Raindrops and Tears
Disclaimer: I do not own Ranger's Apprentice.
Autumn brought not musky smoke curling from the chimneys, nor gold and orange leaves that lit the trees on fire. Autumn brought only rain, and it was a steady rain that would not cease for days. Even the plants were sagging with water, and the birds were disheartened by the grey skies.
The battlefield was all mud. Horses trudged with their harnesses jingling; a sound that could perhaps be merry in another time. The dead floated in what had become a swamp, their limbs hacked off, the vultures circling overhead and flies skimming the ground.
Those that were alive were sickening with disease, injury and the mental knowledge that tommorrow it would begin again. Their swords must be sharpened, their minds attuned to the rythmic hack and bash that was the battle. Some as young as fifteen now realise there are no glittering swords, nor any mighty warriors of legend, simply those that are dead, and those that are lucky.
Among these survivors is a ranger. He is clever and brave and his experience means he is prepared for more fighting, even if his troops are not. He has his orders, and he leaves with his head held high, away from the devastation of what used to be green fields.
Two days ride away, four soldiers have their own orders. They take the battle plans to their leader, through an innocent village that belongs to them. Their buildings, their people, their wives and children and elderly and injured.
But the ranger has heard of these battle plans. He is shrouded in shadow, silently watching the four soldiers. When night falls, the gleaming head of an arrow shines briefly in the light of the stars, and then the familiar smell of coppery blood rises into the air. One man dead without a sound. Two men dead without a sound. Two more yelling, waking the village, but they too are killed. And the ranger has the stealth of a wolf as he steals the battle plans from the soldiers', and disappears into the night.
By now the ranger's mottled cloak is soaked through. He hides his shivers in the rain, mounts his horse, and prepares for the long ride back to his own commanding officers. He leaves the village and travels past fields of wheat.
The ranger is surprised when he passes a farm house and a woman runs out to greet him. She is round and motherly, with tanned skin and auburn hair tied back in a loose bun. Her apron begins to get wet, and a smile dies on her full lips.
"Who are you?" she asks.
"Just a passing travellor," the ranger replies. "My name is...Arretay."
The woman sighs and the ranger wonders briefly why she is so sad.
"I thought you were my husband," she says, and now he understands. But she brightens up and invites him inside. The ranger hesitates. He knows she is not Araluen, and he doesn't want to run into any trouble.
She insists, "it is cold and raining out here," and he accepts her offer.
Inside, the house glows with warmth. The aroma of freshly baked bread rises in the room and the battering rain against the windowpanes feels far away. Two young children play with dolls, and it takes the ranger a moment to realise they are playing out a battle.
"Dinner," the woman says. She dishes out a generous helping of bread, salad and beef. Even though her family is poor and such food can be scarce, she is not the kind of woman to leave a travellor wet and hungry.
"Take off your cloak," the woman tells the ranger. "It's soaked through."
The ranger hesitates, but he follows her suggestion. The fire is warm on his back, and he can feel himself starting to relax.
As they eat, the ranger notices with his military observational skills that the woman keeps glancing out the window.
"Waiting for someone?" he asks.
"My husband. He should have been home by now."
"What does your husband do?"
"He's a soldier. He's supposed to be taking some sort of plan to his majesty. I just hope he didn't run into any trouble."
At this, the ranger stood abruptly, his chair crashing to the ground behind him. Startled, the children began to cry. The heat in the house is suffocating for the ranger, and he swings his cloak over his shoulder and strides to the door.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I have things to do."
The woman follows him to the door. She shuts it behind her to keep the warmth in for her children. His hood is down and she calls his name so he turns. They stand face to face in the pouring rain. That is all she can hear, the rain streaming to the earth.
The woman hates the war. She hates it, she doesn't understand it, but that does not protect her from it. And now she realises she is talking to a stranger with an accent. A foreigner who left when she mentioned her husband. She realises.
"Where is my husband?" she asks. "Where is the soldier with the battle plans?"
The ranger will not answer her. She lets out a tormented cry, but does not break eye contact.
"You killed him," she says and the ranger does not even acknowledge her statement.
The woman reaches up a hand and touches her wet cheek. Tears fall from her eyes, and still, she cannot tear her gaze away from the ranger. There is only the two of them, woman and ranger, alone in the rain.
"You're crying too," she whispers. "You're no killer."
This time, the ranger mounts his horse and rides away.
The woman had a revelation that day. Kindness meant nothing in war.
The ranger had no such revelation.
The ranger already knew his enemies had families.
The ranger fought anyway, for his own loved ones.
Trapped in the web of war.
And the woman had misjudged him.
After all, the raindrops on his face could have been mistaken for tears.
Erm, yeah, a little bit weird...and ooc...I just wanted to try something like this because war is horrible, you know, and RA does have kind of...well...happy-go-lucky wars.