Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time he had ever held a sword was when he was eight years old at the battle of Evra. It had weighed heavily in his hands as he lifted it off the ground beside a fallen soldier. His father was nowhere to been seen already having disappeared into the great mass of fog surrounding the battlefield. He stood alone grasping the sword with both hands having already wiped off whatever gore lay on it with his sleeve. His face was covered in grime and the metallic scent of blood lingered in the air mixing in the swirling dust. His breaths were shallow, and his heart felt as if was going burst right through his chest. Its beating vibrating through his small body.
In order to find his father on the blood-soaked battlefield he’d grasped the nearest sword for the semblance of a fighting chance. He didn’t know how to use a sword. His training had not yet begun in hand to hand combat. His chosen weapon was usually a bow and arrow which was not be found anywhere within his proximity.
This was a mistake.
He shouldn’t have even been there.
Sneaking into the armory wagon had seemed like a clever idea at the time. He had always wanted to be a warrior. To bask in the glory that his father and brothers had always shared whenever they returned from battle. The stories always filled him with anticipation and excitement which wrapped around him like a warm blanket. So, when his father had told him of a northern threat like nothing they had ever faced before, he had been devastated when he was told he was not yet of age to fight. However, this harsh reality was not what he had envisioned when he had stolen away that night.
The sword was a dead weight in his arms as he staggered to lift up the weight of the blade. He tried to see further into the mist, peering through the dust floating through the air and covering the land. Bodies lay splayed on the ground. Some staring up at the sky. Hollow. Others had missing limbs and lay motionless against the dirt. Every sense in his body worked overtime. He could hear the distant calls of battle cries, screams and shouts from far off beyond his line of sight. The ringing of metal on metal and clashing of swords clamoring for a minor victory so that they too did not join the dead lying in silent stillness surrounding him. His breath caught as a shadow began to emerge from the mist. The hooves of a horse echoing through the sounds of battle. He knew it was time to move. His head beckoning to his limbs to hide. To run. Anything.
Move.
Move.
Move.
His mind shouted at him but he remained frozen and wide eyed as the figure closed in on his location. His body betraying him.
Enemy or friend?
He couldn’t take the chance. Even at such at early age he knew the terrors that would befall him it was indeed an enemy from the northern borders.
It was warm inside his chest. His whole body heating up in a flushed sort of panic. His mouth went dry as the terror set in. Somehow, even though his legs wouldn’t move his arms pathetically lifted the heavy sword raising in front of him. They shook with the strain and he attempted to look like a warrior. Unafraid and ready for combat.
He swallowed hard and braced himself for the oncoming shadow praying that this wasn’t the end of his short-lived life. A laugh came from the shadow.
“You must try to look less terrified when you raise a sword like that boy. A brave death is the only true kind of death”
His sword clattered to the ground. The dirt dimming how heavily it fell. He tried to speak but his mouth remained dry. Words unable to form in his mouth.
And finally, the shadow took form. A warrior rode atop his horse. A black mare baring its teeth as if it hungered for more blood and carnage. Its temper could be felt even from his distance. The boys eyed widened in terror as he took in its rider. His eyes were cold. He bore only armour on his lower half leaving his chest bare except for a belt that held form around his torso. It held several blades in all shapes and sizes. His body was covered in scars. Some the colour silver clearly from battles past. Others still pink or bleeding from recent injuries. Blood covered his mouth.
His looked over the warrior and then stopped when he reached his ears. Pointed.
He was Fae.
Bloodthirsty. Fast. And without morals.
He bared his fangs at the boy in a wicked grin. Raising one of the two blades he held in his hands ready execution. He raised the sword and then halted as a war cry rang out meters away. They both turned.
Next minute the boy had found himself sprawled on the ground as another shadow roared towards the warrior. He snarled and raised the two long blades. The mare’s legs stomped in anticipation readying itself for more bloodshed.
Tears seeped from the boy’s eyes as he registered the voice behind that cry and watched in awe as his father rode towards them. The warriors collided. Blades clashed and teeth snapped as the battle ensued. He sank to the ground watching the fight in horror as his father dodged and parried with the fae warrior. His father maneuvered with easy grace as the fae’s knife almost slashed his father’s face. The boy screamed causing the fae to pause.
That was all the time his father needed. That small distraction and the boy watched as his father’s sword sank deep into the warriors middle. He held the fae’s gaze as the light slipped from his eyes.
Seconds felt like hours. Time blurring into itself.
Panting, his father slid the sword out of the warriors gut. The fae’s body sank, slid of the saddle and fell limp on the ground. Adding to mass graveyard that this land had now become.
The horse roared and kicking up his legs he fled into the fog. Without his master he was free to go.
His father turned towards him recognition flashing in his eyes.
“Hansel” he whispered, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Shock and disbelief bled into that one word.
“Father” the boy breathed, finally finding his voice.
His legs again regained motion as he ran towards his father who had dropped to his knees at the sight of him.
“Father” the boy said again “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” He was cut of as his father reached his broad arms around him and tugged him tight.
A horn blew, loud and clear echoing off the land and the dead. His father looked up.
“It’s over.” His father said stroking Hansel’s hair. “We won.”
But his voice was filled with quiet remorse and defeat. There was no glory or victory in that sentence. The boy simply pulled back and whispered “father?”
He smiled sadly at him and stood, lifting him into the saddle of the grey mare waiting. “Let’s go home.”
The boy nodded. He hoped that after today he would never have to go to battle. To never see another dead man or a field of them.
War was not glory. It was death.
And in the end all death remained the same whether you were a soldier or a small scared boy. It was always a true death.
The fae was wrong.