Before You Start A War

Chapter Thirty-Four

Every time he takes a shot, another person takes their place. It seems like there's no end to the waves of men coming at them, but that's never stopped him before.

Did he once march alongside these men? We're these men in his old company? Did he train with any of them?

Some of the men he originally fought with are already long gone. Maybe they got their papers and we're allowed to return home. Maybe they died of dysentery. Maybe they got captured and sent to war camps or were held hostage for days, weeks, months. Maybe they died on the battlefield and, if they were lucky, we're sent back to their families for proper burial.

Some of them might've been left in the place they died. Some of them might have been stripped of their gear and left to rot.

As he downs another man, he wonders what his fate will be. Will he be sent home? Will he be left to rot?

He'll never know, as another man steps up in his place.

The sound of the drums never falters. The gunshots never seem to stop. Cannons fire in the distance, plumes of smoke and gunpowder flying in the air.

The loud noises of the battle reverberate in Niall's head, shaking his brain, twisting at the back of his skull.

What would it take, he wonders, to forget these sounds? When will they stop being so familiar?

When will going through the motions of loading a gun, firing a gun, turning his head away from the gunpowder, holding his breath for a moment, and feeling victorious as another target falls, not be familiar?

He moves forward again, and he's on the field. No longer can he hide behind trees and bushes, propping his rifle up on tree stumps and roots. No longer can he solely rely on his shots to save him.

Men are across the battlefield, marching closer. There's rows of men in front of himself, and he can hardly distinguish which side they're on.

Blue. Grey. Red.

While powder permeates the air.

A man in front of him falls to the ground, and he steps forward again. Men are falling like flies, but he keeps moving forward.

More men are falling into their ranks behind him, emerging from the trees.

He wonders how many men on his side have died.

He wonders how many men on the opposite have died.

He wonders how many people have died in this entire war.

Over the course of four years, he wonders how many people signed up for a fight, and never were able to return home.

No one thought this fight would go on for as long as it has. No one imagined how hard it would be.

Niall can hear the sound of someone falling behind him. He wonders if they'll ever get up again.

But he doesn't glance back.

He reloads his gun. Takes aim. Fires.

Through the dust and the smoke and the gunpowder, he can't tell if it hits. There's too many people. Too many bodies. Too much red.

But the drum continues. The gunshots continue. The cannons continue.

The two sides are getting closer together, or have they already collided? Are sabers being drawn? Fists being used?

He can't tell. He takes another shot. Someone falls. He can't tell if it's from him or something else.

The drums continue.

Familiar. So familiar.

Too familiar.

Someone else falls behind him. This time, he does look back.

He doesn't recognize the man that fell.

He turns forward again.

"Niall!" He jumps slightly at the call, and assumes it's Louis telling him to move up again. He takes a step, but they call again, "Niall!"

So he looks back again. It's Harry.

"Fall back!" He yells, and Niall hesitates.

Didn't Louis tell him to move up? Why are they falling back? Are they surrendering? Why would they? They just got here. They have plenty more men here to fight.

They could win.

This could end.

So Niall steps forward again. There's no reason to fall back. The battle is forward, falling back would be cowardly.

There's no reason to surrender. They're so close.

So close to the end.

So close to a finale.

So close to returning home.

"Niall! Fall back!" Harry calls again, but Niall ignores him.

There's a line of men in front of him. Cannons are going off. Men are falling. In front of him, behind him, to the sides, men are already on the ground.

But he's not, so he'll keep fighting.

Because that's why he signed up.

To fight for Elliot.

To fight for freedom.

To fight for equality.

To fight for justice.

To fight.

To fight.

To fight.

So he fought, and he fought, and he nearly got killed, but he still fought.

He fell in love, but he still fought.

He nearly got killed again, but he still fought.

He's still fighting.

He won't stop fighting.

He didn't start this war, he wasn't there when it started.

But he'll be there when it ends.

And then he'll go home.

That's his last thought when he takes another shot, and can't see if it lands, because of the dust and smoke and gunpowder.

That's his last thought when he feels something pierce his chest, on the right. It's thick, heavy, and breaks into pieces when it enters his skin.

That's his last thought as he falls to his knees, his musket falling out of his hand before he can get another shot off.

That's his last thought as he allows the weight of his head and torso pull him completely to the ground, lying in the grass and dirt speckled with red.

That's his last thought as he rolls onto his back, looking up at the sun and clouds and black and white smoke mixing in the sky.

That's his last thought.