Song of Glory

This is a short story I had to write as a Term Paper for college. It's six pages long and I wrote it in three hours and a half roughly. I hope you like it and I expect comments.

Enjoy.

“Five years. We have fought for five years, just to end up here on this hill. Five years which undid all we previously accomplished. All the dreams of my father and of his predecessor, simply gone. Gone and vanished in the midst of canon smoke,” Though his words showed defeat, his broken spirit still regained strength and fire. The same fire which had led him to the battlefront. His words might have shown weakness, but the truth was that beneath the rags which used to be his uniform and beneath his battered body a fervent soul as brave as any lay preparing for the tragic unavoidable end. “Five years.”

He beheld his companions, a mere twenty score of men, not soldiers but men. The soldiers were by now asleep in the everlasting sleep of death in the battlefields. They lay with a blank stare which defied fate and death; broken corpses which belied the fire that had driven them while alive to the lines of battle, eager to defend their nation, their birthright. Yet now, he, who commanded them all, whose figure would arouse many discussions in the future now prepared to make a grand finale, with nothing more than four hundred men. Broken promises, shattered dreams and dissipated hopes ran through his mind now. His hands were stained with the blood of a nation. A nation he had sworn to protect and guide to a new era. A nation he had forged to become a war machine. A nation he had led to its demise.

But it had not been his fault, had it? He knew this affair was a trap unto which he had blindly fallen. He had been set up by the neighbouring nations; by the jealous republic and monarchy which had watched the advances made by his people with jealousy, envy, and hatred. It had not been his fault, this as had not been his fault. It couldn’t be. Yet, he felt it so.

The deaths, the blood, the suffering and the despair overwhelmed him. News of every town and fort which had fallen had reached his ears. The hellish visions of men slaughtering children, raping women and murdering pregnant women with the sole purpose of stopping the unborn child to live had gotten to his ears, and they tormented him. Even though he had not seen them, they were there every dusk to torment his dreams. The hospital set aflame with all its patients still inside came to him every night, in every dream. The cries of unborn children, orphaned sons and daughters and widowed wives were around him, during wake times as well as in slumber. The death of a nation hung above his soul and clasped on to his conscience. A conscience he could not keep quiet any more. It had been his fault.

He could still hear those wise words said to him, that wise council which could have avoided all this; “Use the quill, not the sword”. Yet, could he have avoided it all? He knew about the oath made by the conquering armies against him; against his nation. It was no mistake, and nothing had been left to chance. All had been plotted; the overthrowing of his governing ally; the prohibition of his troops to pass by foreign lands. His death had been planned, his foolishness and rashness foreseen, this war, desired; a war which in truth was genocide. How else could this massacre be explained, the slaughtering of innocent children be seen as a necessary evil. He had heard the orders of not letting a single male a day older than twelve alive. That wasn’t justice, that wasn’t civilization. That wasn’t even human.

Humans, they were not humans. He had heard and read about such atrocities, but never seen them, never felt them this close, this real. There had to be something more behind this battle campaign. He felt it, he knew it. He wasn’t fighting humans, but demons; demons who above all sought his death and the undoing of his people. Demons from whom he could not hide for they were in his mind as in his surroundings. They whispered doom into his mind, advised folly and found merriment in the chaos he had caused. It was them who had caused this, it was them who had issued those orders and murdered those people. It was the demons, the creatures from the abyss who thought of nothing else but evil and death. It wasn’t his fault, it was the demons. This war was a mere reflection of something grander which took place in the spirits’ realm. This had been caused by them, but with his aid. He had been their puppet, and even maybe still was. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but he caused it; and he could stop it. He could bring the war to an end.

Yet this war would only end with the death of his country-men, the death of his people; with his own death. That’s what they wanted, his death. His life had already cost the lives of so many people. Every breath he drew was a crime. He shouldn’t be alive, not at this cost. He had to be the one to die, not those school children who had done nothing yet gave everything to defend him. No, not him, but their country. Those children had painted beards and gone out to their slaughter with bottles and knives to defend their country from the empire of the west. He didn’t matter here, not even for the invaders. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I anything, the allies adored him for he was stupid enough to fall into their ploy, to help them fulfil their plans. It was, after all, his fault. He was nothing more than a puppet in a grander scheme; a means to an end.

And now he was here, at the end of all things. Here, on this hill with a handful of men, women, and children. The last resistance was assembled to make a last glorious stand against his forty five hundred pursuers. He had fought with all his might as long as he could muster, and though there were some glorious victories, it still had not been enough. It had never been enough. He should have foreseen this, all it took was a little common sense; yet he didn’t see it. Ha had been blinded by his pride, he had paid no heed to all numerical odds, all odds by that matter and declared war on two nations at the same time. He had doomed his country. He had killed his countrymen; he had killed those children and women. He had killed his nation.

