The soldiers left in early Spring, when the air was clear and the rains short. They returned amid the heavy snows of Winter. In that time, the trees had bloomed and died again, the birds had come and gone, and the rabbits nestled down. And my Lisse celebrated her seventh birthday. What little money I had, I spent lavishly on the occasion. She much enjoyed her new gown, I hope. When the soldiers left, she made a great sport of trying to count their number. But, young as she was, she could count no higher than two hundred and sixteen. There were many more besides that. They rode proudly on snorting stallions, who nickered ferociously as they marched along in neat orders. They gleamed in the pre-summer daylight; swords and lances, helms and greaves, polished to a royal shine.
When they returned that winter, my Lisse could have counted them thrice. In the dead Winter air, all majesty was lost. Their armor was cracked and dented. Their horses hung their heads low, though many trot unburdened. All told, Lisse counted seventy seven. And there were no more to count. Each one of those seventy seven had lost many a friend in those short months.
In another months time, the spring air returned, and the soldiers were forgotten by my Lisse and I. We enjoyed our strolls through the cedar wood. We explored the babbling brooks that fed into the mighty river farther south. Often, we would head into the small own farther down the road, and enjoy the company of the friendly villagers. Other times, we visited her mother's grave upon the hilltop. Her tomb stood, lonely and dejected, upon that bluff. She was buried long ago by my own hands, but not long after Lisse was born. Lisse would always lay a tulip on the grave, and we'd walk home together.
That spring, almost a full year since the soldiers first left, they returned. More soldiers; many more than before. But they came from the opposite direction as the soldiers from last year. These soldiers marched not out, but inwards, and their armor did not gleam, it burned. They wore tunics emblazoned with the same symbol, countless masses all burdened with the same image. Their banners repeated the vulgar thing, and lofted it's ugliness high into the sky. Purple and blue. The soldiers walked quickly and silently. Lisse did not count them. She hid in my shirt.
Not a few nights later, a loud clatter resounded over the hills. It bounded through the cedar wood. It splashed through the babbling brooks. It even charged over the bluff with the grave upon it. It was the moan of dying men, and the panicked whinnies of terrorized horses. It was the roar of armies, and the cold slice of steel. It was war, brutal and unforgiving. Lisse woke up screaming. I went to comfort her, but there is only so much you can do when you yourself are as terrified.
By morning, the awful sounds had died away. A pervasive silence replaced it, as though the world were trying to drown the screams in infinite quiet. But there were some things that the world couldn't erase, like the body that arrived on my doorstep that day. He wore the bold purple of the second soldiers. He had curly black hair, matted down by dirt. He looked at me with crystal eyes, clouded in pain. I did the only thing I knew to. I took him in and lay him on Lisse's bed.
I cleaned him as he faded into a comatose sleep. I removed the awful armor with the vile sign and locked it away. Then I saw his shoulder- mangled and ripped apart. Again, I did the best I could; wrapping it, applying salves from my limited knowledge of herbs, but mostly letting him sleep. Lisse was full of questions about the man, and why he was here,and what happened to him. I answered as best I could, giving her answers I thought her five year old self could understand.
The man slept for two days. On the third day, he awoke, marveling at his strange surroundings, but tacitly quiet. I came in and explained his flight, from what I imagined as a warzone, and his appearance at my door. I smoothed my tunic and introduced myself formally. He smirked and, in typical Eastern fashion, replied with a curt 'Marius'. He said no more, and I dared not question him. He accepted what food I gave him and only returned my queries with a brief nod.
As the days grew hotter and the nights shorter, Marius' condition did little to improve. He was asleep more than he was awake, and his sleep was racked with shivers and twitches. His smile was ghosted with agonizing pain. Despite my best efforts, the shoulder remained swollen and ugly. When he was awake, he only spoke when he was addressed directly. His pain led to a great dilemma for me- If I were to continue treating him myself, he would surely die. Only the knowledge of a trained medic could save him. But who could be trusted with this secret? Who would willingly treat an enemy soldier, especially one that might have killed our own countrymen?
"Father, forgive me, but could I have a word with you?"
I had made my choice.
"Of course, my son, what is it?"
But was it the right one?
"Could we possibly step somewhere private?..."
