Ritam Nag, IX D (2019-20)

The pale, amber sun shone over the valleys, casting watery shafts of light across the landscape.

Edmund Darkleaf sat on the rocky slope of the vale, a letter in his hand. It was from his wife.

A sad smile spread across his face as he read the first one-sided conversation with his family in years. His son had grown. His daughter was in college.

Still smiling, the man folded the letter and pocketed it.

Standing up, he walked down the path to the river glade – the only water in the land not bloodied by conflict. The stream ran unbroken and pristine through the lands, a trickle of diamonds glimmering like a ray of hope. The war was over. He’d be going home soon. One last thing to do. Scout the valley for the scattered rebels.

Making his way down the slope past dry bushes and tall grass, he looked up one last time at the looming, formidable mountains being cloaked by the indigo dawn mist.

He heard footsteps.

Slipping behind a rock, he waited with his assault rifle.

What was he fighting for, really? Not his honour. Certainly not his life. Hadn’t these rebels suffered enough? Did they really deserve this?

The footsteps stopped. And the firing began.

A bullet grazed his shoulder, glancing off the rocks behind him. Cursing himself,

Darkleaf attempted to crawl up the underpass to a ledge beyond. After that? He had no way to contact his fellow soldiers- no walkie-talkies, no telegraphs, nothing.

He’d cross that river when he’d come to it.

He’d almost made it, when a bullet hit his guts. Doubling over with pain, his hand automatically went to his stomach. It came away crimson and slippery. Thrashing in his death throes, Edmund futilely shot at the rocky scree below. He heard stones rolling, shouts, screams, and then silence.

He got a glimpse of the river. It ran scarlet with blood- both his own and his foes’.
So much bloodshed, and for what?

Through his agony, he realized something that made the fiery pain in his abdomen numb over. These wars didn’t really solve anything. A few years later, another set of hostilities would claw their way out of mankind, and claim thousands who had nothing to do with such savagery. And they couldn’t do anything about it.

Falling to his knees, he whipped out his knife, dabbed it in his blood, and shakily wrote a hasty, scribbled message on the other side of the letter from his family. His eyes were misting over, darkening with shadows ready to throw their coils around him forever.

If they found him, they’d get the letter, and hopefully take it to his family.

His family.

The three people he’d never see again.

The knife slipped from his hands.

The letter was barely legible, but it didn’t really matter.

“Stay away from the war. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I love you.”