#implied war

"Impressive, no?" The general swept an arm over the forces below. "All yours to command."

The prince nodded, calculating what could be done with that much firepower. In the wrong hands, nations could be toppled, revenge won and thrones secured. All in the wrong hands.

She looked up at the clean blue sky, the wind on her face was pleasantly cold, she untied her long hair and let the wind move it freely.

She took a deep breath, making sure to take the sight in, then she looked back down, to the field, battlefield, the cold wind was traveling with the blood smell as passenger.

She saw the blood and the bodies, she saw the survivers and the ones breathing their last breathe.

She saw the soldiers unable to recognize if the one at their side was friend or foe, not that it would change anything, they had no more strength to fight.

She felt her hair touching her bare back when the wind stopped, and as if the world stopped she couldn't see anything, almost anything.

Not the sky or the blood, not the dead or the dying. Not even the ones too weak to fight.

She could only see one person, she could only feel the sword in her hands, she wasn't too weak to fight, neither was the person staring at her.

It was their fight, they dragged the soldiers into it to die for someone else's fight, but it will end the same way it started, only the two of them.

Prompts by @oc-growth-and-development

By Snapdragon

            The maple tree in my backyard is twisted, and mostly stripped of its bark from a lightning strike. The lightning strike peeled it in a storm, and the wind blew it into my window. It was a particularly bad storm. My chamomile tea is still warm as I take a sip of it. It’s slightly sweet from the added honey, and the flavor reminds me of flowers in early spring. More specifically, it reminds me of the daffodils that sprout around the old twisted tree to tell me that spring is here. Abandoning my tea, I stand and stretch. The path to the door is familiar, and the air from outside is crisp and fresh. The birds sing; a welcome sound compared to the quiet of winter.

            The grass is patched yellow, still not fully recovered from the heavy snows that covered it in the throes of winter. When I reach the tree, the smooth wood underneath my hand feels as alien as it is beautiful. The roughness of the bark was enjoyable and familiar, but the bare wood is a welcome change. The bark will not return in time, too much of it was taken off for that, but there’s still some on the lower left branches.

            Thin green leaves are sprouting where the daffodils will grow. I lower myself to sit next to them, and enjoy the birdsong. The odd, square concrete slab the length of my feet is as mysterious as ever. I’ve my own theories on what it may be, from a pet’s grave to a discarded part from the house’s construction, but there isn’t a clear answer. The square is rough and cold, and feels a little dusty. It doesn’t belong here, among the flowers and under the tree. Yet, it has been here for many years. It was here when this house belonged to my parents, and probably when my grandparents lived here.