A wasteland expanding into an orange horizon, a massive structure looming up ahead in ruin, and helmets spiked into tall pipes in front of solid mounds of dirt. It is not the site of a battle or a ceremony - these are mass graves. To count each and every one would be overwhelming, inviting pain like throwing a boulder into the ocean knowing it will sink to the floor. Why bother? It won't change. She must save her strength, in body and spirit.
Each of these graves has a name. Not written, never spoken, but echoing in the memory. Slow and quiet, a list that could go on and on, a name for every soldier, every man, they are putting to rest. Among the graves walk two people. Together they drag the bodies, dig up the ground with their hands and shovels, carefully lay the corpse to rest, and spike a helmet - a soldier's helmet - atop the ground they now rest in.
One of them is a man, bald and harried, who resembles the faces of every man buried to a near identical degree. The other is a woman, long white and blue tails falling from her head, orange skin bruised and patched in the dirt. Neither of them proposed the idea to bury these men - they simply knew they must.
They know every soldier, every man, put in the ground. Though they did not kill these men, and even though these men tried to kill them, none of that matters either. They were good soldiers and they will be treated with respect.
The memory flashes through each of these scenes, from the dragging, the burying, the spiking, never lingering too long. The last fragmented scene looms long over the end of their work. The woman, now cloaked in grey, looks over the graves. It gives her no relief, because she can only think there was more she could have done. If she had done this, or that, maybe they wouldn't have to bury anyone. The most she feels is gratitude for all they had done in their lives, however short they were.
She holds a metal hilt in her hand, heavy in palm, and finishes her lingering gaze with letting it roll off her fingers and fall to the ground with a thud. This is the end. Her footsteps walking away are the last thing heard before the memory ends.
The End - Hornet
A wasteland expanding into an orange horizon, a massive structure looming up ahead in ruin, and helmets spiked into tall pipes in front of solid mounds of dirt. It is not the site of a battle or a ceremony - these are mass graves. To count each and every one would be overwhelming, inviting pain like throwing a boulder into the ocean knowing it will sink to the floor. Why bother? It won't change. She must save her strength, in body and spirit.
Each of these graves has a name. Not written, never spoken, but echoing in the memory. Slow and quiet, a list that could go on and on, a name for every soldier, every man, they are putting to rest. Among the graves walk two people. Together they drag the bodies, dig up the ground with their hands and shovels, carefully lay the corpse to rest, and spike a helmet - a soldier's helmet - atop the ground they now rest in.
One of them is a man, bald and harried, who resembles the faces of every man buried to a near identical degree. The other is a woman, long white and blue tails falling from her head, orange skin bruised and patched in the dirt. Neither of them proposed the idea to bury these men - they simply knew they must.
They know every soldier, every man, put in the ground. Though they did not kill these men, and even though these men tried to kill them, none of that matters either. They were good soldiers and they will be treated with respect.
The memory flashes through each of these scenes, from the dragging, the burying, the spiking, never lingering too long. The last fragmented scene looms long over the end of their work. The woman, now cloaked in grey, looks over the graves. It gives her no relief, because she can only think there was more she could have done. If she had done this, or that, maybe they wouldn't have to bury anyone. The most she feels is gratitude for all they had done in their lives, however short they were.
She holds a metal hilt in her hand, heavy in palm, and finishes her lingering gaze with letting it roll off her fingers and fall to the ground with a thud. This is the end. Her footsteps walking away are the last thing heard before the memory ends.