Killian’s War

Killian woke, his spirit first and then his body. It has always been like this. A mind wanders back from a night of journey only to return in the morning to a life of war.

He grabbed his grey iron helmet. It appeared brighter in the sunrise. Almost white. Almost pure.

It’s another day. Another battle.

His left arm felt numb. Must’ve slept on it. What else could’ve he done? There was little budget for armor in his set, much less for pillows.

Numb is good. Numb is neutral.

He shook it off and walked onto the field.

The Captain had been leading the siege for as long as he can remember. Killian doesn’t know exactly how long. However long it’s been, that’s how long he’s missed his family. His parents. His younger brother who idolized his status. His younger sister who didn’t. He buried his origins, so he wouldn’t forget where he’ll lay. A branding of his birthplace and the name he bears burn into the soles of his feet. Every step he takes is divided between himself and the legacy he carries. When his time has come, they’ll look to the lands he’s walked, the scars he’s caught, and if his feet are attached, if his people have not been pillaged, they’ll ship him home to rest. It has never crossed his mind that he’d die anywhere except on the field of battle. There will be others; it won’t be a lonely way to go.

Kill. It’s even in his name. Killian wondered if all his fathers and mothers were borne out of war. Did they fight as he fought? With no end and no rest?

Not my decision. I’m here for the Captain. For his battle.

Killian padded his armor, sheathed and re-sheathed his sword, and joined his ranks. He banged the broad side of his blade against his shield, as you do, and yelled. His eyes focused forward through the slits of his helmet. All around him, there were other Killians looking through the same slits, the only difference in the colors of their eyes. Some saw a future. Others, an escape. None were stupid enough to see war. If you did, war was not for you.

It’s my move.

The Captain dug in her pocket for the letter. The seal was already broken, but each time she read it, it felt like she was seeing for the first time. It wasn’t. She simply wished it were so she could blame her hesitation on the presence of shock.

“Do not fall back. Take the capitol by sundown.” — General Grey.

That was an order, and captains followed generals’ orders. On the field, she was a leader. In the barracks, she was a pawn. Her liberty rested in her ability to command, but her job security was tied to her willingness to follow. She led her company of about ten foot soldiers, give or take a few daily casualties. Half of her team changed everyday. Did she feel bad that she didn’t know the names of those she commanded before they fell?

Maybe.

But that wasn’t her job. She was to captain, not to sympathize, and she did her job. As you do.

War was easy. Step 1. Kill. Step 2. Live. And like any order, this order was never reversed.

She knew she’d be worth more having killed so many and died so tragically than having killed none but escaped so brilliantly. She knew the most honorable medals went to those who had fallen. She knew what she did mattered more than who she was. If someone else did her role better, she might as well perish. This, she knew.

Knowing what she did — her orders and her responsibilities — she set out to do her job.

They marched and kept banging. The further they went, the more Killians there were. Yelling and banging. Banging and yelling. Even if others had stopped. As you do.

Killian knew how long this skirmish would last. Always the same, dawn to dusk. By sundown, they’d have the capitol, but how they got there was never quite the same.

Some battles went by and Killian wouldn’t notice the wounds he accumulated until he returned to camp, saw his compatriots being buried, and remembered that his day was over. He’d tend to the hurt, pulling off helmets to reveal faces he’d never seen, tearing out arrows he’d never felt from skins he’d never touched. He learned more about his comrades in their death than he had when he marched beside them.

War was slow. Fighting was quick. Death was easy. Killian fought without expectations, battling the enemy on the field and in his spirit until one or the other had retreated. Other days he fought until his Captain told him to stop. Those days felt like war. Killian did not enjoy war.

Blood and mud did not mix.

The Captain had trouble paying attention to war. As she swung her shield between roars of triumph and cries of agony, she pondered how long this battle would last. Would it be a swift skirmish that would pass unnoticed or a savage slaughter bemoaned by generations thereafter?

Questions plagued her mind as she noticed her soldiers, clad in their armor, throwing themselves against anyone who didn’t wear the emblem of the grey rose. Each kill numbed her soul. Occasionally, the Captain could be seen smiling during the charge. She thought it was funny that the greatest fighters were praised according to how many kills they had. Prolific murderers. That’s what they were. On one side revered as heroes; on the other, marked as most wanted. The more you kills you had, the more people wanted to watch you die.

The one thought she didn’t dare have was victory. To think of winning was to guarantee defeat. Once she was instructed to “win the battle.”

How?

“Orders aren’t answered with questions. Orders are answered with action.”

With that she led, instructing upon those who followed her, the same orders she was told to follow.

