Snippets

To The Future

She yelled cheerfully, raising a glass even as her heart felt dark and empty. 

Beside her, friends raised there glasses as well, some wiping at their eyes or letting their smiles grow wider as their eyes grew clouded.

They were here to celebrate, the war was done. The mad king had fallen, but he wasn't the only cold body that day. Not the only cold body that week.

That month.

That year.

That decade of fighting.

That year ticking off an eleventh one.

But he was dead now, ashes in a vase in a cold, dead cemetery. They were not monsters like him, and so he had a final place to dwell. 

Some would spit into the ash, others close to shattering it but turning away spitting they had better to do. But for now the heros celebrated.

Their whoops and hollers mixed with tears and choked sobs. Some held silent mugs, others stared wistfully and muttered silent words to silent souls.

But no one judged. No one laughed as the man that was scarred and hulking suddenly fell from his place of drinking cheerfully into a whimpering mess. They held his shoulders, and they cried with him. 

When he slammed a fist into the ground and sobbed, they nodded with fierce gazes. 

When the woman shuddered and looked silently at her wrists, there were those to lead her away and whisper comforts. She was not shunned to remain quiet with her gaze held on a wicked blade. 

They were heros, but god damn it, they were survivors above all else.

Men, women, those that were neither, those that were interchanging, no one cared.

They all felt it.

The dark mixed with light as two brothers not of blood but love held each other close, laughing at memories and letting the tears still fall. 

The women and men gazed at each, nodding. The children knew the look, and the growing people shifted to other things, too bold to let their emotions show. But they'd eventually search for the comfort and grasp for warmth and reassurance at night when dreams told lies, when places told memories, when hearts clenched.

And by all the stars above, they all hated it. But they all needed it. 

When they speak of war, they speak of the pain and loss. They don't wish to glorify something so cold and malicious. When they tell stories, there are shudders and sorrow for both sides, not for the victor.

The heros know some that died didn't deserve it. The man trained in blades and blood saw the tears as the other fighting knew he was no match.

There was no joy, just surviving. They both knew it. They both accepted it. 

When the soldier shot down the other, not knowing they're story, there was a twin shudder as the bullet tore.

There is no joy in death. These were celebrations for the lives lived, not for the people killed.  

The heros, living, danced and laughed.

But they cried and wished it had been them instead. Some admit it, others let it pass fleeting. But it was there, a cold wind in a smoldering desert. 

There is no joy in killing. There is a thrill to know one lived, sure. But to acknowledge that blood truly, to step into that mind, there is nothing but a chill. There is excitement to breath, but the heros know that for the lungs that fill, many others had stilled.

The war was over, but there is also a rebuilding that must occur. The heros knew this, so for now they kicked back drinks, swallowed down their pride, and laughed while tears trickled down scarred and bruised faces.  

They don't stop to tell you often in life how brutal war can be, they may show those who died or who won, but there is much more and much less. Let me tell you though, to boil it down, it is all just survival. If the war is physical or mental, long or short, pained or brisk, it takes the acknowledge that there is a chance you might not make it, that allows you to decide if you wish to try. 

A deep breath, a bared smile, it doesn't take much in war.

One just has to try. Try for those left behind, try for those waiting, try for those to come. 

Try for yourself. 

So as one hero to another, try to survive, please just try.