Hero

The dying thoughts of one thought heroic.

He laid down in the cold, unfeeling snow, thinking about the cold, unfeeling world. The ones who killed came again today, with their shiny black rods that had felled so many of his brothers and sisters. He didn’t bother trying to figure out why they killed. What was the point? there was nothing to bed one. Especially now. There will never be anything more. When will it end...

Blackness.

He awoke hours later, and the soft flakes were still dancing in the wind around him to a silent song. But it didn’t matter. He was dead. the cold flakes and cloudy sky seemed surreal to him, the deafening silence around him forcing him to comprehend fully the true size of the white forest, and whatever was beyond. he had thought life simple; survive by helping your family survive. Leading or following, everyone had a place. If you thought you could do better as a leader, you proved it. Your family was your life, the ones you ate with, spelt with, played with, hunted with. Lived with. Died with. But what of this? His sister was safe… he should be happy. And look forward to the end of the pain. The gash in his leg, caused by one of those terrible black rods, flowed with blood. His blood, staining his very life against the soft, white blankness. The blood proved that he was alive, one. Proved he was a good brother. A heroic brother. He knew what he felt of being a hero, now. Stand in the ashes of a million souls, and ask them if being a hero matters. And now, he was to join those dead souls. he could almost hear them whispering, inviting, as the world around him bleached white and his blood faded into the cold, unfeeling snow.

Author's Note

I try to say as little as I can without actually stating it, but sometimes I go too far and no one can figure out what's happening. Please tell me if it makes sense. Thank you so much.