Part One

In which a long-fought war is finally about to end.

Look well on this sight today, I thought. I couldn’t say why I should be looking, aside from the obvious oddity of the situation, but more importantly why it was of such notice. Why it was so worth my time.

One man about to die was nothing different than the thousands others already fallen. I myself had probably felled a couple. Our nation’s siege weapons had undoubtedly, directly or in, slayed hundreds by themselves. What more was one man?

Sure, this was no random blow or strike. This was, just over there, slow and painfully deliberate. This wasn’t battle, this was the aftermath. This was clean-up.

This was, plainly put, murder. But that’s not what bothered me. Attracted me? No, no it was bothersome. It stuck out like a sore thumb because it was so wrong.

This man, this foreigner to my homelands, this invader, this grime-covered, disheveled, already bleeding recruit who stood before one of my countryman, who stood staring down the long and pointed death-blade, was laughing.

The soldier swung, and all laughter ceased as the falling head suddenly lost access to air with which to laugh with. It fell, silent but now forever grinning, onto the ashen grass. Death atop such life. Funny that. Worth laughing over? Maybe.

I was suddenly shoved, causing me to stumble a half-step, but I quickly regained my composure. She was shooting me a glare, but then only rolled her eyes. She flicked her head in her direction. I gave a nod and sheathed my short sword, following.

I heard her talking about the captain ordering everyone back into line, something about that despite our overwhelming victory we would pressing forward. This skirmish was the beginning of the end. The invaders’ front was starting to buckle; so all of this would be ending soon. That sounded nice.

The war was little over two years now. One of the neighboring nations had been overthrown by despots, and in his land-lust had attacked us. The other lands refused to get involved, at least so long as the problem didn’t affect them. Attempts at diplomacy had fallen on deaf ears. It was war, greedy and destructive, pure and simple.

Old habits bubbled back to the surface, and I grinned. I asked her how many she took down, and she lanced back to me with those platinum eyes that always made me gasp on the inside. Her grayed hair, though bound in a tail behind her, pulled loose in places, and those rebellious strands framed her face with its streaks of sweat-soaked dirt and dried bits of quicksilvery blood. Ordinary things, all, but the gaze, the energy vibrant in the very tissue of her ashen skin made a visage sullied by fighting even more beautiful than if it had been clean.

The other soldiers in our company were assembled just beyond the field. Everyone looked exhausted beneath the dull, silver skies, even the captain. But he stood there, in front of everyone, pulling himself straight and barking aloud our new orders. As he raised his hands to point and gesture, it was plain to see his limbs were shaking. But raise them he did, glowering with eyes irritated that their body was starting to falter.

The captain fell silent as we fell into line. Our delay hadn’t gone unnoticed. I felt his gaze fall upon me. I straightened and stared back, meeting his steely eyes with my own charcoal-dark ones. His steel flicked to her platinum, then back to my charcoal. Finally they looked back to the rest of the troop, and his reading of our orders continued.

The counterattack was to commence immediately, taking full advantage of the break in the enemy lines. At this point, it was march onto the enemy capital and siege it, fighting until they could fight no more. Our company, having just fought, would be rear-most and rest when it could as it gradually made its way to the spearhead. By then we should be able to take over at the front while the previous troop rotated to the rear. And we’d keep on our “shift” until we were either relieved or when the enemy surrendered. I severely doubted the invaders would buckle and raise the gray flag just because of our little company. We’d be sent back to the rear after our turn, and the troop behind ours would take over. And so on, and on.

End of orders. The captain led the way, and we forced ourselves into a march to keep up. In a subconscious daze ingrained into us by so many drills we fell into formation, and in the slight hustle another soldier butted in next to her. Well, I mustered the energy to butt back in, and squeezed him off to the side. He grunted, but relented. A weak slap on the arm was the only retort he made. I tried to hide my contentment, but I couldn’t but notice she had raised an eyebrow. I raised mine, calling her “puzzled” expression’s bluff.

Besides the drone of our footsteps I could make out other troop movements, likely other battalions on the march. The sooty ground beneath our feet stretched out like a long and eerily straight road, still flickering with the cinereal glow of fires from the battle. Broken spears and cracked shields littered the sides beside us, tossed there in heaps to immediately clear our path. Only now did some of the scavenger corps start poking through the piles for anything still usable. To me, it all looked derelict and useless now, shattered and drenched in wet, dusky blood.

The pallid, rolling hills we were leaving behind in our bloodied wake were far from civilian territories, at least. The march to defend our fortresses there had been hard, straining, and unrelenting across those inclines. Now though, we were on level ground, and as I let my eyes stroll up to the silvery sky my thoughts started to wander.

Of boot camp, and its granite bathroom stalls, granite barracks, granite mess hall, and granite obstacle courses. Everything stone. Everything rough. How in weeks, a soft man was returned to the callous, lean, and hardened state of his ancestors.

Of the first battle, where for all the attitude and discipline carved into us from training counted for s**t, and the real learning began.

Of the trenches, where she and I fell, and we stood back to back fending off attackers with nothing but shovels. Battle-ready, sharpened shovels designed to be used as auxiliary weapons yes, but shovels nonetheless.

Despite the creeping chill from dusk approaching, I felt warm inside. I shot her a glance, and she looked back, brows upwards in a curious manner. I just smirked at her, and she returned it.

A couple hours later we were allowed to stop and rest and everyone, the captain included, just about collapsed onto whatever would hold their weight. The only movements any of us cared to make were to snuggle up close enough to share each another’s warmth. The chill hadn’t gotten too severe, and the other companies just about surrounded us. Setting up camp seemed like such an additional chore and expenditure that no one cared to even lift a finger for it. I guessed that we wouldn’t be here for long, and as soon as we had to move we’d be on the double. She didn’t think so at first, but then again, the captain hadn’t protested the lack of a proper camp being erected.

She nestled next to me, one hand still clutching her shield, just as mine was. My vision was starting to blur at this point from fatigue, and all her shades had coalesced into a dull silhouette against. The other piles of troops were mounds, and the dim glow of troop movements ahead blended with the smoky sky above with its stars.

Author's Note

I usually proofread my works, however as always I'm sure there are typos and syntax errors. I appreciate any and all notices of that, and will work to correct those. If I haven't do know that I did acknowledge your notice and try implementing it, but found that it detracted from the effect I wanted and so omitted it.