When the priest entered Lisse's room, his mouth dropped open. He looked at me accusingly, then towards the body laying on the sheets. Marius stared back defiantly, as if he were in command of the situation, as if he wasn't laying in a small girl's bed, sallow faced and sickly. The air in the room grew stale with anticipation and tension. Finally the priest let out an exasperated sigh and set down his pack. Only when he started unloaded his medicines did I relax, and I saw Marius did as well. After the first visit, Father came back once a week to treat Marius- under the pretense of tea and scones.
Many times I tried paying the priest, with what measly sums I could muster. Every time he refused. He claimed the god's work needed no recompense. He would smile warmly at me, embrace me, and depart. The work he did on Marius was nothing short on miraculous. Week by week, Marius improved. With his returning strength also came conversation. I learned his full name was Marius Viarma, and that he was drafted into the army by his Emperor. Many of his friends volunteered. Many of his friends hated elves. He had a woman in his hometown he was going to marry if not for the draft. She also hated elves. His mother and father were very proud of him, and bragged to all their friends. They also hated elves. His younger brother adored him and played pretend. In his imagination, his younger brother was Marius, and was killing hordes of enemies. His hatred of elves was just budding. It seemed Marius' entire nation was a nation of racists, all trained to hate- to kill- me. I did not know what to do with this information.
I went to bed, somewhat disgruntled. Lisse lay next to me, displaced by Marius. She had long succumbed to sleep, breathing softly next to me. For a moment I thought of her mother, doing the same next to me. I shook it off and listened to the sounds of the house at night. The late summer winds blew softly against the house. The trees whispered to themselves. Marius' snores echoed remorsefully. Footsteps outside. Hushed voices. Then a crash, and the world ended.
I was out of bed in a flash. Lisse screamed, and Marius yelled a war cry. Soldiers in gleaming armor rushed in. Two grabbed at me, another went to Lisse, and three more to Marius. We were dragged unceremoniously into the street, where I was made to kneel. Marius was pushed down on my right, and Lisse stood close on my left. Before us the priest stood shamefaced, with a large cut on his forehead that was bleeding profusely, and his arm wrapped around his ribs, where what looked like more blood spilled. A soldier took a few haughty steps towards us, and unfurled a scroll. I only heard parts of his speech. "-Traitors to the crown-" Marius muttered half construed curses "-Harboring a fugitive-" Lisse wailed next to me, tears pouring down her face "-the punishment for your crimes is death-" I let out a choked sob.
When they returned that winter, my Lisse could have counted them thrice. In the dead Winter air, all majesty was lost. Their armor was cracked and dented. Their horses hung their heads low, though many trot unburdened. All told, Lisse counted seventy seven. And there were no more to count. Each one of those seventy seven had lost many a friend in those short months.
In another months time, the spring air returned, and the soldiers were forgotten by my Lisse and I. We enjoyed our strolls through the cedar wood. We explored the babbling brooks that fed into the mighty river farther south. Often, we would head into the small own farther down the road, and enjoy the company of the friendly villagers. Other times, we visited her mother's grave upon the hilltop. Her tomb stood, lonely and dejected, upon that bluff. She was buried long ago by my own hands, but not long after Lisse was born. Lisse would always lay a tulip on the grave, and we'd walk home together.
That spring, almost a full year since the soldiers first left, they returned. More soldiers; many more than before. But they came from the opposite direction as the soldiers from last year. These soldiers marched not out, but inwards, and their armor did not gleam, it burned. They wore tunics emblazoned with the same symbol, countless masses all burdened with the same image. Their banners repeated the vulgar thing, and lofted it's ugliness high into the sky. Purple and blue. The soldiers walked quickly and silently. Lisse did not count them. She hid in my shirt.
Not a few nights later, a loud clatter resounded over the hills. It bounded through the cedar wood. It splashed through the babbling brooks. It even charged over the bluff with the grave upon it. It was the moan of dying men, and the panicked whinnies of terrorized horses. It was the roar of armies, and the cold slice of steel. It was war, brutal and unforgiving. Lisse woke up screaming. I went to comfort her, but there is only so much you can do when you yourself are as terrified.