If all it took to stop this madness was his death, then die he would. He would take his own life and offer it to the allies; he would take it and give it away. He would drive his own sabre through his chest and thus take away the pleasure of killing him away from his pursuers. He would do it, but that would also mean spitting on all the lives spent to save his. It meant disregarding the lives of the soldiers given up willingly as to ensure his, if for only a few more days. He couldn’t be that coward, he couldn’t be that despicable. His live had been afforded by blood. People had died to save him, for him and in his name. His live was now burdened by all those lives, and he owed them the same. He would die for them just as they had died for him. It was his fault, but that didn’t excuse him from his duties. He still had follower, he still had strength and still drew breath, and as long as he did, he would fight, fight to the bitter end!

“Troops!” he called, and saw how valiant men and children gathered around him with bold looks in their eyes, filled with despair, yet the fire still burned. He could still see, still feel in them he fire of their motto, the fire of love for their nation shining weakly, yet shining still. Victory or Death was their battle cry, their creed; the belief. Victory or Death was what drove them, even though they knew that for them only the latter option awaited in each new day, they would not cower. There was no other option for them; just Victory or Death!

He could not let them down. If he were to die, then die he would, but in a glorious blaze of glory, making a last stand worthy of the Greek legends he had heard and read about. He would make a last stand similar to Leonidas’ at the battle of Thermopylae. His last stand would be remembered and sung about in days to come; if any who could relate to it were left to sing it. He would write the lyrics of a new song using his blood as ink and this red earth as parchment.

“On this day, fate will be encountered head on! We will not falter in this 1^st of March. If death is to greet us at nightfall, then it shall be met with bare chests held high. You have no reason to cry or to be sad about, for we have done more than any for our land; we have suffered more than any and endured just as much, and for it we will receive our reward in this life or the other. If any is to feel ashamed it is the invading nations for their cowardice and evil. History will be on our side; history and time will be our advocates and their judges. We will be proven just, we will endure. This is not the end of our nation for we are a race of iron steeple. If we are to die, then die we should; yet not as losers, but as victors! We will not surrender since for us, surrender has never been an option. Victory or death waits, and both are equally glorious if the battle was fought with honour and strength. Victory or Death!”

The troops echoed the shout, and the fierce roar of their ancestors’ race was heard once more through out the forest. They had a warrior ancestry and the future of a nation depended on them. Not on them living or dying, but on them battling, for they were not fighting to save lives, but to save a spirit; their nation’s spirit. Generations to come would look back at them, at their commander and understand their sacrifice. Their descendants would draw bravery and inspiration from their sacrifice as to never surrender or bow their heads to adversity. They understood that their sacrifice, all they could achieve was not for them, for their fate had been sealed; but for their sons, their grandsons and all to come after this day. They understood that what they did during their time on this Earth, echoed for all eternity in the consequences of their actions. They understood what little do; that if they did not do it, no one would.

He issued the battle formations; after all, he was the Mariscal of the republics army. After all was ready he left the battlefront and joined his son. Though only 17, he had already been decorated as a Colonel. As they met, they retreated to a more strategically located place with a few personal guards. He left the battle, not on his own will to preserve his life, but on the plea of his knights.

They had scarcely walked for a couple of minutes when they heard the battle start. The Mariscal stopped and turned around, facing the battle sounds. He knew what he had to do; he knew that already too much blood had been spent on his account, spilled on him. The lives of hundreds of thousands cried for justices, a cry which would never allow him to sleep.

“Father, why do we stop?” asked his son as he approached him. The commander placed both his hands on his eldest son’s shoulders and gently answered.

“Protect your mother and your brothers. Go, do as I say.” Upon seeing hesitation and doubt in his son’s eyes, he cut the answer from his colonel’s throat “Colonel, obey your Mariscal. Protect the first lady and her son’s. That is an order!”

The young Colonel, tearful, at last understood, saluted and departed. He had barely run ten meters when he heard two single gun shots. He hadn’t noticed it, but the strife sounds had died a few seconds ago. He heard vaguely muttering in the direction he had come from. He felt paralysed. He had to go back, die with his father, and protect his commander.

“I DIE WITH MY HOMELAND!” reached his ears, clearly and distinctively. He understood. At last he fully understood and began running at the top of his lungs. A single shot pierced the air a couple of seconds later and froze his blood; yet, he did not stop. He understood now; at last he fully understood.