We will be a faint shadow, in memory. Despite it all, despite that in the hearts and minds of the populous, we brought peace. In the throats of our enemies, we brought screams All for naught. It all fades. Faint shadows... that's what our legacy will amount to...
I said as much to Gildain, as always, he mocked my sincerity. "You spend too much time in the clouds!" He roared, pumping his chest. "We do this for us! For here! For now! For blood and glory! Not to be remembered by some fools once we're long dead!"
"What is it all for, then?" I asked.
"Do you have a loss of hearing? For us, fool! We do it for us!"
I shook my head. I've had these types of conversations with Gildain for over a decade. We've yet to agree on anything. But I found his bolster comforting, and love him wholeheartedly because of it.
We were returning from another long campaign. A long strenuous campaign. Hard fought, with a victory well earned. And whenever I miraculously survive I feel guilty. Like I've betrayed my fallen brethren.
"You're one of the best, Zeal!" Gildain said to me that night. We were sitting around a campfire, eating badly made porridge. "You survive because you train, you live because you want to live!"
I knew he was right. But my feelings didn't change. How could I explain that rationality had nothing to do with it?
The march back was long. Some that were wakened by the fighting succumbed to their wounds. Will their names be remembered? Will their deads be honored? For how long?
Such a waste.
That night, as I slept, I dreamt I was being chased by demons. Horned and furious, their relentless pursuit dogged me until I woke up sweaty -
And heard the sound of the sentry horns.
"We're under attack!"
"East side!"
"Wake up you slobs!"
I grabbed my sword and carefully got out of my tent - entering pandemonium itself.
They had followed us for three days, picking the perfect time to strike. We were disoriented from sleep, tired, and most of us unarmored.
A berserker threw himself at me, probably drunk on bloodlust and losing his senses. I effortlessly stepped his blow and chopped his head clean off. I surveyed the hell zone of a battlefield that was once our camp. And saw madness. The camp was overrun.
My brethren were getting slaughtered.
I started doing what I did best, killing. Not letting my emotions take hold of me. Precision. Slaughter. My sword was like the wind as it swept through the battlefield; my feet were like the river. Together, we carved our way through the landscape - leaving a bloody trail as we passed.
But how much could one man do?
I soon found Gildain, holding off a horde of berserkers from entering the commander's tent. I went at them from behind, carving their ranks before they had a chance to react. Soon, I was side by side with Gildain, and I knew the commander was safe.
"The commander is dead!" Gildain roared. "They're after the maps! They want them back!"
"They're still in the tent?"
"We have to protect those maps! Or this was all for naught."
It was all for naught, anyway.
We stood our ground. What else was there to do? The enemy was undisciplined and mad with bloodlust. But soon enough, the brutes started landing hits. Cut after cut, our strength waned. Yet we persisted.
For what?
Suddenly, the ever-encroaching ranks of the brutes got flanked by Ltd. Kristof and what was left of his division. The screamers fell back far enough for Kristoff to reach us.
"Get the damn maps and run!" Kristoff said to us. "You two are our best, if you can't get those blasted maps out of this mess no one can!"
"Kristof -" I started.
"No speeches, Zeal! I am fine with my lot! You just get those maps, got it?"
Gildain grabbed my arm, nearly hauling me away. Kristof was a good soldier. A good man.
And he was going to perish with the rest.
"Snap out of it, Zeal! Come on, the maps!"
Everything was a blur. We were running. Shouts, and screams, and streaks all around us. I realized I was delirious. My precision vanished before I knew it, and my steps faltered. Gildain was always there to pick me up, however.
Until an arrow got him in the shoulder.
"Go!" He pushed me.
I became like the berserkers. Undisciplined and unfocused. I raged. Letting my skill run rampant through the... through the...
Where was I? Not important. I have to move forward.
The maps... the maps were the only thing that was important...
For my people. For my brethren.
For Gildain!
I.... rest...
No! Have... to.... move...
So... hot...
...
"It's ok brother." Gildain's voice said. "Let go."
Gildain, Gildain was dead. Did... did I fail? It was too late... achieved... nothing...
At the end...
"We will be... but... faint... shadows..."
"Rest now, my friend."
...
..
.
"Papa, papa. Big man!" The little boy pointed at the statue of the hero.
"Yes, son. That is Zeal. A warrior of great renown." The father smiled.
"What did he do again dear?" His wife arched an eyebrow.
"He is the single-handed reason why we have a nation today. Come on honey, you should know that...."
"I know that you dummy, I just can't remember why."
"Bug man!" The little boy jumped up and down.
"Yes, a really big man son, few of them left..."
The plaque under the statue read:
But a faint memory. But a memory nonetheless.
This is the first draft of the story. Written by Jovan Gjorgjiev, ©️ 2023.
Obligatory shout-out to the 🍕PIZZA🍕 gang, 🤙 gang. 🤙
This piece is dedicated to @penyaircyber for giving me the inspiration for the first line. 😁👊
Forgive the rushed ending, but anything else would've required a lot more words. And I do mean A LOT. So it is what it is. If I do an expansion of the story some day I'll be sure to rectify that.
👊 Follow me on my HIVE blog 👊
Cover image source.
Have a great start to your week! 🙌
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