By morning, the awful sounds had died away. A pervasive silence replaced it, as though the world were trying to drown the screams in infinite quiet. But there were some things that the world couldn't erase, like the body that arrived on my doorstep that day. He wore the bold purple of the second soldiers. He had curly black hair, matted down by dirt. He looked at me with crystal eyes, clouded in pain. I did the only thing I knew to. I took him in and lay him on Lisse's bed.
I cleaned him as he faded into a comatose sleep. I removed the awful armor with the vile sign and locked it away. Then I saw his shoulder- mangled and ripped apart. Again, I did the best I could; wrapping it, applying salves from my limited knowledge of herbs, but mostly letting him sleep. Lisse was full of questions about the man, and why he was here,and what happened to him. I answered as best I could, giving her answers I thought her five year old self could understand.
The man slept for two days. On the third day, he awoke, marveling at his strange surroundings, but tacitly quiet. I came in and explained his flight, from what I imagined as a warzone, and his appearance at my door. I smoothed my tunic and introduced myself formally. He smirked and, in typical Eastern fashion, replied with a curt 'Marius'. He said no more, and I dared not question him. He accepted what food I gave him and only returned my queries with a brief nod.
As the days grew hotter and the nights shorter, Marius' condition did little to improve. He was asleep more than he was awake, and his sleep was racked with shivers and twitches. His smile was ghosted with agonizing pain. Despite my best efforts, the shoulder remained swollen and ugly. When he was awake, he only spoke when he was addressed directly. His pain led to a great dilemma for me- If I were to continue treating him myself, he would surely die. Only the knowledge of a trained medic could save him. But who could be trusted with this secret? Who would willingly treat an enemy soldier, especially one that might have killed our own countrymen?
"Father, forgive me, but could I have a word with you?"
I had made my choice.
"Of course, my son, what is it?"
But was it the right one?
"Could we possibly step somewhere private?..."
When the priest entered Lisse's room, his mouth dropped open. He looked at me accusingly, then towards the body laying on the sheets. Marius stared back defiantly, as if he were in command of the situation, as if he wasn't laying in a small girl's bed, sallow faced and sickly. The air in the room grew stale with anticipation and tension. Finally the priest let out an exasperated sigh and set down his pack. Only when he started unloaded his medicines did I relax, and I saw Marius did as well. After the first visit, Father came back once a week to treat Marius- under the pretense of tea and scones.
Many times I tried paying the priest, with what measly sums I could muster. Every time he refused. He claimed the god's work needed no recompense. He would smile warmly at me, embrace me, and depart. The work he did on Marius was nothing short on miraculous. Week by week, Marius improved. With his returning strength also came conversation. I learned his full name was Marius Viarma, and that he was drafted into the army by his Emperor. Many of his friends volunteered. Many of his friends hated elves. He had a woman in his hometown he was going to marry if not for the draft. She also hated elves. His mother and father were very proud of him, and bragged to all their friends. They also hated elves. His younger brother adored him and played pretend. In his imagination, his younger brother was Marius, and was killing hordes of enemies. His hatred of elves was just budding. It seemed Marius' entire nation was a nation of racists, all trained to hate- to kill- me. I did not know what to do with this information.
I went to bed, somewhat disgruntled. Lisse lay next to me, displaced by Marius. She had long succumbed to sleep, breathing softly next to me. For a moment I thought of her mother, doing the same next to me. I shook it off and listened to the sounds of the house at night. The late summer winds blew softly against the house. The trees whispered to themselves. Marius' snores echoed remorsefully. Footsteps outside. Hushed voices. Then a crash, and the world ended.
I was out of bed in a flash. Lisse screamed, and Marius yelled a war cry. Soldiers in gleaming armor rushed in. Two grabbed at me, another went to Lisse, and three more to Marius. We were dragged unceremoniously into the street, where I was made to kneel. Marius was pushed down on my right, and Lisse stood close on my left. Before us the priest stood shamefaced, with a large cut on his forehead that was bleeding profusely, and his arm wrapped around his ribs, where what looked like more blood spilled. A soldier took a few haughty steps towards us, and unfurled a scroll. I only heard parts of his speech. "-Traitors to the crown-" Marius muttered half construed curses "-Harboring a fugitive-" Lisse wailed next to me, tears pouring down her face "-the punishment for your crimes is death-" I let out a choked sob.
