Writer's Note: Wartime drabble. Rated T for blood and death.
"We're both just foot soldiers huh. Well from one honest soldier to another, I'm sorry I had to gut you. Doesn't matter what skin you are, we're all just following orders. And you were mine."
Orc blood covered his hands as he sifted through his armor. The smell was loathsome but it was everywhere all the time so it didn't register anymore.
"What's this?" He unfolded a yellow parchment revealing Orcish writing. "Well I didn't know grunts got love letters too! She's either a real looker or a painful eye sore."
A brown pouch lay at the dead orc's waist and the foot soldier grabbed it, gulping down the remaining drops of water. He stood up and scanned the empty area. Distant hills flickered in the air from the sun's heat and sand gusted into short lived twisters. He licked his dry lips and flinched at the pain.
"You and me grunt, we're above it all. Out in the middle of god knows where, having ourselves a little battle to the death. Those mighty kings and their proud mages sitting on their high chairs - Ha!" He threw the pouch in the air and it landed at some distance, disappearing in the bright sand.
He turned from the motionless body, giving one last glace back and continued with heavy footsteps through the sand.
"Don't forget about us huh? I won't."
The foot soldier walked another three hours in the heat before he ran into an orc messenger who was clearly not looking for a fight. They stood staring at eachother for a moment when the human beckoned him closer.
...
With beaming eyes he came to an orc village toiling with pigs and their farmers. He entered a hut where a female was preparing a usual feast. She glared at him with a frown but the green boy simply held up a letter and placed it on the table. Without an exchange of words, he was gone. After a moment gazing at the parchment, she raised her hand and laid it upon its bloodied surface.