#implied war

[nuttynutcycle]

Prompt 403

"Impressive, no?" The general swept an arm over the forces below. "All yours to command."

The prince nodded, calculating what could be done with that much firepower. In the wrong hands, nations could be toppled, revenge won and thrones secured. All in the wrong hands.

The prince smiled at the thought.

[kim-poce]

CW: war mention, implied war, blood mention, death mention, off screen violence.

She looked up at the clean blue sky, the wind on her face was pleasantly cold, she untied her long hair and let the wind move it freely.

She took a deep breath, making sure to take the sight in, then she looked back down, to the field, battlefield, the cold wind was traveling with the blood smell as passenger.

She saw the blood and the bodies, she saw the survivers and the ones breathing their last breathe.

She saw the soldiers unable to recognize if the one at their side was friend or foe, not that it would change anything, they had no more strength to fight.

She felt her hair touching her bare back when the wind stopped, and as if the world stopped she couldn't see anything, almost anything.

Not the sky or the blood, not the dead or the dying. Not even the ones too weak to fight.

She could only see one person, she could only feel the sword in her hands, she wasn't too weak to fight, neither was the person staring at her.

It was their fight, they dragged the soldiers into it to die for someone else's fight, but it will end the same way it started, only the two of them.

Maybe not exactly the same way, they won't stop until one of them die.

[original-socks-creations]

Day 9: Spice

Prompts by @oc-growth-and-development

Only the sound of the wind and the crackling of the fire in the hearth could be heard. Every other being in the cottage was asleep, and so was the world. The only one who almost never slept with them was Kaemon. She never slept, not truly. She was always on the watch when she had to make camp outside, and whenever she had to transition back into life indoors, Kaemon took it upon herself to keep the vigil and watch the cottage as well.

Some nights she would pace, or watch the fire, or stare off into the distance. Sometimes she would sweep the floors, or do dishes, or organise the book shelf. But tonight she decided that she would organize the kitchen cupboards.

Suehm was undoubtedly the best cook in the house, but was also most definitely the worst at organizing the kitchen. She called it “organized chaos”, but really it was just a mess that Suehm had become too familiar with. So, it became Kaemon’s job to do the cleaning, which for the most part she didn’t mind.

She sighed for a moment as she appreciated her fiancé’s disaster. The spice cupboard was utilized as more of a basket. The glass containers were just shoved haphazardly into the cupboard, the door slammed shut so as to keep any from falling to the ground.

Luckily, when Kaemon had opened it, they stayed balanced for an instant, giving her a chance to gather them before they crashed to the floor. She started by setting each down on the counter and reading each of the labels. Then, she organized them from what she remembered were most used and Suehm’s favorites, to the least used. Then she put them back in the cupboard in lines like little soldiers, but she immediately brushed that thought away. She needed one thing in her life that didn’t revolve around little soldiers.

[ohsotwistedwords]

The Maple Tree

By Snapdragon

            The maple tree in my backyard is twisted, and mostly stripped of its bark from a lightning strike. The lightning strike peeled it in a storm, and the wind blew it into my window. It was a particularly bad storm. My chamomile tea is still warm as I take a sip of it. It’s slightly sweet from the added honey, and the flavor reminds me of flowers in early spring. More specifically, it reminds me of the daffodils that sprout around the old twisted tree to tell me that spring is here. Abandoning my tea, I stand and stretch. The path to the door is familiar, and the air from outside is crisp and fresh. The birds sing; a welcome sound compared to the quiet of winter.

            The grass is patched yellow, still not fully recovered from the heavy snows that covered it in the throes of winter. When I reach the tree, the smooth wood underneath my hand feels as alien as it is beautiful. The roughness of the bark was enjoyable and familiar, but the bare wood is a welcome change. The bark will not return in time, too much of it was taken off for that, but there’s still some on the lower left branches.

            Thin green leaves are sprouting where the daffodils will grow. I lower myself to sit next to them, and enjoy the birdsong. The odd, square concrete slab the length of my feet is as mysterious as ever. I’ve my own theories on what it may be, from a pet’s grave to a discarded part from the house’s construction, but there isn’t a clear answer. The square is rough and cold, and feels a little dusty. It doesn’t belong here, among the flowers and under the tree. Yet, it has been here for many years. It was here when this house belonged to my parents, and probably when my grandparents lived here.

            After a moment of pause, I lift the square up. It doesn’t go straight up, but back with a squeak as if on hinges. Inside, there are neatly folded pieces of paper, all of which are yellow with age as far as I can see. The paper feels like the pages of an old book, but upon opening them I see the first is a letter to my mother. The name signed at the bottom is undoubtedly my father’s. After hours of shifting through letters, the oldest letters seem to be love letters from my grandparents, during a war. But that’s impossible. There hasn’t been a war for hundreds of years. I put the letters back in the box as they were and close the lid.