Asta

Asta and the death of five

I trudged through the snow, looking onward with dwindling hope. 
     

"We can't be the last ones. there's no way," I thought. The battle had been a fierce one, with enough casualties to put a nice dent in an army. Not even a messenger remained to tell the soldier's family what they'd lost. 

Asta had gone into the forest, looking for the wounded. I searched the coast. Black rocks crystaled with ice glittered in the sun of high noon. My armor clanked around me. My body begged me to take it off. I refused.

As I continued to walk along the frozen water's edge, my mind began to drift. What if Asta and I were the only two left? What then? How would we justify the loss of 20,000 men? I stepped over corpses that sprawled over the marsh, careful not to disturb the dead.

I stopped abruptly, and turned my head to the wood. Had I just heard what I thought I did? A blood curdling shriek pressed against the misty air, like a butter knife trying to cut through a grapefruit peel, and hung there like a dadaist painting.

Slowly, I stepped toward the trees, listening closely. No sound came from them, not even the chirp of a bird. I was the only living thing that dared to move. I stepped even closer, less cautiously this time. Before I could stop myself, I had begun to run. Deeper and deeper I went into the thick, dodging trees, kicking plants. 

I stopped. There, in the clearing in front of me lay four dead bodies, bathing in each other's blood. I recognised them immediately. Asta's entire family, all she had ever known, was lined up next to one another, waiting for a boat to pick them up, and sail them off to sea, on their final journey. 

 Asta was hunched over the women's corpses, desperately trying to gather all four of them up in her arms. I took a tentative step, testing the waters. Leaves crunched beneath my boots. Asta looked up at me, eyes puffy and full of hate. She dropped the women. Blood streaked across the chestplate, further emphasising the detestment in her soul. 

"What do I do now?" She yelled at me. "Where do I go? I had one job: protect this family with everything that I can, and I couldn't even do that! Where do I go now, Mikkel?"

It was then I saw, as the bloodlust flowed out of her eyes, and down her cheeks, swiftly being replaced with confusion, and fear, that this was not Asta. This girl only shared an uncanny resemblance with her. Asta was dead, and in her place knelt this broken child. In her place was the very thing Asta was before she found home. Asta was lost, never to be found again. Asta was dead.