Heart of a Guardian

Prolog

War is war, it never changes, does it? Weapons, strategies, alliances, reasons all that are things able to change. But the fight itself is always bloody, there are deaths to mourn, bodys to show, from a lost or victorious battle. Tired thoughts run trough the heads of the soldiers, all of them unsure, would they survive tomorrow? Even if they would survive there was another question bugging the consciousness of each individual: Would they be able to get back home? And afterwards, would they be able to live a normal life?

He stands before the battlefield, friends, soldiers, comrades burried underneath rubble and dust which is settling slowly. Eyes are settling on the sky as the sound of a hovercraft rips appart the silence below. The white stripes from the retreating ships are a relief, a sign that the fight has been won. In reality the fight felt like it was lost. Hundreds had fallen this day, this war took their lifes as payment for the foolish nature of humans. A flag was sticking out of the settling dust, the new fabric shredded and torn like it had been standing there for years.

Another look was taken, another last word mumbled into the coat. He turned around standing still for a second and looking at the tents. Only now the sounds of the camp reached him. Soldiers shouting loudly, stretchers with wounded soldiers being carried and doctors and Paramedics running around bandaging and aiding the wounded. They somehow reminded of busy bees.

Full of sorrow the young man felt a hand being put on his shoulder, a hand squeezing meant to reasure him. >>We survived.<< the once proud man besides him spoke up, his voice barely a whisper. He clapped his shoulder twice as to reasure himself that he was indeed there >>We survived.<< he repeated, letting his hand fall down from his shoulder and walking of.

They had survived, but to what price?