Blood of the Marshlands

The day is slowly creeping towards the end. Beneath the brooding storm, a russet sun sinks beneath the brow of the last hill. Its woeful light sheds itself through the darkening clouds, and to the west the world is set alight with a fury of colors that spreads and smudges itself through the horizon. The storm has passed for the time being, or so it seems, and the last bits of cold rain drip drop by drop from the emerald stems and leaves of the plants. The world around seems to heave a sigh, and a woe begotten heritage of birth seems to settle like a thick blanket throughout the dense atmosphere. The sun may be setting low beneath the hill, but the war is rising in the east, where for many days and many nights has a battle raged on in the endless marshlands. The storm may have settled past these forgotten lands, but a new kind of storm is roiling in the minds of many.

He is nothing more than a poor farm boy. His family has toiled this land for many a generation, and each month his father must journey many miles on horse and cart to sell what their hard labor has produced. But they are struggling this year- the marshlands have spread and sunk into their soil, and the plants and earth is failing them. There will be no crops this year. To survive, the farmer's son must hunt in the marshlands. Fear is spreading throughout the lands, however. War draws closer to the settlements. But the farm is settled far from civilization- news of the kingdoms' constant squabbling and bickering has not reached their plaintive ears.

And so the farmer's young son must hunt. He is eager and nervous because he knows that if he does not succeed, his sick little sister, his worrisome mother, his hard working father and the baby will all starve. But the son is not afraid for himself. Heedless of whatever creatures might lurk within the marshlands, he continues. He knows he must- his family counts on him.

For hours, he trudges through what seems like the very same landscaping. The trees grow thicker until both sky and light are gone from sight. There seems little hope that he will find anything, for he has seen no creatures yet and the water and sludge are high from the storm. But still he forges on, bent on saving the lives of the family that cares for him. However, he stops soon, for he hears the sounds of battle up ahead. When movement through the thick vines and trees shows a squirmish, he hides behind a tree, for he knows that he is no fighter, but a lowly farm boy. For an hour it seems to continue, and when finally the noise fades away, his world has grown darker still. He takes a deep breath, fearful of what he might see and looks down to obtain a grip upon his nerves. And there- this is when he sees within the water a thin trickle of something dark. He cannot fathom what it might be, and disregards thinking over it. He pushed away from his hiding spot, wading through the thick sludge to where first he had heard the sounds of battle.

He does not think that it could have truly been a real battle, but now as he pushes aside a curtain of leaves, he sees what it truly was- a war. All around, corpses sink into the marshlands, clothed in black leather. Except for one- one body is garbed in silver platemail, distinct for all that the marsh had stuck to the metal. The farmer's son sucks in his breath, willing himself to be courageous with what he should do. Instead, he passes the black clothed corpses to pause immediately at the one in silver, bending down of one knee to place a hand over the corpse's mouth. Not a corpse. However faint the detection might be, the boy knows that this man is still alive- no, no man. He sees now that he has stumbled upon a wounded elf. He grimaces to see the arrows that have found their mark at his waist, wedged in between the fold of the platemail. But he is still alive. That is enough for the farmer's son.

He knows he will not be able to bring home any food for his family, but he knows that the right thing to do is to help the elf. Slowly, he manages to work him out of the muck, and begins to wrap his arm over his shoulder when an arrow lands solidly in the tree beside him, the feathered end quivering from the force of the impact. The elf slips from his arms, slumping stolidly at the base of the tree. The farmer's son looks for the source of the arrow, finding it when a man in black leather steps from behind a tree. No- he is not a man. He sees now that he is another elf, his dark hair pushed back from his eyes that were trained now onto him.

The farmer's son is just as quick to move out of the way as another arrow sinks into the muck where last he stood. He is not a fighter, but he knows that he is a survivor, and his hunting bow is in his hands before the elf has knocked another arrow. But before he can shoot his own arrow, the enemy has caught him, and their arrow sinks into his shoulder. He cries out, but in the darkness of the suffocating marshlands, no one can hear him save for one. But his enemy does not care if he hurts him- that is the point of the game. The farmer's son grimaces, breaking the arrow shaft for movement. He has one shot, and decides that it is time to make it count. His enemy is too busy setting a new arrow to notice the farmer's son taking aim. He has practiced many years with the hunting bow, and though he is slow, nothing is stopping him from making his mark. Hoping that this arrow with fly true, he lets go of the taught bowstring.

The arrow finds its mark in the elf's throat. The farmer's son cannot believe that he has killed and in fear, he makes his way to his victim. Slowly, he kneels beside the dead elf, whose eyes have opened wide in his moment of shock. With trembling fingers, he closes those fearful eyes and begins to cry. The elf is no longer his enemy- he was never an enemy, just a survivor of a war trying to survive. Afraid that the farmer's son was an enemy, he tried to kill before he himself was killed. But that is war- all war is just survival for the soldiers who fight it, and only to the leaders of the kingdoms that wage it is it a matter of politics. Beyond the marshlands, a russet colored sun takes its final bow, sinking passionlessly beneath the last emerald hillock. The farmer's son may find his way home in the dark just fine, but he is now a survivor of war- a part of him is lost within those marshlands forever.