1.
She found him in the field, with blood seeping from the wound to his chest. She had been watching from the tree line of the cottage as men fought on the field that she used to run around on when she was young. The explosions and the shooting made her ears hurt and ring loudly, but she had kept her eyes on the men, with their lives on the line and their fate unknown. The horses, majestic and elegant, trudged on with men directing them into the firing line and towards the enemy. There had been a gunshot that seemed louder than the rest, and she had watched as the man, who now lay on the ground, fell from his horse, a bullet from an unknown gun wiping him out completely, causing him to crash to the ground like a crisp leaf in autumn. The gunfire seized from a moment, as if taking a moment of silence for another life lost at the hands of the enemy, before the war raged on. He was still, his mouth agape. She was sure that he had moved, and she believed that her mind was playing tricks on her when his hand slowly moved towards his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and confirming that she had indeed seen movement.
He was alive, but barely.
She watched as the men and horses around him moved away, continuing on their journey towards the enemy and towards hope. He was alone, his face white with shock. A crimson shade was seeping into the fabric of his olive green ensemble. He was dying. He knew it, and she knew it. He was completely unaware of her watching him, of her being aware that he was dying, of her existence. But she knew of him, though his name was a guess away.
She remembered a time when she was witness to a young bird falling from its nest when its mother had gone to seek out food from the tree in the garden, and waiting and wishing for it to gather the strength to make its way back up to its home. But it was weak, and too young to fly let alone survive on its own without the support and safety of its mother. She remembered thinking that if she didn't step in and help in time then its fate would be sealed. And so she ran out without another thought, just as the neighbour's temperamental cat made its way into the garden and towards the young bird. She had scooped it into her hands, hoping that her input would at least give her some hope in the world.
But this man… he wasn't a young bird. He was a man of war, who was dying after getting shot by the enemy. His death was inevitable, but something deep in her mind and heart niggled at her. She had brought the young bird back from the brink of death, could she really help a man – an injured man who was very likely moments from death?
Time was running out and she knew it. She took a deep breath, and made a run for the door. All she could think of as she ran towards his body alone in the field, aware of the bullets skimming through the air, was that if the man's fate was out of her hands and if nothing she did could help him, just the knowledge of assisting him when all hope was lost for him was worth more than anything in the world.