The Aftermath of War. (fiction)

Burned, scabbed, bruised, and desperately thirsty, Celina fled the scene of the violent battle as though her life depended on it- which it very probably did. Within minutes, the women of the enemy would come out on the field to gather the dead, identity their wounded, carry back to camp those they would be capable of saving, and stab each and every living enemy left to death with viciously sharp knives. Celina had no idea how she had survived, when so many of her companions, commanders, and friends had died all around her. Nothing more than an ignorant peasant desperate to help her people and avenge her beloved brother, Celina had committed a dangerous crime, and one that had been almost suicidal. Taking clothing, dagger, bow, and scant armor from her dead warrior brother’s possessions, Celina had left her long, straight red hair in piles on the floor of her family’s hovel and joined the Army.

Now, she saw, it had, indeed, been a foolhardy idea. For weeks Celina had travelled with the Army, making tentative friendships, falling into place, practicing with her dagger and bow whenever possible. All girls in her country were trained in defense, but war was different to be sure. Hand to hand combat was bad enough, but the roar of the battlefield, the spray of blood, the screams of the dying… it struck fear into the heart as surely as if Death itself had driven his ice cold sword deep into one’s chest. She shivered now to think of all that had passed in the last few hours. The terror of her companions’ faces as they fell to enemy blades filled her tortured brain, and she knew she would remember the shock and pain, the hands scrabbling feebly to staunch the blood, the last gasp of each soldier she had witnessed fall, be they friend or foe.

Shivering, Celina tried to clear her mind of the terror of watching her friends die as she stood by. There had been nothing she could do, she knew, but still… the dishonor… Celina’s pace quickened as the first wails of wives and mothers of the enemy drifted to her on the wind. To be caught alive on the battlefield by the grief-stricken widow or tear-stained mother of one of the dead… it was a fate that would be worse than being struck down in the height of battle. At least there death was quick.

Reaching the eaves of the Forest at the edge of the field, Celina felt that it was hardly better. As a churl living by the ocean, this was one of the first times she had ever ventured into a forest. The darkness, even when the sun was bright overhead, or the moon shone bright, as it did tonight, seemed unnatural. No light shone through the branches, and growls and creaks seemed to issue from every dark shadow. Surely she could not be the only survivor? Surely someone friendly was out there… but if they were, they must be cowards and deserters. It was dreadfully dishonorable to flee from the battlefield, especially while the brave fell and died undefended. And yet, it seemed she was the only soldier of the Army not lying crumpled, dead or dying, on the field. Would the women go into the forest to search for deserters, as well? Better to travel as deep into this foreign forest as possible. Better to face the beasts and magic of the Forest than to die at the hands of a wailing lady torn by Death. How many lives were now left broken? How many families, how many mothers, wives, sweethearts, children, sisters, brothers, aunts? How many people were now left to pick of the shreds of their tattered lives?

The thought, more than the cold dampness of the Forest, made Celina shiver. Was Celina’s life so much better? Her hair, a sign of honor for women of her culture, was gone. She could have no respect, now: only slaves, convicted criminals, and pleasure women lacked hair. Her family would have disowned her for taking the guise of a man, for stealing the belongings of her brother, for failing to die in battle after doing these things. Her family was left to sew up the threads of their lives, and she was no longer part of them. And Celina herself? Everyone she knew was either dead or as good as dead to her. Alone in the world in a land far from her home, in a place of magic and darkness and strange foul beasts, Celina had nothing. No family, no hair, no home, no life. She was worse than a slave, for she didn’t even have a master. All she owned was a heart heavy with dread and grief and sorrow, and that could hardly lead her far in her new life.