The day the war came home

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CrankyOzzie
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The day the war came home

Post by CrankyOzzie »

The old man was in his usual spot, in one of the corners, nursing a mug of Ale. There was no one nearby, no one would go near him, said he was crazy, always talking to himself. The only other patron in the Inn at this time of day was a traveler. A young man, couldn't have been more than 23 or 24. He found himself half listening to the old man, mumbling to himself in a voice that could be barely heard. Gradually, the young man worked his way closer, to just within hearing distance.

"So much has changed since the war began. For four years now, it's been going on. I was too old to go off to fight, so I sent my sons. Oh, had I known what I do now, back then. I'd have fled, as far and fast as I could, and taken my family with me." He paused a moment, taking a swig of his Ale before continuing in that hushed voice, as if thinking out loud. "William was the first to go. He was 23 at the time. We waved him off like a hero."

Again he paused, as if reflecting, before going on, his voice almost inaudible as he spoke the next sentence. "We welcomed him back as a cripple. Both his legs, gone. He didn't last much longer after that. Maybe a year or two. Of course, young Frederick, filled with wrath and lust for revenge at what they'd done to his brother, well, he vowed to go, and he did. He never came back. Just as well, as his beloved had run off with another man after a few months." The old man grunted, taking another swig of his Ale before going on.

"Last was Richard, just 19 years old, full of hope and excitment at finally going to fight. Ah, Richard! Why, boy, why?" The old man shook his head as if in disbelief. "So young, you had your future ahead of you. Well, there's no future in a pine box, my boy. None at all."

He stood then, shuffling over to the bar, calling for another Ale. As he returned to his seat, he glanced down at the stranger, almost without seeing him. He saw something that made him blink, his eyes narrowing a moment before going back to their usual, vacant-eyed stare. Lowering himself down onto the bench, he went on.

The two sat in the Inn for another hour or so, the old man recounting the deaths of his daughter and his wife, who'd died of heartbreak at the deaths of her three sons. He talked of the coming of the armies, how they'd torn up the crops with their boots, drowned the fields with blood, how the village had suffered, houses burnt down, people kidnapped, and worse things besides. Eventually, the old man rose, shuffling out towards the door. Half turning before he walked through, eh spoke, for the first time in months, in his old, clear voice. "Go home, boy! I see you've the markings of a King's man. But I tell you go home! War is no place for the young... war is no place for anybody" Turning again, he stepped out into the dusk light.

[i:161h9ncd]This, like all my other short stories, is open for comment. I plan on writing more later, and maybe stringing them together into something larger.[/i:161h9ncd]
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