I wasnât going to post this anywhere, it wasnât long enough and I donât think it fits anywhere, but then I realised that the only person who has read it is my old (in both senses of the word), shitty therapist and we canât have that.Â
It is a summerâs night like those remembered from childhood, when long, sunny days transformed into nights of endless sunsets, the darkness never quite getting a hold of the world.
As his feet follow a half-remembered, long since overgrown path, he can just about see them; two boys, rushing along the path in front of him, hands outstretched to feel the tops of the barley against the palms of their hands as they run through it, the stems swaying as they force their way through them.
He follows the two boys, the drying barley whispering as he wades through it, his muscles shifting under what heâs carrying. As he walks, he hears the shrieks of birds off in the distance behind him, no doubt descending on the feast left for them.
The boys ahead of him crest the small hill on which the barley grows, the rays of the setting sun hitting them as they do, shining on them.
They disappear out of sight, running down the other side of the hill now. At this point, theyâre racing in earnest. He knows this, despite no longer being able to see them, just as he knows that the older of the two will lose the race, will be left behind as his brother bolts away towards the water.
 His feet follow the familiar path, stepping automatically over roots that no one has ever bothered to remove, even now. Once he reaches the top of the hill he comes to a halt, stopping in the same spot as the brothers moments, years, before, adjusting the burden heâs carrying in his arms. In front of him, far out beyond the field of barley and a row of tall, windswept birch trees, the sea glitters in the rays of the setting sun.
He can no longer see the brothers, but when he closes his eyes he can just about hear them over the whispering barley and the distant sound of the aftermath behind him. The sound of children, laughing and shouting as they play in the calm water, shielded from the currents and the waves by a crescent of rocks stands in fantastic contrast to the harsh sounds still ringing in his ears.
Slowly, as if in a dream, he crosses the remainder of the field, his path through the barley disappearing behind him as he steps into the shade under the trees. From where he is now standing, he can see the still, glimmering water of the shielded pool where they used to spend long, warm summer days.
A sudden gust of wind causes the surface of the water to ripple, bringing the smell of salt and seaweed to his nose, pulling him forward, onwards.
 The earth beneath his feet become rocky as he moves closer to the sea, eventually giving way entirely to cliffs, and as the slope steepens, he stumbles a bit, almost falling.
He feels unbalanced, uneven, as he moves closer to the water. Not so much in the physical sense, although his left arm feels oddly numb in front of him, as much as in the emotional one. It is as if although his brain is yet to understand what has happened, his soul knows, and it is hurting. They have won the battle, the number of dead enemies on the battlefield he has left behind is evidence of that, but he has lost the war. The limp body in his arms, the almost unbearable weight of it bringing him down, how could anything be worse than this?
âIsnât this fantastic Brother? Fighting side by side just like in the old days!â Over the clanging of metal against metal, the neighing of horses and screams of the dying, he can hear his brotherâs delighted voice as the younger of the two moves with ease through the carnage, ducking and twisting to avoid the enemyâs blades.
Gently placing his burden on the sand, he pauses, looking out towards the horizon. The sun is setting in earnest now, part of the glowing orb already swallowed by the sea, and soon it will be dark.
Slowly, every movement taking a tremendous effort, he begins to remove his armour. Piece after piece falls from his body, sand sticking to the blood coating the metal as they land. By the time itâs all off, the sun has set almost completely, painting the sky and the sea a brilliant red.
He wants to stop right there, wants to remain where he is, frozen in time when heâs still able to deny everything that has happened today. If he never turns around, perhaps he can still pretend that things are the way theyâre supposed to be.
The enemy, coming at them from all sides, have forced them together, standing with their backs to each other as they fight. He can feel his brotherâs warmth, hear his laboured breathing as he fights off opponent after opponent. It feels natural, as if thereâs never been any animosity between them, as if all theyâve ever done is fight side by side, fight for the same cause, fight the same enemy. That, of course, could not be further from the truth, but all that matters is now, here.
Despite it being the last thing he really wants to do, he turns his back to the sea, knowing what he has to do but being unwilling to do it.
âBrother.â The voice is so familiar, yet so very different when he hears it next, seeming to drown out all other sounds in an instance. Fighting off the nearest opponents, he turns, and as he does so, his entire world crumbles. His brother stands there, dagger still in hand, pressing one hand to his chest, where a broken sword sticks out.
âNo.â He refuses to believe what he sees, refusing to even begin to understand what it means. âNo, keep fighting. Weâll win this.â
They did win, but he would have lost a million times over if it would bring his brother back. If it meant he didnât have to carry his brotherâs limp body out into the ocean, he would lose every war to come. If it meant he got to look into those green eyes once more, if it meant he got to be the victim of one more stupid prank, if he got to have another stupid argument with his brother, he would give the world.
But he canât, and no amount of praying to any god is going to change that. So he picks up his brotherâs body, feeling his head come to rest against his shoulder, matted, bloodied hair tickling his cheek, and takes a deep breath. As he walks into the sea, allowing the salty water to wash the blood from his broken, bruised skin, welcoming the stinging pain. Once he has gotten beyond the protective stone crescent, the currents start tugging at his body, at his brotherâs body, eager to drag them both under.
And despite it being the last thing he ever wants to do, as he releases the grip of his brother, feeling the strong current pull him away from him for the very last time, he prays to gods he knows does not exist that it will take him away too.
