duncadda

As I slowly ease my body down into a comfortable sitting position, resting my back against a stone in the process, I trust my sword into the moist sand next to me, before releasing my feeble grip on the hilt. For the last time, I hear myself whisper softly as I study the sword that has followed me for so long. With a heavy sigh I turn my head from it and stare at the spectacle displayed in front of me. It's quite stunning and beautiful to behold.

There was an ominous aura of melancholy on the streets of Bancross in the days after the battle. The worried faces and itching sword-arms had been quietly replaced by tear-filled eyes, hunched backs and feet dragging on the ground behind them. While our dead could be counted in a handful, the pained and wounded were more plentiful; some with missing limbs, while others got away with only deep cuts and bruises. The east-borne enemy had not fared as well.

We said farewell to our kinsmen last night with the lighting of pyres in the center of the village near the mead-hall. I knew some of the fallen by name and face, but not intimately. I feel selfish for being thankful for this. Others are heartbroken. And while I have had my share of being broken with grief, I still can't muster a good reason why I should not suffer as they do.

Foolish thoughts, I know. 

It is time to move on from the battle, for all of Bancross. 

It is time for me to set in motion those actions that will see my village regain its grasp on a normal, everyday life.