Writings, Prose and Poetry
Harry - A story of short proportions
By Elfëa - 27 April 04
It is a dim evening. Dark clouds veil the sky; a storm is coming. There is smell of death in the air; the battlefield isn't far away. I can almost taste the magic in the air.
I can hardly see the tree next to me, but I hear someone coming. He passes the line I am guarding. I have to follow him, and so I do - straight to the battlefield and past it.
There are bodies on the ground in field, piled and scattered in groups. I recognise most of them as he must have- his friends, pupils from the same school, fighting on both sides. Stepping in a buddle of blood, I almost trip over the body of my former class mate - he is still alive. His huge frame lies on the ground, eyes blind, but I can hear him moaning, his legs twisting with pain. I wish I could do something for him; I have been taught to kill since I was ten, but now I feel I am unable to end his suffering. I am not a killer.
I have felt sick before, but now the sight of the torture of human body takes over. The battlefield smell - blood, burning flesh and slaughter - hangs in the air; the sounds of people dying like cattle. I haven't been on the battlefield before, and now I know why.
He dies without my help, and I am sick next to his dead body.
My legs don't want to carry me on, but I have to follow the boy who crossed the line. I know where he is heading.
Without thinking, I run in the tunnels and cry his name in my mind.
It is an eternal midnight in the tunnel - darkness that is thicker than the air. There are no torches to light the way: the creatures that guard the passage cannot see and need no light. My breath sounds horridly loud in the silent tunnels, and I wonder if they have got him already. I silently pray they haven't.
The scream pierces the heavy air, and I run. The tunnel opens to a cavern now - in the middle of it I can see a smouldering pile of ash. I fear then that I am too late. But brief, horror-filled seconds later I see Harry again, tied up to a pillar of stalagmite growing from the stone floor. He doesn't see me, but I see the rage on his face.
The man standing face to face with Harry is my Master. My Lord, who has not trusted me enough to let me fight in the real war. Maybe he has been right in not trusting me, but I do not think about it then.
It is the first time and last time I'll ever kill.