This short fiction is my pitiful attempt in making a second-person perspective story. And because I was never serious in writing this, you might find the ideas quite disorganized. I'm posting this anyway just for the novelty of doing so. This will probably be the last installment in the short story series. I would just like to thank those of you who stood by me as I wrote, edited and posted all my stories: Readers, Critics, Editors – Friends. Thank You. I shall be posting one last story a few weeks after this before I finally quit writing fics for Ragnarok Online. It won't be short but it shall bear the same theme of all my stories: Human Emotion.
Sixteen hundred dead in thirteen minutes - the tides of war keep on washing up gangrene upon the bulwarks of your spirits. But you stand strong and face the numbers. You've learned to accept it as something as mundane as the daily meal taken for granted.
All in a day's work.
The merchants sell, the blacksmiths forge, the bards sing, and you command countless young men to their untimely deaths for the powers that be. But it's not like you could do anything about it. You are the Cavalry General of the fifth regiment of the Pronteran-Geffen Combine. And you are but a pawn in the staged production that is the Orcland War.
Cavalry General Sixt Von Herr, decorated war hero of the Commodo campaign and the Byalan requisitions. Your legend has long overthrown any room left for humanity inside of you.
Everyday, you wake up in your spacious tent on top of the hill that is the center of the southern encampment. You carelessly waste water to wash that which does not come off. Bathing is a ritual that you see as something that purifies you from the stains of war. You put on only the grandest of iron cladding in all of Prontera. Along with it, a false pretense of invulnerability.
But you know.
You know that you're no less mortal than the young men that you command. For the fog of war is the ultimate equalizer. Death is a playful being that toys around with everybody in the field, from the lowly pawn to the exalted king. You wear it, nonetheless.
You go to your command post and roll out the plans. Across your tent you see your men, downtrodden and wounded and hungry and morale-hungry. Three months of attrition has worn their eager hearts out. To you, they cannot be seen as men. They are able arms-bearers, instruments who will wage your war. Nay, not your war but the war of the powers that be. But you know. You too are in it for the glory. For they are watching your every move.
They are always watching.
Across the horizon lay the green hell that is the southern fields of Geffen. You look as far out as possible. You see nothing but death and destruction. You see dead greenskins. You see your own dead. You paint a grotesque canvas. You sing a requiem for the living. You peddle passage to the afterlife. War is your trade and death is your mark.
You talk for hours with your cohorts. You receive orders for the next attack and you plan it out carefully. You want it over with and you want it over with soon. Your cohorts make suggestions and you think about each one carefully. Try as you might to minimize casualties, you know deep inside that you're just sending more men to meet their maker.
That the war can no longer be won.
And yet you persist. Because you are but a gear in the great machinery that grinds flesh to dust. And you have orders to follow too. And you wash your mind of any guilt of anything that you do.
The great crimson blazes across the horizon. You finalize the plan and you order its dissemination. You send for your mighty fowl-o-war and ride off to meet your men. Heart within, spirits overhead and prayers for the Valkiries' tickets.
You march to the frontlines and send empty cheers for faces who are most reluctant. They didn't want this. Neither did you. And there's not much difference in between. You are all victims of fate.
You signal for the drums of war. The booming cadence that leads men to their shallow graves. You down a shot of alcohol and you kick off your steed to war. From a distance you can almost see their bloodshot eyes inside their green sockets. They have been waiting for you.
You ride on with your men to meet them head on. Arms from the other regiments join in. Another pointless battle of attrition has started.
You thunder across the plains and your men follow your orders like they are the word of God. For they are good soldiers and they are loyal to the throne.
Soon enough, like waves into a seawall, your men collide into the green horde. You fight with all your might and strive to survive. One. Two. Twelve. Thirteen dead greenskins. Your flair for battle never tarnishes. And yet you can feel the hopelessness of things.
You continue on until all hope is lost. Their forces can only grow stronger and yours, weaker. The stench of death reaches deep down your senses. You lift your hands, bloody sword in hand, and signal the retreat. The men flee in terror as the raging beasts of the southern fields pursue with great bloodlust.
There can always be tomorrow.
But the gods will no longer allow you to continue on. A rouge arrow pierces your cladding and sends the message of demise to your cold, hardened soul. You refuse it and accept it at the same time. Again, you are powerless to change what has already laid in front of you. You have become the final thread to your grand tapestry.
Cold winds pick you up and gently let you off your steed. You land amongst those who rode along with you. Mud and blood and dirt, in your baroque armor, you have finally joined their ranks. A life lived well for the lives of less betterment beneath you. Only then do the stains wash off. Death is more than willing to wipe them all away.
And there were tears in your eyes.
Long overdue tears.
The fires of conflict may burn the glimmer of emotion out but for so long as your heart cadences with the same beat as mine, you can never take the human out of you.
All in a day's work.
