The Witch and the Flower—----------------
Very little could be said about these wastes. The ground was dead. What little life there was gnawed on the corpses of long-dead soldiers and rotting wood. The waste that was “No Man’s Land” was home to many ruins. Some once towns. others of garrisons built for purposes long forgotten with the skeletons of their structures serving as their only reminders to those that braved these harsh lands. Villages once teeming with life reduced to rubble and ash from the unending conflict between heaven and hell and the artillery shells that for so many marked the beginning of the end.
It was such a wonder then, the Witch thought, that a single flower poked out of the burnt soil. Delicate and yet so resilient, a small white flower stood proudly, defiantly, against the world that would have broken it down so long ago.
the Witch, in all of its mechanical glory, was no stranger to destruction. Crafted in the depths of hell for the sole purpose of desolation, her mere silhouette lent itself to horrifying tales across the battlefield with stories of how she could level an entire town in mere seconds if she so chose.
her cloak billowed in the harsh, cold, wind, lending itself to her frightening visage. It was freezing, though she hadn’t noticed. She traded her flesh for the mechanical chassis that her soul now inhabited long ago. she didn’t feel pain, happiness, or sadness. The only emotion she knew, or so she thought, was malice.
and yet, here she stood awestruck by a simple flower. For the first time, in a long time, she felt calm. She crouched down, her dress brushing against the muddy ground, as she checked the flower’s health. Gently, she brushed a metallic finger against its stem and its petals. As far as she could tell, it seemed to be healthy. Its green was vibrant, and its petals, though dirtied slightly from her touch, weren't wilting.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
“Endure, little one.” she thought. “survive.”
“Oy, Witch.” a voice called from behind. The Witch turned to face the source.
A soldier, his helmet decorated with a pair of horns, and a gas mask covering his face, stood with a shotgun lazily to his side. He continued; “we’re getting ready to leave. We best be getting ready.
The Witch nodded with understanding. stepping forward, she looked back to the flower one last time. “It looks like our time together is over, little friend.” she thought before sitting up, moving to rejoin her companions once more.
