Prose


This started out just a bit last night, a ghost of a thought in my head.  This morning it still lingered.  Its just a bit of a piece that I will work in later perhaps into a story.

She stood in the winter sun, like a tree that has weathered many storms: tall, firm, and strong. She looked neither left nor right in her passing, but ahead, to something that no one else could see. Her footsteps were sure, and so was the path of her glory.

She was our queen of battles, the warrior that held the leash on the dogs of slaughter. At times she released them fully, her regiments free to fill the enemy with fear. Other situations required that she held them back, against even her own desires. At no moment did she waste the lives of her troops, her people. Yes, this was war and many died; however none died in vain.

Even in loss, she found a margin of victory. Yet, this war raged for far longer than even she expected. Generations had seen nothing but war. She had been careful to keep the troops fresh, requiring that older troops go home for a time to rest, return to their families, and train new troops. So many returned to the lines after they had raised families, it made her weep at times to know that fathers and sons, mothers and daughters fought side by side, at her command.

She no longer slept at night, she had no need to. Many human needs had been forgotten to her. She spent the long nights, silent in her thoughts, communing with a world no man knew. It had predicted her future long ago, her rise to glory, but it had also predicted her fall, her failure and the destruction of all that she loved. She had not wanted this, she had wanted a peaceful life. She had tried to hide from it, but fate had found her and thrust the sword of war into her hands.

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