Post by Twilight on Dec 31, 2007 17:49:10 GMT -5
This is one of the only stories I've actually finished. Sad, I know. Well, tell me what you think. I'm probably going to write a sequel with chapters soon to explain some things. Warning: Violence, probably PG-13.
Update: So this is becoming a little novel, apparently.
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The field was deathly quiet. The great plain already looked as if it was a graveyard, even though the battle that took place was finished not but four hours ago. The wind swept up bits of dust and ashes and scattered them through the charred trees and forgotten trenches. Jovial tunes echoed in from the distance, raucous shouts of men who had forgotten about the bloodbath that lay behind them.
The soldier breathed a heavy, sputtered sigh as the sooty air brushed his tired and bloodied face. His wound still pained him, as it would until his last breath. But the sounds of merrymaking aggrieved him still more. From whose side were the sounds coming? He strained to hear a familiar voice in the din. But would he really want to hear that? Would it be better if they had died along with him?
He tried in vain to reach the banner still held by the nearby corpse. A jolt of agony shot through his side and an attack of another sort through his head. It was no use. He let out a solitary sob. He would die there. There in the ditch with countless others, just another name, another number to add to the death toll. But with the banner, with the banner, they would see. The victors, whoever they were. Perhaps he would get a chance to explain himself. Then, just maybe, he wouldn’t be just another man with the dreadful mark of treason to his name.
But it wouldn’t be. His body was failing and would soon stop working all together. He had never been a big believer in religion and wondered now if he would go to hell for what he did.
A shadow in the gray within gray sky caught his attention. His eyes were out of focus. The body had more important things to do than worry about vision. The shape walked around him. He could hear what was left of his blood pound in his ears. Was this a savior or a scavenger? No, no. It had two legs. It was human, all right.
A soft clatter of armor and the figure was there in front of the man. His eyes widened, and his throat made a surprised hacking sound, as if he was trying to scream.
“So far have the mighty fallen, my friend,” the figure said, squatting down to get a better look at the dieing man. His auburn hair and tan skin were as clean as if the battle had never occurred. Not a spot of dust was on his immaculate dress. His thin lips were pushed into a mocking smile.
The man tried again to gasp for air, but blood caught in his throat. All he could do was whisper, “How?”
“How indeed.” His cheeks looked hollowed, like a skeleton’s. “How did it come to this? The pride of the Lord’s army lying in the field like a dead pig.” His voice was drenched in contempt. He thingyed his head to the side for second then stood up and surveyed the battle. “Do you feel their pain? The pain of the dead and dieing?”
The wounded man grimaced. Some of the blood from his forehead was now dripping down into his eyes, casting a throbbing red glaze over everything. But that wasn’t what was causing the expression. Something far deeper was hurting within his heart.
He didn’t wait for a response. “You should. Undeniably, you should. Because you were the one who caused this. You alone, my old friend.” He looked again at the other, his smile never breaking. “How does it feel to be the most hated man here?”
His fist was clenched. “You,” he managed to say. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Am I?” he smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead as well?”
Another jolt shot through his side, and he felt a noise escape his throat. Something cracked in his torso.
The man who should be dead removed his armored boot from the dieing one’s ribs and spat upon him. “You’re a traitor, lower than dirt. A traitor to your country. A traitor even to the people you gave up everything for. What hope still waits for you? Why do you insist upon prolonging your miserable life?” He glanced towards the sounds of the celebration. “They will forget you. You will be nothing but a name to them in mere weeks. Your actions, though, will live on. A single mistake, one decision, marring your name for generations. Are you content with the way you will be remembered, Silas?”
Silas blinked slowly. Some of the red had been cleared away by the movement. Perhaps, he thought, it would just be better to be dead.
The ginger-haired man grinned, tilted his head like a bird, and seized the other’s neck. Silas gasped and clawed at the attacker’s hands, but there was something wrong. There was nothing there. His futile attempts at saving himself had only given him new wounds. He breathed deeply as his eyes darted around the field. It was empty, just gray nothing.
He shuttered and reached for the banner once again. The cloth touched the tip of his index finger. Just a little father. A little more pain. A little bit more. His fingers tightened around the wonderful blue and yellow fabric. He tugged it towards himself and raised the cumbersome staff in the air. A sudden gust of wind tried to tear it from his grasp, but he held though the throbbing of his already-exhausted muscles. An hour or a minute could have past as he clung to his hope, sweat and blood glistening on his worn face.
Then there was a sound. It was quiet, and at any other time, it would have gone unnoticed. But here and now, it was the song of angels. Out of the corner of his eye, there was dim shadow. The voice sounded again, and he heard footsteps. Someone called out his name and placed his fingers on his throat. Silas smiled, despite it all. He felt a warmth on his face.
