’s not bravery, Jack. That’s despair wearing armor.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all bravery ever was.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the field, lifting the torn flag, making it tremble like a dying breath. Jeeny knelt, touching the dirt — her fingers stained with the memory of those who had fallen.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Tacitus missed? He saw courage as a gamble. But even chance needs someone willing to bet.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one paying.”

Jeeny: “You think valor dies because it loses. I think it lives because it tries.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet in a graveyard.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poets are the only ones who know how to speak to the dead.”

Host: The sky rumbled faintly — distant thunder, or memory. Jack stood, his silhouette carved against the fading light, his voice low but steady.

Jack: “Do you know how many brave men I watched fall? Men who charged into fire because someone told them it meant glory. They died, Jeeny. And the cowards survived. The liars got the medals.”

Jeeny: “That’s not new. That’s the story of every empire.”

Jack: “Then why do we keep telling it?”

Jeeny: “Because we keep hoping to change the ending.”

Jack: “Hope. The last fool’s weapon.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The only one that never rusts.”

Host: The sun began to sink, its light bleeding across the sky — gold turning to crimson, like fire surrendering to dusk. The field seemed alive for a moment, as if the fallen were listening.

Jack: “When I was young, I thought valor meant immortality. I thought if you fought hard enough, you could make your name eternal.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think immortality belongs to the ones who never had to fight at all.”

Jeeny: “You think peace makes people stronger?”

Jack: “No. It just makes them luckier.”

Jeeny: “You mistake survival for strength.”

Jack: “And you mistake tragedy for meaning.”

Host: The silence between them stretched, heavy, but alive — the kind of silence that asks for honesty.

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack. If chance rules everything, why are you still standing?”

Jack: “Because chance hasn’t noticed me yet.”

Jeeny: “No. Because something in you refuses to kneel.”

Jack: “Stubbornness isn’t virtue.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps virtue breathing.”

Jack: “So what — I keep fighting even when it means nothing?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s when it means the most.”

Host: The wind softened. A crow called in the distance, the sound echoing over the broken landscape. Jack looked toward the horizon — a faint line of smoke where the next battle would probably begin.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe the cowards win because they understand something we don’t?”

Jeeny: “Like what?”

Jack: “That ideals don’t stop arrows.”

Jeeny: “No. That fear is easier than faith.”

Jack: “Then courage is a form of madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s the only madness that builds civilizations.”

Jack: “And destroys them.”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds us we’re human.”

Host: The light was nearly gone now. The battlefield faded into a mosaic of shadows. Jeeny stood, brushing the dirt from her knees.

Jeeny: “You know, Tacitus wasn’t wrong. Chance does rule all. But courage — real courage — is choosing to act as if it doesn’t.”

Jack: “That sounds like denial.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s defiance.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “One hides from the truth. The other dares to challenge it.”

Jack: (quietly) “So even if the cowards win…”

Jeeny: “The brave still define what winning means.”

Host: She turned, walking away through the ruins — her figure small against the vast emptiness. Jack watched her go, his breath slow, the air heavy with dust and understanding.

He looked once more at the flag — torn, battered, still standing — and for the first time in years, something like reverence flickered in his eyes.

Jack: (to himself) “Maybe valor’s only purpose is to remind the cowards what they’re missing.”

Host: The wind rose again, carrying the scent of ash and the whisper of old voices.

And as the camera pulled back, the field stretched endlessly — not a graveyard, but a mirror.

Host: Because Tacitus was right — chance rules all.
The brave do fall by the hands of cowards.

But in falling, they carve something chance can’t touch:
meaning.

And in that fragile defiance — in that mad, luminous act of standing against the inevitable —
the brave live longer than the lucky ever will.