Your father tells you story about The War, sometimes, sitting on his rocking chair with warm cocoa in hand and a blanket draped over his knees. Sometimes, rarely, he would even pull it back and show you his metal knee, and smile wistfully at it.
"If the General wasnt there," he'd say, voice soft and fond, "I would've cleaved in half. I wouldn't have met your mother, or found you. And for all that The War was terrifying, and The Two Doomsdays were heart wrenching, kid, L'manburg gave me you. It's the greatest gift President Soot ever gave me. The second greatest gift I received is from General Innit, for pushing me out of the way, in that moment."
Most days, you feel annoyed about it. It's the same old drivel all the old people in Snowchester said, men and women gathering to tell the story of a home that was ripped from them. They would argue about things you never really understood, about discs and loyalty and Prime sent saviour that gave them a chance to live as old as they are now.
Some days, it feels more like myths than history, the way they talk about men who drove them to war for a kid and traitors that wears the skin of red and green. Some days, they feel more like bedtime stories, said to terrify children, like mosters inside the walls and hungry mind-controlling egg.
But, and there's always a but, you think, there are days when the story is not just history, but lives lived by living, breathing people. It happens when Mister Underscore-Beloved walks by, face scarred from where The Blood God took his life. It happens when the old grandma would take of her cardigan for a shivering child, her usually hidden shoulders showing where it leads to nothingness.
It happens when your parents wake up in the middle of the night screaming bloodthirsty, and they scramble to open your door. Those nights, no matter how old you turn, you let them in your bed and weep in your hair until they fall abck to sleep.
Those nights, when the wind is cold and the fear hung in the atmosphere, you wanna chase the General and beg him for forgiveness. Those days you worship Prime, desperately thanking him for sending General Innit, because maybe your parents carries burdens but they are alive, and sometimes that's enough.
It's not a particularly good morning when General Innit visits Snowchester, days after your parents ordered you to take the children and *go*, because Dream The Tyrant escaped and will use every advantage he has to take the General. You did, too, grabbed the kids and teens and those who cannot fight anymore, along with half of the most abled bodied people to protect them.
The man, teen, really, you realize with sudden clarity, the dude barely older than you, dressed in Mythical Netherite just like the psuedo leader of this village. He looks pale, tired even. He's 18, now, you'd guess, compared to your 16. And just like him, you are about to go to a war you didn't start. You wish that he will lead you like he did your father, who is a decade older than him but willing to accept that the General is a better leader than he'll ever be.
You approach him, shaking in iron boots and holding a sword in your trembling hand.
"My father told me you lead him in the First War," you hear yourself say, "he called you a hero. His saviour. You pushed him out of the way of a sword, and he lived to love and care for me. He told me I was the greatest gift you and President Soot ever gave him, but I wanted you to know that him and mom is the greatest gift you ever gave me, even with you knowing.
"If I have to follow anyone's lead to live through this war, General Innit, I was glad it was you."
You scurry away immediately, cheeks darkening red that's not simple cold. You cannot believe you said that, to him. To his face. You do not turn back, and does not see him staring at your back, a complicated look in his face
theartofmadeline
2087
gummygunk
pixelskylines
