Writing Prompt: The Last Battle

A pagan response to the Book of Revelations. It's not meant as sacrilege or an attack, just a shift of perspective.

The blossom reminds me of her, of the day we were married.

Committed to an English Spring, risking everything on a hope and a prayer, we were blessed with fine weather.

It seems almost like yesterday, but the truth is that we have seen many years and more since that day in the orchard…

It is strange… I could not say if we had ten or ten-thousand guests, proof if any were needed that time has taken its toll even on one such as myself, but I could describe to you every flower she wore in her hair, each ribbon and stitch that made up her bodice… You must think me a fool, for there is no fool like an old fool, but I suppose you shall just have to take my word; know that I am not offended, I was as young as you once.

Time passed and youth gave way to wisdom, but she never gave me reason to second guess myself or forswear my oaths to her. She would dance in the sunlight simply for the joy of dancing, sing in the night simply for the love of song. You would have liked her…

You know enough about the war of course, though I fear that the records that survived the fall misjudged us cruelly; the desert god’s followers and those like myself were called to fight and even to die by forces greater than any that remain in this world. You must understand that we had no choice; in the face of genocide, we simply surrendered to a greater will than our own.

Oh, if you could have known him, the Light-Bringer… I served another, but we all knew that our fate was bound to his and so we marched under a blood-red banner to the city on the hill and we made our camp. As far as the eye could see; there sat the tents and teepees, the shelters and bivouacs… I marched by day in a column of druids and hedge-mages, of medicine-men and wise women, of true-seers and those who knew the bear-spirit’s touch.

Do not look at me that way; these are the facts that you have been told since you were old enough to listen to the stories. Is it strange to hear them from me?

In any case, the Shining Host came as the portents said they would. Any true believer with a set of sticks or rocks could have divined their passage, so fixed were the lines of fate in those dark times. The earth itself spoke of their coming, the Raptured souls with fire in their hands and hearts. With bow and bullet they struck us down, with axe and cudgel, with knife and hammer. We fought back, but we died in our thousands. So many would not even fight back, calling forgiveness to the horde who came to tear us limb from limb, to string us high on cross or noose.

I was one of the last, lucky enough to know how to fight, honest enough to fear for my life. I and others like me forced the Host to pay for each step of progress with blood and tears, but we finally found ourselves pushed back to the pavilion of our champion, our Dux Bellorum, and we knew the fight was done.

But somehow, that was not to be our end. We followed a man who had returned from the misty isle, whose dragon helm sat upon the noblest brow and whose gauntlet closed around a blade blessed by stone and lake. We stood shoulder to shoulder with the true king, he who was and he who every one of the faithful had known would one day come again.

I was there when he laid down his sword.

I cannot speak of the torments they put him through, the things he endured to save twelve strangers who had expected to die for him, but the history books lie about every point but one; after he finally passed back to the other side, they let us go home unmolested.  They banished our gods and took our pride, but then they simply turned and left us defeated but alive.

In spite of what I saw, I truly hope that they passed on to the paradise they had fought to attain, knowing they were just pawns in the last war. The battle was done and their kind left our world forever. They had fought purely for the sake of winning and with our defeat, they had earned their reward from a cruel and faceless lord.

Strange as it might sound, when it was all over and I arrived home, I felt all of the weariness and the pain slip away. My wife waited for me, the only thing I had left in the world, and I realised how lucky I was.

Author's Note

The third in a series of articles chronicling my output from writing exercises, this is less about ‘good writing’ and more about working to constraints without over-thinking them.

The aim this time was to finish a 750-word exercise with the words “…and I realised how lucky I was” by any means necessary. The opening was actually taken from a notebook of mine. (like any good writer / designer, I always keep one handy) It was a line that came to me three or four years earlier while waiting outside a library for my wife to finish work, but I never found a story to go with it.

Reviews

[Sean Patrick Gray]

I have to say, for a story which is meant to be more of an exercise than anything else, I found it very entertaining. I love your style of writing and the way you string your words together makes it very easy to read. I can't lie, I'm very picky when it comes to read people's work and I usually don't finish a lot of stories that I start but this kept my attention and I look forward to reading your other work.