Brass buttons glinted in the fading light as a man walked down through the nearly empty streets. His gait was laced with the authority that his uniform and mission provided, but his eyes revealed the chilling nervousness that he tried to push away from his thoughts. Anxiety hung in the air as he marched ahead, his grisly assignment known by those he passed. He tried to ignore the sharp sudden movements in the windows that he passed by, flashes of distraught faces seemingly choreographed on both sides. There were also those who faced him squarely, chins held strongly in defiance to his message as he passed. All these faces had on thing in common, however, the heavy sighs of relief that followed in his wake and the gentle placing of a finger between their eyes as they whispered prayers to the heavens. This was what sent chills down his back, for those actions were fitting in his situation. He was the angel of death.
Channon noticed the gleam in his eyes, the way they flickered from face to face as they leaned from windows. She was one of those who gazed from their window, heart hammering against her ribs as she waited. Her fear escalated with each house that he passed, gripping her heart and mind as she soon developed a thin film of cold sweat on her brow. A chill wind from the East began to slowly whistle through the streets, fittingly carrying the sickly sweet, metallic scent of death to all those who lived there. The war was fast approaching.
The soldier glanced back down at his mission form, lips soundlessly forming numbers that seemed familiar to her. It could not be, not her, not him. She kept her silent vigil, silently; weakly, clinging to false hope. The regular sounds of life soon filtered back into the air around her, tinkling of pots and scraping of spoons mixed with the giggling of children and braying of ass. Life was quick to forget, to adapt, the time spent in that spasm of fear had been wasted, chores still needed to be done, only the grieving could dwell on the presence of surreal truth.
The young man glanced at her home, cold reserve forming over his features as he braced himself to break the news, as was his duty. She heard a moan from somewhere on the street, the soft tone rippling with relief as the owner performed the ritual of thanks. She watched as her neighbor flinched at his approach, her daughter dropping the flowers she had been picking to gap at the polished soldier. This was the moment, anticipation balancing on the blade of a knife as her took the first step that led him in front of her home. Each step he took seemed longer than the previous, cruelly drawn out for the purpose of stringing her along. It was misery, watching those steps. Time snapped back, quickly spanning back into the present as those polished boots left the dirt ground and felt the soft cushion of grass. Channon did not flinch, however, as the uniformed soldier stepped into the threshold of her and her husband's yard, she merely tightened her grip on the empty mug before her, steam billowing from the kettle on the fire beside her.
The heat provided her with the momentum she needed to make her way towards the door, stony reserve creeping into her features as she braced herself for the worst, for the news that no one wanted to receive. Her hands shook, betraying her nerves, as she reached for the key that hung on the wall. A strong knock rang through the cabin, each tolling like the church bells of a funeral as she stumbled with the ring of bulky, iron keys. She managed them into the lock, and opened it, features as stiff and emotionless as the soldiers.
"Mrs. –"
"Is he dead?" she whispered softly, one hand still resting on the brass handle that he had made two years before leaving.
"Excuse me?" the soldier asked, the crimson of his uniform brought out by the paleness of his face as he gazed into the eyes of grief.
"Is he dead?" She asked again, louder than before. Her hard brown eyes bore into the youths. He could be no older than Seventeen.
"Is my husband dead?"
The Soldier grimaced; this was obviously not how he would have chosen the situation to play out. He opened his mouth, green eyes stern before his face softened, he supposed that she could demand him the small desire to be in charge of the situation, to be the one who brought the news upon herself, not merely a victim but a partaker of events.
"Yes."
He expected her to groan or suddenly become weak at the knees as others had. He had braced himself for the harsh cry of mourning, but he found that her stony gaze perturbed him more. She merely nodded, a calm understanding melding into her features before she thanked him curtly and closed the door, lock clicking softly as she turned the bolt.
The soldier remained in front of the house for a long while, fighting with himself as he struggled to find what he should do next. He did not know what course of action to take. Should he leave or stay? He was supposed to deliver the notice to her, how else would she know to pick up her husbands belongings form the camp? But something held him back, he did not wish to gaze into those cold eyes again, the mere thought sent shivers down his spine, harsher and stronger than any he had felt before, so he simply bent to the frame of the door and sifted the rough parchment underneath.
He promptly turned his back from the house and made his way from the yard. He cast one backward glance at the house before continuing on, the image of the woman, haunting gaze directed up at the sky from her kitchen window branded into his mind.
