Dark Chronicle 7: The White Feather

aThe White Feather b

WF It drifted slowly to the ground, letting the breeze guide it. It fell into the pool of hot blood. FW

Dead and dying leaves flutter in the breeze.

          The grass is coated in a thick layer of fresh blood.

                   The ashes of war.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Tick, Tack.

I can’t get up.

          I’m too weak to do it on my own.

                   But I will keep fighting.

                             I must.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Tick, Tack.

Small flames still flicker,

          Taunting me.

                   Reminding I may have won this battle,

                             But that I haven’t won the war.

                                      Not yet.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Tick, Tack.

I cannot walk,

          I cannot run,

                   I cannot crawl,

                             So I drag myself.

                                      Through the blood and ashes.

           For this is all that is left of my life,

                     At least here.

                              I have to find the rest of it.

   For there is nothing left here.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Tick, Tack.

A hand reaches out.

          Strong and steady,

                   Kind and gentle.

                             I lock hands with him and he pulls me up.

                                      He lets me lean against him.

           He hugs me.

                     Trying to comfort me.

                              For he knows me better than anyone else.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Tick, Tack.

He knew me before I even wanted to know him.

          He loved me even when I ignored him.

                    He loved me even when I disowned him.

                             He watched over me when I wasn’t paying attention.

                                      He protected me when I didn’t want him to.

           He welcomed me in when I shut him out.

Bim, Bam.

          Tick, Tack.

                   Bim, Bam.

                             Split, Splat.

He pointed to a charred and dead forest just beyond the edges of the battlefield,

          A forest destroyed and forgotten.

                   No, he’s not pointing at the forest,

                             He’s pointing at a pool of blood.

                                      A pool of hot boiling blood.

A lone dove soars above the silent battlefield,

          Its sleek pallid feathers reflect the small blazing pyres below.

                   A distinct snow white feather falls from the pallid bird’s sky pelt.

                             It drifted slowly to the ground, letting the breeze guide it.

                                      It fell into the pool of hot blood.