The sun was coming out.
Update: So this is becoming a little novel, apparently.
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Prologue: A Gray Sky
The field was deathly quiet. The great plain already looked as if it was a graveyard, even though the battle that took place was finished not but four hours ago. The wind swept up bits of dust and ashes and scattered them through the charred trees and forgotten trenches. Jovial tunes echoed in from the distance, raucous shouts of men who had forgotten about the bloodbath that lay behind them.
The soldier breathed a heavy, sputtered sigh as the sooty air brushed his tired and bloodied face. His wound still pained him, as it would until his last breath. But the sounds of merrymaking aggrieved him still more. From whose side were the sounds coming? He strained to hear a familiar voice in the din. But would he really want to hear that? Would it be better if they had died along with him?
He tried in vain to reach the banner still held by the nearby corpse. A jolt of agony shot through his side and an attack of another sort through his head. It was no use. He let out a solitary sob. He would die there. There in the ditch with countless others, just another name, another number to add to the death toll. But with the banner, with the banner, they would see. The victors, whoever they were. Perhaps he would get a chance to explain himself. Then, just maybe, he wouldn’t be just another man with the dreadful mark of treason to his name.
But it wouldn’t be. His body was failing and would soon stop working all together. He had never been a big believer in religion and wondered now if he would go to hell for what he did.
A shadow in the gray within gray sky caught his attention. His eyes were out of focus. The body had more important things to do than worry about vision. The shape walked around him. He could hear what was left of his blood pound in his ears. Was this a savior or a scavenger? No, no. It had two legs. It was human, all right.
A soft clatter of armor and the figure was there in front of the man. His eyes widened, and his throat made a surprised hacking sound, as if he was trying to scream.
“So far have the mighty fallen, my friend,” the figure said, squatting down to get a better look at the dieing man. His auburn hair and tan skin were as clean as if the battle had never occurred. Not a spot of dust was on his immaculate dress. His thin lips were pushed into a mocking smile.
The man tried again to gasp for air, but blood caught in his throat. All he could do was whisper, “How?”
“How indeed.” His cheeks looked hollowed, like a skeleton’s. “How did it come to this? The pride of the Lord’s army lying in the field like a dead pig.” His voice was drenched in contempt. He thingyed his head to the side for second then stood up and surveyed the battle. “Do you feel their pain? The pain of the dead and dieing?”
The wounded man grimaced. Some of the blood from his forehead was now dripping down into his eyes, casting a throbbing red glaze over everything. But that wasn’t what was causing the expression. Something far deeper was hurting within his heart.
He didn’t wait for a response. “You should. Undeniably, you should. Because you were the one who caused this. You alone, my old friend.” He looked again at the other, his smile never breaking. “How does it feel to be the most hated man here?”
His fist was clenched. “You,” he managed to say. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Am I?” he smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead as well?”
Another jolt shot through his side, and he felt a noise escape his throat. Something cracked in his torso.
The man who should be dead removed his armored boot from the dieing one’s ribs and spat upon him. “You’re a traitor, lower than dirt. A traitor to your country. A traitor even to the people you gave up everything for. What hope still waits for you? Why do you insist upon prolonging your miserable life?” He glanced towards the sounds of the celebration. “They will forget you. You will be nothing but a name to them in mere weeks. Your actions, though, will live on. A single mistake, one decision, marring your name for generations. Are you content with the way you will be remembered, Silas?”
Silas blinked slowly. Some of the red had been cleared away by the movement. Perhaps, he thought, it would just be better to be dead.
The ginger-haired man grinned, tilted his head like a bird, and seized the other’s neck. Silas gasped and clawed at the attacker’s hands, but there was something wrong. There was nothing there. His futile attempts at saving himself had only given him new wounds. He breathed deeply as his eyes darted around the field. It was empty, just gray nothing.
He shuttered and reached for the banner once again. The cloth touched the tip of his index finger. Just a little father. A little more pain. A little bit more. His fingers tightened around the wonderful blue and yellow fabric. He tugged it towards himself and raised the cumbersome staff in the air. A sudden gust of wind tried to tear it from his grasp, but he held though the throbbing of his already-exhausted muscles. An hour or a minute could have past as he clung to his hope, sweat and blood glistening on his worn face.
Then there was a sound. It was quiet, and at any other time, it would have gone unnoticed. But here and now, it was the song of angels. Out of the corner of his eye, there was dim shadow. The voice sounded again, and he heard footsteps. Someone called out his name and placed his fingers on his throat. Silas smiled, despite it all. He felt a warmth on his face.
The sun was coming out.
