I was listening to Wrock, and one on of the songs, by Ministry of Magic, said 'And I know it's been such a long time since we've just been friends, and not soldiers on the front line of a war that we were born into, but we have to do this together. Don't leave me.' That inspired this. Hope you like it.
Time slowed down. The air thickened. Sound muted.
A feeling of sheer rage and agony filled his body. It couldn't be happening. It wasn't real.
His mouth opened, but he didn't hear the scream that passed his lips.
He pushed the person in front of him away; slipping his knife through the person's neck. Blood splashed onto his skin, but he paid it no mind. He was used to the sensation.
His legs worked to get through the chaos around him. His eyes were locked onto a single spot. Locked onto a single person.
His breathing was labored. His heart was working overtime. His muscles were screaming.
Another person stepped between him and his destination.
The man tried to bring his gun up, but he just knocked the man's arm to the side, and plunged his blade into the man's chest.
The man fell with a thud, but he just jumped over the body, and continued his race.
He slid next to his target. His knees would hate him the next day, but he didn't care.
He ran a shaking hand through thick blond hair. Dark brown eyes blinked up at the sky. The bright blue canvas and pure white clouds reflected in the orbs.
He moved his hand down towards the blood coated shirt. He cut the fabric, and pushed it away.
A sea of blood greeted him.
"No, no, no," he breathed, saliva connecting his lips as he spoke.
He pulled his own shirt over his head, and pressed it to the wound.
"You're going to be okay," he whispered.
Fingers wrapped around his wrist. Brown eyes connected with his own hazel ones. Bloody lips moved soundlessly. A dribble of blood rolled from the corner of the lips. The red cut through the grime of battle, and contrasted with the paling skin.
The brown eyes blinked one more time, before losing their focus. The fingers lost their grip. The hand fell to the ground.
"Please, no," he gasped. "Please."
Tears fell from his eyes. They splashed onto the skin of the fallen.
He saw red.
He grabbed his knife, and returned to the battle.
"He knew what he was getting into," a soft voice broke the silence.
He ignored the voice. He kept his head in his hands. He didn't want to see anything. He didn't want to see the bodies that laid everywhere. Bodies of friends. Bodies of foes.
His body.
"He knew this could happen when he joined the rebellion."
Tears of anger rolled down his face. His head snapped up to look up the man before him.
"Chose to get into this? None of us had a choice!" he said, his voice getting louder with every word. "Your fucking generation started the war, before we were even born! By the time we came around, it was either die, or be soldiers on the front line."
He could see others watching them. Young and old, male and female. They had all stopped what they were doing, and were watching.
"We got a few happy years of just being kids, just being friends, before we were thrown into this fucking war. We have been moved around. We have lost so much. All we had was each other. And now, he's dead. Because of something we didn't start, but are expected to end."
He stood up, and walked away.
Tears were rolling freely down his face. He walked so his back was to where he was laying. He couldn't face him in death. He couldn't look at his best friend.
He made his way through the rest of the carnage, and was eventually walking through a deserted city.
The street he was walking down was cracked, and the paint lines had long since faded. The buildings on either side were crumbling slightly. Vines and other plants had started to grow out of their windows.
As he walked, his mind turned to his friend.
When they had been younger, they had lived out in the country, like everyone did. They had lived with stories of great cities of the past. Buildings that literally touched the sky. Huge television screens on buildings. Streets crowded with more people than their village.
After they had joined the resistance, they got to see cities. They had tried to imagine what they must have been like, before the war had started.
He kicked a brick, and ignored the pain that raced up his leg.
Their fathers had been leaders in the rebellion in the early years, but an attack had left his father maimed, while his friend's father had died.
They had grown up together, with the tales of the rebellion, and the good it stood for. They had joined as soon as they were old enough.
And now, only one of them remained.
All alone in a broken world.
All of his friends dead.
All of his family gone.
He had been raised for one purpose, and one purpose only. He had been raised to be a soldier. He had been raised to help bring down their oppressors.
But he had no reason to fight anymore.
Looking back, he never had a reason to fight in this war.
I may, eventually, add more onto this. This would be the first chap, and it was start with an in media res type thing, where he explains everything that's happened, and then continues with his journey. But, it most likely wont happen if there is no response to this. Oh, and before anyone asks, they are just best friends, but they are all they have left in the world; they are not dating.