A woman knelt on hallowed ground, scooping blood-stained silt and mulch into gloved fingers.
She passed her touch over each indigent grain and rock, turning them around and about before reverently replacing them beneath her. Knees unbent, carrying her upward, and then she gazed out over the open field. The low groans of the wounded carried through the night air, filling her ears and mind. She turned to depart, not for fear, but for want. Footsteps brought her closer. The heat of day left the sky, but thoughts of darkness poured into her mind, of fell days and fell deeds left unspoken. Trees and branches blew by her in pairs and triples. Green-limbused eyes tightened, their pupils slitting- a wisp of smoke blew into the beyond. The camp was before her. Patterns of heraldry and history embroidered across the walls of simple tents, a Regalian banner raised high in the middle of the clearing. Visions then began to flash before her, not all too unfamiliar colors conjuring to the infernal melody of screams and groans. They took shape, acrylic wash scrawling over the landscape. Then there was light.
Thellassia. She was in Thellassia, sharpening her glaive-sword and polishing off flecks of blood. A log was set squarely beneath her, muscular arms working to clean the blade. A critical squint flicked down to observe its edge alignment with a slanted frown. The woman stood up, kneeling by the body of a dead Ailor armored in platemail. She rummaged in his belt, tugging free a small sack, and then glanced to his face. His eyes were still open - she gently closed them. A hand reached experimentally inside and closed upon a sharpening stone. "Praise the Gods." Then came another Elf into the camp, a man. Coming into her vision, he raised an arm: in his grasp, a woman's head, held by the hair. Her mouth was open in lifeless anguish, glazed stare knocking the Altalar right in the eyes. A quick turn confirmed that her ears were round. "Why did you do this?" The man raised a hand, expression equally deadpan to her own. "For the glory of Estel, and Ulley, and the protection of our people."
"Does Estel glory in death and suffering?"
"If it is the Enemy I strike down, therein is the Glory."
"But is the glory truly in the striking, or is it in un-striking those in the future stricken?"
The ground opened up beneath her, swallowing her up. Blackness spun and swirled about her, consuming her.
An Altalarin man looked at each of his hands, standing on a rocky shore. With three pioneers by his side, he stared out over misted hill and dale, studying feature and form. A woman's voice spoke. "Hîth. How do we know this will work? We laid down our lives to save Them. Now we are running away." The man paused to consider this, staring up into the sky. It was with a heavy heart that he gave his answer. "Because they wanted us to live. Ideas never die, but the people bearing them very well can. Perhaps each of us could have killed two of our Enemy before we passed. But what is worth more, that a husband, a brother, a son lays dead? Or that we continue to live, and marry, and make joy? This land is idyllic, and because we survived. Because we came here. Instead of making last stands, soon we will be standing at last." The other Elf did not seem convinced by his answer. "We are alive. But They will all die. Now what?" He shook his head. "They will not die out within our lifetimes. Then there is room. That our children, who will exist only because we live this day, will be stronger, and more numerous. They will do what we could not."
"By your logic, shouldn't we just retreat from every battle?"
"No. There are some fights worth winning. But most aren't that."
"Then tell me, Hîth, why do you even fight? All you do is get injured anyway."
"I fight as I do, for I would rather see three friends beside me and three enemies alive than six corpses."
Nighttime fell suddenly. Color leeched from the world, turning it to greyscale. Then went contrast, tones and shades merging into an even wall of black light.
A woman was Vivana, and also not. She awoke under the heavy covers of a bed, sore notches in her throat and a wet rag which had lost its chill on her head. Her gaze turned left. There was an unconscious Isldar there, sprawled under her own covers one bed away and breathing heavily. The Altalar glanced her up and down, observing her condition with some marked pity, and then reached for her glass of water. A dull ache reminded her of the three arrow wounds in her gut, tight bandages keeping her stomach squeezed closed. At least the painkillers were helping.
« A war story is not about war. »
« It is about compassion, and love. »
« Forget 'who would you kill for?'.»