Heads fell and limbs flew. Shrieks engulfed the air. Killian did not cry. He fought, thinking of victory.

His blade flirted with enemies until it decided that it was time to kiss goodbye. Killian could not see whom he fought so he fought everyone who did not don a grey rose. Grey roses lived. Others withered.

In every battle he had ever fought, the task was the same even if the instructions were different. He never took credit for what he did. Living was winning. The soldiers would sing songs of their victory. News of their triumph would travel back to the capitol where General Grey would smile. Killian smiled whenever he thought of General Grey. What a hero he must be to have his name etched into the armor of so many men, his symbol carved into the helmets of so many soldiers.

In his spare time, Killian would pick up any dropped banners of the grey rose and stake them into the mud. He was proud of his company, his unit, his Captain, his General. A grey rose didn’t exist in reality, but it existed in Killian. The grey rose made Killian feel immortal.

Ambition was a merit in the boardroom and a distraction on the battlefield. The Captain made sure not to distract herself with concerns of what she ought to do after the fight. She wouldn’t think about pulling off her helmet and tasting the air plagued by blood. She wouldn’t think about removing her armor and feeling her muscles come alive with wounds soon to become scars. She wouldn’t think about walking among the fallen, identifying them by their hometowns branded into their feet, feeling her way around lost lives that were tied to her living.

Sometimes she commanded. She yelled orders with expiration dates all too soon before another order had to be instated to replace whatever inkling of brilliance she thought she had. War was constant. War was evolution. She knew this. Nothing stayed the same except the incessant feeling of something gone wrong.

Sometimes she faltered. She screamed “fall back” at a time all too late before she screamed again and again, hoping that a couple loud words could prevent a couple unreasonable deaths.

She looked to a banner still visible among a dust of pain. It bore the grey rose overshadowed by the fog of war. Had it been a cloudy day? No one bothered to check the weather. Whether rain or shine, the fight went on. There was no stopping war. Wars ended. Waging wars did not.

A hand grabbed Killian’s arm, ripping him from his enemy.

“Let’s go. Battle’s over.”

On the ground was a man hidden behind armor draped in dents, punctures, and holes. Killian’s holes. Holes he stabbed; blood he unearthed. He had flanked the unsuspecting target sideways.

He hadn’t known. When he saw General Grey standing in front of him, he knew. The General was a foot shorter than Killian, but his spirit stood at least two feet taller. Killian bowed down to this spirit.

He didn’t bother asking the General when he had arrived. All that mattered was that he was here.

We must’ve won.

The spear came hard and fast. She didn’t feel before she fell.

The General led Killian down the quiet field. There were no sounds to hear except the groans of passing life. No sights to see except the beautiful sun setting down upon the battle’s end.

“Killian the Knight, is that right?”

Yes.

“Kid, you’ve been promoted.”

Killian looked dead ahead. The Captain lay on the field, arms sprawling like she was welcoming something long overdue. There were no other bodies around her. She looked lonely.

Killian placed his cut hands onto his helmet. It came off in one easy motion.

“You heard me, son? You’re the new Captain.”

Killian heard, but it was hard to listen. He bowed again, accepting the great honor.

“I expect you at the vanguard tomorrow. Sunrise. We’ll take the capitol by sundown.” The General handed him a sealed letter.

Killian received his order and nodded, as you do. General Grey knelt down and picked up the Captain’s helmet. It took a nudge, and then another before he yanked the iron from the skin. The Captain’s head turned as if her soul couldn’t bear to see the state she was in. As if she had long gone but still couldn’t let go. Killian looked down at his Captain.

She’s a woman.

General Grey crammed the helmet onto Killian’s head. Through his new slits, Killian could see the banner he had planted. Still standing, a splotch of crimson dripped down onto the muddied rose. It was finally red.

A foot soldier limped by with the help of another. They turned and bowed in courtesy to their General and his companion. Eyes met.

“Good to see you made it out, Captain.”

The Captain’s spirit lifted out of her body. She turned and saw the night. Darkness and silence enveloped the battleground. She enjoyed the quiet. It felt like peace.

Floating across the muddy landscape, she found her place among the sidelines of the field.

“You too?”

She nodded.

“Well you know what they say. The more that are gone, the fewer there is left to play.”

She looked across the horizon. Other spirits gathered, some catching up on old times, and some just beginning to get acquainted with each other. They seemed happy. No longer was what the living fought for a matter of their concern. The Captain noticed the sun begin to rise.

Killian stood at the vanguard. His General had guided him there, but now, he released his grasp.

“Your move.”