Elthia's Endeavor

Elthia hasn't led a very privileged life. She was poor and orphaned at a young age. The war of a century takes her father from her and ultimately her mother. Revenge is a huge motivator...

The battlefield was strewn with the red of the men’s effort and very few a body breathed the hopefulness of life. Arrows were plunged deeply into the bodies of men and the survivors were gripped with a fear so deep not even their survival could comfort them.

Women rushed out from the safety of the blackened forest to stare into the faces of the fallen men, dreading the familiarity of one of the death-smeared faces. Cries rang out from all corners of the deserted battlefield, a terrible wailing sound that seemed engulfed by enough mourning to rouse the dead men. The mud was dyed scarlet and all the enemy had left behind were smoking shells of bombs and the weapons that had been used to kill so many of their number.

It was a terrible sight to look upon; children grasped in mother’s arms, sobbing at the cold, dead feet of the ones they had known and loved. Elthia had been in their place; she had experienced the horror she never had expected she would have to face. It was a terrible fate to be choked by the cold hand of death, but even worse to feel its presence always, without ever having the satisfaction of it crushing in upon you, putting you out of your misery.

She had received the news of her father’s death when she was only seven. Her childhood was ripped away from her at that point, but for her weak mother, his demise had been the end of her world. She had spent the preponderance of her time wrapped in a thick, wool shawl, sitting by the window, the clouds rolling over Elthia’s tiny little house, refusing to eat, leaving the house for Elthia to uphold.

Her mother died not two months later- of sorrow or starvation Elthia would never know. Since then she had devoted her life to the art of combat, and learned everything that she could in her position.

At the age of fourteen she had gone to join the service, only to be turned away and laughed at by men that didn’t realize their lives would soon be in this small girl’s hands. Elthia was hired as a nurse on the battlefield when she was fifteen. It was a heart-wrenching job to feel required to save somebody you are sure is beyond saving; to have not only their lives in your hands, but the fate of so many families.

With each man that passed away, on the field, or in the medical tent, Elthia’s despair grew deeper and deeper. She yearned to die a hero’s death, as her father had; she yearned for the glory of marching into battle, but most of all she yearned to avenge all the pain and suffering she had endured since the war had begun so many years ago.

The men who had stayed off the field for the day began to pile the limp bodies into a large pile of rancid, burning flesh. It was terrible to watch and Elthia turned back into her tent as the screams of the people echoed in her ears.

Elthia slept fitfully that night, nightmares plaguing her sleep incessantly. The tribulations of life were relentless in their torture of her, and not even through sleep could she escape it.

The next morning rose up from the ground like a blossom, shining, the smell of death sequestered by morning dew and evergreen trees. The birds hung like bluebells on the branches and you could feel the humidity filling every pore of your body, overwhelming your senses. The pollen of the flowers growing near the edge of the forest was so strong you could taste it’s thick sweetness. However, the perfection never lingered for very long.

The camp was in a state of perfect peace, the likes of which could not be disturbed.

Soldier and medic alike sat in a tight, quiet circle, their lips tingling with speech, but yet no words were spoken. It was the kind of silence that is to be expected, and not dreaded, with nothing but the deepest grief about it.

As the day progressed people got back to their jobs and a type of easy-going, flexibility befell them and the small army worked and thought as one. They were all exhausted, preventing them from worrying about anything other than the organization of their remaining supplies.

The sun rose higher in the sky, the blood-red color draining out of it, producing memories of bright summers, and blissful times where sadness was a mystery. Elthia was reminded of a particular summer when her father had been home, before he had been drafted into the army.

He was still a clean, shaven man with a smile that lit up a room and he had come home from his work as a clerk with the first paycheck he had received in weeks.

It was more money than their family had ever had and her father was so thrilled that he brought them out for a special dinner as celebration. Elthia had eaten like a king and when their bellies were full they went home to their tiny house and slept through the night and well into morning.

It was a very tiny moment in the entirety of her life, but Elthia thought of it as one of her most important ones. The only time she could ever remember being truly happy.

Elthia dwelled on these thoughts and smiled for the first time in months, but the smile slowly slipped as she remembered what could have been. She tried to picture her future, but all she could see was red. Blood red.

Then the incursion began.

The enemy attacked relentlessly; As bombs exploded all around camp, suitcases were blown open. Screams rang out sharp and clear. It was then that Elthia realized how merciless the enemy was as she layed on her back, aching from the force she had been slammed to the ground by. Eight years worth of bitter sorrow pulled her to her feet, urging her towards destiny’s inescapable grasp.

She seized a sword and charged through the smoke, which blinded her momentarily. This was the moment her spirit had yearned for. Vengeance for her lost childhood.

The childhood that had been ripped away by the ineluctable hardships that had loomed over Elthia the entirety of her life. She felt the imposing fulfillment of her ambitions creeping closer and closer. With each step she could feel it coursing through her body. Stronger every moment. Elthia plunged into the sea of armored men, her passion fueling her into the destruction of hundreds, and not once did her resolve falter. She felt blood plastered onto her body, both her own and the blood of other men. It poured down the side of her face and arms, urging her into superlative vehemence.

And, as she fell beneath the profusion of soldiers, she smiled, for she had found resolve in the grave face of death. 

Author's Note

I really tried to kick up the figurative language and connotation in my writing style. What did you think of the tone? Did I manage the short story length well?