Reality Prompt; Heroes are Human too
Haha… a series of short, totally useless posts… >_>
*Hides behind riot shield*
Fear not! I am here with a pretty goddamn long piece! Please be considerate… I wrote this in half an hour… and spent another 15 minutes pruning it into 1000 words.
Haha, its for a ‘reality’ prompt, but it really isn’t realistic in any sense other than the fact that it deals with something that does happen on a smaller scale irl…
And I sorta made it a story, and you never would have known it was for the prompt if you just read it xD
Her eyes flicker over the cheering crowds, and forcefully drew a bright smile onto her face. She tried to drown out the screams of the dead, and the clawing at her sanity the souls she sent off constantly threatened to break her, and prepare a speech that spoke of their overwhelming victory at the battle- slaughter, more like, she sneered, with the Idaaic Kingdom. The hero’s welcome she got, coming back to the capital turned to jeers in her name as she thought about the suffering masses in Lyda, the people on the streets who lost fathers, sons, and brothers who would curse the Everaian Empire for the blow from which they would never recover. Her hands have been scrubbed clean, but in her mind’s eye, the vermillion of fresh spilt blood stained her hands, sins that she could never erase.
She closed her eyes, and shoved the images from her mind. There was a speech to be made to the adoring subjects, and they needed a strong, infallible leader.
“We were strong! And because of our strength, we had conquered our enemies, and crushed rebellions! In this world, only the best survive, and we will forever stand atop the other nations!” She held back a sneer, that was the policy that doomed her sister, a physically weak child who was sent away because she was useless. “Never! Will we fall to any other than our own! This Empire began as a war torn country, but the superiors rose, survived, not only that, but we THRIVED! Long! Live! Ev-“
“LADY ACCROSIA! OUR QUEEN OF PROSPERITY!” The crowd cried her name, and she looked on in shock. Then she gave a wry quirk of the lips; will I be remembered as the Queen of Prosperity or the Bloodstained Witch? Will history record me as the one who served her empire well or the one who slaughtered the innocent men and women of the kingdoms that surround us?
After smiling with the patience of a saint at the crowd of gleeful well-doers, she hid behind the thick curtains of the room attached to the balcony. Behind the sanctity of the thick velvet, hidden from prying eyes; she sank to the floor with a specific sort of emptiness in her eyes, and her generals looked on, with heavy lids and even weightier hearts, as they too, had experienced the carnage that took place in Lyda. They looked not of victorious commanders, but of soldiers tired, too tired of wading through rivers of blood.
“Lets… Not go to war again, okay?” The girl said, with a tired voice, filled to the brim with an oldness that came only as a spoil of war, something that she should not bear at all. It was an old phrase, used time and time again, but each time it was said, the words only held more and more weight behind them, drawing the question deeper into the realm of pleading with each repetition.
“No, we shall not, sister…” that, too, has been an utterance heard too many a time, with a taint of longing that revealed it as a promise they all knew that was to be broken. A promise that was of a wish they hope to one day fulfill.
Blood soaked deep into the ground, the plants trampled by warring feet and withered with the metallic taste of the earth. Torn flags blew mournfully in the wind and only gangly crows lifted their cries to the sky. Deep within the shadows of the ancient trees hid a pair of bloodied soldiers, eyes haunted by their first defeat.
She lost herself in the heat of battle, the will to survive powering the sing of her blade for blood. The sword whispered its need to feel the world grow crimson, each soul taken was another level of insanity, descending deeper into the bowls of Hell. The cries of the fallen warriors around her only reminded her of what she had to fight for, the right to be strong, the right to stand before the public without bowing her head in shame.
A trail of bodies lead her to the throne, and a mountain of dead will keep her on it. She didn’t care anymore about her enemies, their lives at home, outside of this battle; all she cared about was protecting the future of her own soldiers who followed her onto the battlefield. They too had futures, wives, sons, daughters who would miss them dearly if sentimentalities for the opponent overwhelmed her.
Her clouded sword swung in a deadly dance, forward, diagonal, dodge, and a swish as the weapon released another into the Land of the Dead. Her army following with weapons of their own, chaos ran amok, but the practiced formations drilled into her warriors’ minds kept them operating better than clockwork. A flip, a kick, a slash, eyes following the pattern of battle as the opposition thinned, and then letting out a terrified yell at the implications.
A pain exploded in her side, the arrow tearing through flesh, and barbs ripping muscle to shreds.
Her faithful army protected her, shielding her, passing her along to the back.
Protect the Empress!
Then there was blackness.
Her eyes teared not with the bloodied hole running past her stomach, but the realization that near everyone was dead, gone, fleeting.
And she herself was almost gone too.
“Let’s not go to war again, alright?” The familiar words floated on the air, this time, with a finality that knew, for sure, that this time those words would ring true, for there was nothing left for them to fight, no empire to press them to continue.
“Never again, sister,” the falling from the pattern told of a promise rarely made, the type he would fight to the death to protect, the type that, with solemn finality, will bind whomever involved with a chain that will not be broken.
“That, I promise you.”
Excuse me as I become a hermit and disappear from the internet again.