Eleventh Hour

I stood on the battlefield, surveying the land but not taking in the beauty of the lush trees and the bright sun. I paid no mind to the rich, earthy smell that came with a cool breeze. Instead I focused on the horizon. How ironic I thought. This field was much too beautiful for the bloody massacre it would see in a while. I looked towards the horizon again, knowing that our enemies would be marching from there, marching to our sharp swords and ready arrows.

We waited, savouring the last moment of peace we had, knowing that even if we were to survive this day, we would forever be haunted by our lost comrades and the men whose life’s blood we would spill. I thought about my parents, waiting for their only remaining child. Surely these men had families, friends and loved ones waiting for them back home. Maybe they had promised to come back and teach their little ones how to wield a sword or shoot an arrow. Maybe they had wives, hoping against hope that this dreadful debacle would never happen. Parents like mine who waited anxiously for news of their children.

I thought about how hard I had strived to get to where I was standing now. I remembered with longing all that I had given up. I know now that I had taken too many things for granted.  Blinking my eyes rapidly, I tried to turn away from these phantoms that would only haunt me. Phantoms of what could have been. I avoided these what if’s knowing that they would weaken my resolve and run home. Most importantly, I turned away from these thoughts because they hurt. They hurt so damn much.

It hurt to remember the people that I had pushed away. It hurt to have to relive the shattering of my heart as I coldheartedly watched their tears fall freely, as I held back my own. It hurt to remember my mother and how she clutched at my arm, desperate to keep her little girl safe. It hurt to meet my father’s eyes and beg him with mine to free me from my mother’s grasp. It hurt to remember him. How he never gave up.  It hurt to see him seal away his heart as he accepted the decisions I clung on to. It hurt to see him pick up his sword and put on a devastating mask, the easy grin that would never be able to disguise his tortured soul.  It hurt most of all to see him standing next to me with the same bloodthirsty face as mine, knowing that he would gladly end his life if it meant that I’d keep my own.

Suddenly, I was sick of the war. Sick of the familiar ball of gut wrenching dread in my gut every time I thought about it. Sick of the pain it has inflicted and the pain it will forever cause. Sick of the unfairness of it all. For how could I find this impossible love at this eleventh hour?

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Hello there you lovely lovely people! This is the first sorta serious story I've ever started writing so be patient with me. This is inspired from the books of the one and only Tamora Pierce. Vote, comment and fan if you liked it! If not, comment anyways and tell me why. I'm open to criticism, just don't be rude or I'll be rude right back. *wink wink* Thank you for taking the time to read this.

saveasmileforme,

Skye