Ranger's Apprentice belongs to John Flanagan.
It could be described as a pilgrimage. Every year, without fail, he went on this journey – it was something that he had to do. Very few people knew why he made this journey; but those who did know the reason, respected the man more because of it. Every year, he would slip away from normalcy, taking the long trip alone, apart from his faithful horse.
The man wandered through the long grass of the heath's bleak landscape, his horse left behind in the forest; he had to make the final part of the journey alone. Although the long grass made everything look the same to the untrained eye, the man knew exactly where his destination was, as if it was somehow ingrained onto his soul. Looking at the landscape now, you wouldn't have been able to guess at the horror of what happened all those years ago. Gone were the crowded chaos of fighting; the clang of swords, and the shouts of men. Gone was the blood, the bodies on the ground; some crying for mercy, while others lay ominously still. He remembered all of this as if it was yesterday. A lot of the survivors wanted to forget this battle – this mistake that never should have happened; but not him. He had to remember, had to honour the fallen who gave up their tomorrows, so others could live on in freedom instead.
The man suddenly stopped, looking down at the ground. This was the spot. It was where another had given up their life, so he could continue his. He could see the scene playing out in front of him; his saviour lying on the ground, blood staining everything around him red, gasping out his last request, while the battle still raged on – uncaring to this man's plight, for each man fought for his own survival, as was the way with war.
The survivor thought back. The dying man was no-one special, not really; just a foot soldier who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was still young, and had his whole life ahead of him. If things were different, he would have been with his family, home and warm; not taking his last breath in the cold and damp, with only a stranger to hear his last words. Fate could be a cruel mistress.
The man had made a promise to the fallen soldier during the latter's last moments of life. At first, it seemed that the man had failed to fulfil this promise, unable to protect the woman that the soldier had loved during his short life. But then fate decided to smile upon him for a short moment, so that the man could accomplish what he had set out to do, ever since that brave soldier took his last breath.
But what would have happened if that soldier hadn't died? The man knew for certain that it would have been him lying on that blood covered ground years ago, cold and unmoving, left to be forgotten except by a few. The soldier would now be with his family, living on his small farm with his loving wife and young son. Maybe he would have had more children, living happily together and carefree. But that would only ever be a fantasy – never a reality, since the reality was a family torn apart by the horror of war.
Stories would have you believe that wars are glorious things, where men are brave and honourable. However, this man knew that the stories were wrong. War was not glorious. War was filled with blood, sweat and fear. War was filled with uncertainty and death. You never knew if you were going to survive to see another sunrise.
He stood there for ages – the veteran of this war - on the anniversary of that fallen soldier's death. He stood still for what could have been hours, blending in with the landscape, with only the slight movement of his cloak moving as it rippled in the breeze; his head bowed, remembering the sacrifice of the fallen.
When he finally looked up, the sun was starting to set, turning the sky red, as if it also was remembering the blood that had one stained this land. The man took one last look at the ground, still able to see the soldier in his mind's eye. But this time the solider wasn't dying. He was stood, straight backed, eyes bright, hair ruffled by the breeze, and a smile playing on his lips. He had not aged one day. He looked like he could have been a knight, not a common soldier.
The cloaked man blinked. The image was gone.
"Thank you," he said in a low voice, uncharacteristically filled with emotion, before turning and walking away.
At the edge of the heath, he turned to face the bleak landscape, darkened by the setting sun. The sacrifice that all those men made would never be forgotten.
It's Remembrance Sunday here (11th November).
I felt the need to write today - and this is the result of that.
I apologise for its shortness, I like many other authors on here, like chapters that are longer in length than this one is.
I hope I'm not being patronising here; this is Halt returning to Hackham Heath, remembering the war and the sacrifice Daniel (and others) made. In the Ranger's Apprentice timeline, this is set between Gilan and Will's appreticeships.
Thank you for reading,
-SeekerMaxia.