Casualties
A/N: this is set after the final battle
Disclaimer: I don't own Eragon. If I did, Murtagh would be in it alot more.
on with the story...
They had always known there would be casualties.
Innocents and soldiers died, that was how it went. They were simply losses to the Varden. The faceless, nameless numbers, mere casualties in war. They never really thought about how these people, these statistics, had lives.
They never though about the eight-month pregnant woman who was laying across her husband's grave. They never thought about the mother who had always thought she would never outlive her sons. They never thought about the five-year old who was told daddy had gone to a better place. They never though about the crying wife, clinging to her six-month old, realising he would grow up without a father.
In death, these people just became another casualty. Just another life, ended because of one man's greed. They didn't mourn these people, they just skimmed through their files. Their only concern was how these losses would affect their forces.
A neighbour disappeared, a local merchant dealer died tragically, an entire family murdered in their beds. Yes, war had casualties, innocents who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or allies, who chose to speak out against Galbatorix. They were just casualties.
Eventually, when the final battle came closer, they realised the truth. They couldn't sit in blissful ignorance any longer, no matter how hard they tried.
They knew deep inside that there was bound to be a casualty they would know. A casualty that wasn't just a point on a graph. A casualty they would mourn.
Somehow, even with this knowledge, it was a shock to see the familiar names on the memorial stones. Don't bother looking for Trianna's help, you wouldn't find her. Don't send a message to Joed, asking about his latest shipment, you'd find no more than an empty house. And don't visit Carvahall, it was simply a wreckage now.
They had all known not everyone could make it out of this war.
Roran would never kiss Katrina again, Orik would not hold his fiancées hand, Solembum would never be stroked by Angela, Lifean and Nari wouldn't laugh together, Izlanzadi would never again hold her daughter, Jörmundur would no longer advise Nasuada, Eragon wouldn't see Arya's rare smile, Oromis and Glaedr would never again take to the sky.
These people became statistics in death, figures in a history book. Their only purpose, to be researched by history students five-hundred years down the track. Another number or fact in a history book. Their deaths would become part of boring lessons in schools. Why would the students care about the faceless people who died forever and a day ago? Why would they care about some casualties that didn't matter in the least in their day to day lives? What did they care about death statistics that were a result of a war a few century's ago?
But, for the moment, the deaths weren't statistics to them. These had been real, living, breathing individuals. Family, or friends. People they had taken for granted. People they would never see again. Their deaths were shocks, each a horrible jolt that awakened everyone to reality. Each name read with a sickly surprise.
But then, they had always known there would be casualties.