She’s strong, or she wouldn’t have survived the last three hours, but I’ve seen grown men die of lesser wounds.” The surgeon shook his head before calling two men over to aid him. “It’s a little girl.”įiliadh looked down at the weakly moving child and watched her eyes, shockingly blue in her mud covered face, flutter as pain and fear glazed them into incomprehension. Then a tiny, soot-blackened arm separated itself from the muddy ruin that had been the foundation of a home, and he saw that what had looked like just another lump of blood and grime was in fact the body of a child, a black-fletched arrow jutting angrily from an ugly wound in its belly.
When he got there he could not, for a moment, see whatever had caught Ansen’s attention. The rebel lord stalked over to where his surgeon was picking through the razed village in a search for survivors that had, until that moment, been in vain. The girl’s head jerked up as she awoke to her pain, and the roar of the renewed fire was punctuated by her high, heartbreaking keen.
In the wake of its passage, the calm was shattered by the crashing fall of the burning longhouse. It carried the smoke and the sickly-sweet charnel stench of burning families. Each was a pyre, a pathetic monument to the memory of those so easily forgotten.Ī breeze blew through the smoking ruins, gentle fingers of wind brushing strands of hair across the eyes of the dying girl.
Even the fires seemed to burn quietly, the smoldering remains of the houses of her neighbors. Misguided allow me to post his beatifull story here, it is not finished but still is wonderfull.Īn eerie silence descended on the village a deceiving peace mirrored in the breathless stare of a gut-shot child, too confused to realize she is dying.
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