« Who would you die for? »
She passed her touch over each indigent grain and rock, turning them around and about before reverently replacing them beneath her. Knees unbent, carrying her upward, and then she gazed out over the open field. The low groans of the wounded carried through the night air, filling her ears and mind. She turned to depart, not for fear, but for want. Footsteps brought her closer. The heat of day left the sky, but thoughts of darkness poured into her mind, of fell days and fell deeds left unspoken. Trees and branches blew by her in pairs and triples. Green-limbused eyes tightened, their pupils slitting- a wisp of smoke blew into the beyond. The camp was before her. Patterns of heraldry and history embroidered across the walls of simple tents, a Regalian banner raised high in the middle of the clearing. Visions then began to flash before her, not all too unfamiliar colors conjuring to the infernal melody of screams and groans. They took shape, acrylic wash scrawling over the landscape. Then there was light.
Thellassia. She was in Thellassia, sharpening her glaive-sword and polishing off flecks of blood. A log was set squarely beneath her, muscular arms working to clean the blade. A critical squint flicked down to observe its edge alignment with a slanted frown. The woman stood up, kneeling by the body of a dead Ailor armored in platemail. She rummaged in his belt, tugging free a small sack, and then glanced to his face. His eyes were still open - she gently closed them. A hand reached experimentally inside and closed upon a sharpening stone. "Praise the Gods." Then came another Elf into the camp, a man. Coming into her vision, he raised an arm: in his grasp, a woman's head, held by the hair. Her mouth was open in lifeless anguish, glazed stare knocking the Altalar right in the eyes. A quick turn confirmed that her ears were round. "Why did you do this?" The man raised a hand, expression equally deadpan to her own. "For the glory of Estel, and Ulley, and the protection of our people."
"Does Estel glory in death and suffering?"
"If it is the Enemy I strike down, therein is the Glory."
"But is the glory truly in the striking, or is it in un-striking those in the future stricken?"
The ground opened up beneath her, swallowing her up. Blackness spun and swirled about her, consuming her.
An Altalarin man looked at each of his hands, standing on a rocky shore. With three pioneers by his side, he stared out over misted hill and dale, studying feature and form. A woman's voice spoke. "Hîth. How do we know this will work? We laid down our lives to save Them. Now we are running away." The man paused to consider this, staring up into the sky. It was with a heavy heart that he gave his answer. "Because they wanted us to live. Ideas never die, but the people bearing them very well can. Perhaps each of us could have killed two of our Enemy before we passed. But what is worth more, that a husband, a brother, a son lays dead? Or that we continue to live, and marry, and make joy? This land is idyllic, and because we survived. Because we came here. Instead of making last stands, soon we will be standing at last." The other Elf did not seem convinced by his answer. "We are alive. But They will all die. Now what?" He shook his head. "They will not die out within our lifetimes. Then there is room. That our children, who will exist only because we live this day, will be stronger, and more numerous. They will do what we could not."
"By your logic, shouldn't we just retreat from every battle?"
"No. There are some fights worth winning. But most aren't that."
"Then tell me, Hîth, why do you even fight? All you do is get injured anyway."
"I fight as I do, for I would rather see three friends beside me and three enemies alive than six corpses."
Nighttime fell suddenly. Color leeched from the world, turning it to greyscale. Then went contrast, tones and shades merging into an even wall of black light.
A woman was Vivana, and also not. She awoke under the heavy covers of a bed, sore notches in her throat and a wet rag which had lost its chill on her head. Her gaze turned left. There was an unconscious Isldar there, sprawled under her own covers one bed away and breathing heavily. The Altalar glanced her up and down, observing her condition with some marked pity, and then reached for her glass of water. A dull ache reminded her of the three arrow wounds in her gut, tight bandages keeping her stomach squeezed closed. At least the painkillers were helping.
« A war story is not about war. »
« It is about compassion, and love. »
« Forget 'who would you kill for?'.»
« Who would you die for? »
