Believe it or not, for a battle scene, this has been tough to write. I finally got a good idea and have been working my butt off to finally bring this to you. I wanted to take a different view on it. If you guys haven't guessed by my dancing around way of writing things, I'm trying different writing styles. This particular one is flashback. It starts off for the first two sections as post-battle. Then I'll go back to the start of the battle and explain how all this went down.
Songs to listen to while reading:
Hallelujah by Imogen Heap
Never Alone by Barlow Girl
The sky was lit with the fires of sunset. Clouds of amber and bright red mists swirling as the rose-gold sun slipped bellow the horizon.
Silence hung in the air, thick and unbreakable. Save the gentle rumble of the ocean and the soft patter of a gentle mist of icy rain softly falling, there was nothing. The wind and the thunder had calmed, gone along with the echoes of war cries and screams of dying men.
Down across the plains, the soil had been dyed maroon. In the center was a large boulder engraved with several ancient ruins from the people of old. Winding roads lead into a great city, lined with tall white walls and on a slight incline. Less then a mile from the city the plains dropped suddenly in a rocky, dramatic cliff. At the bottom was the churning navy sea.
The only major features were mounds of carnage and rusty weapons. Men, young and old, fallen. Heads without bodies, their faces forever twisted in silent screams. Sliced up corpses, testimonies to the pain. Arrows protruding from flesh, some had gone clean through the broken bodies. Bones protruding from arms of soldiers who were knocked over, dead before they hit the ground. Skin and bone and flesh pealed away.
The cliff was the worst. Bodies ripped and torn in such ways, which broke through the soul of any onlooker. Or would if there were any. A small, muddy river transformed to a thin waterfall down the cliff, a testament to the heavy rains. With it went sweat, tears, bodies, blood and hopes of so many, tumbling off the cliffs and dying the seas an unholy red. Such that when the sea frothed up into the sky as it met the rocks, the waters were tinged with a dirty salmon color.
Nothing moved. Nothing lived. Even the hungry ravens and hawks, which had eyed the men with ravenous eyes at the start of the battle, now lay still in their forever sleep. Most caught in the crossfire or shot down by angry soldiers, determined their comrades were not to be ingested by some scavenger. More would come sooner or later, but for now, the scene was devoid of all.
Despite the rains, a pillar of grey smoke rose into the sky above the city overlooking the battlefield. Across the walls were long poles and ladders, now vacant but once teaming with people. The gates were slung wildly open, nearly breaking off their hinges and nearby was a battering ram, dented and split.
The once flawless buildings were as scared as a warrior's hide. There was not a spot in its confines devoid of blood, the streets burnt in some extreme, blistering heat. The buildings were cracked, boulders of great granite and thick onyx rocks. Pieces of shale sprinkled the streets, piercing the bodies of many. Their bodies were nailed to the cobblestone.
The worst of it was that many of the men laying dead shared blood. Despite which side they were on. Brothers slain by their siblings. Sons, fathers, cousins, nephews. This was the ugliest face of the battle as friends fought over a war many of them hadn't understood. It hadn't mattered whether they were young or old, rich or poor, good or bad.
But every body who lie motionless on the fields and streets of Aberon had something in common. They were someone. They were a son or a father, a hermit or a husband. They were an enemy or friend, a soldier or pacifist. They came from somewhere and somewhere someone would receive a dreaded letter, recounting their heroism and self-sacrifice on the fields of Aberon.
Regardless, they were now all the same. Death is funny like that. In death, it didn't matter how gorgeous you were. Whether you were young or old. Who you were. What you did. How you died. A body was a body and would decay at the same rate. Sooner or later, the bodies would each melt into the ground. Each were mere piles of matter and would break down as such. Lifeless collections of water and minerals and cells. They'd never move and were only good now for sustaining less savory creatures.
From the hilltop, two brown eyes watched. From his own flesh protruded a single arrow, along with several scrapes, slices and bruised. The mist held chunks of his brown hair, turned grey in a spot from stress, plastering it to his skin. He closed his eyes, feeling them sting from dirt and blood gathering in them.
He could feel all the physical pain. The burn of his cuts. The ache of his muscles. The agony of his cracked hand. The rippling burn of the arrow in his shoulder. But try as he might, as he stood on that hilltop, he could feel no emotion. Nothing, just a hollow feeling in his stomach and an ache in his heart. Everything was so surreal, though he'd expirianced such things several times. He'd stood on the hilltop, watching twisted, similar scenes over and over. Why, then, did this feel so wrong?
He let the rain fall across his cheeks, streaming down them like the river bellow. Even to the point of being red and muddy, as a jagged gash extended from about the middle of his forehead to his left eyebrow. He opened his eyes once more, looking down to the capital in ruins.
He could feel an ache in his head, an emptiness. Long ago, such a thing would have been the normal feeling. But half of him was missing. In her absence, he still could picture her next to him. She was watching the scene before her with serene, wise blue eyes. She'd cover him in a thin blue, iridescent tent of wings, shielding him from the chilling rain. She'd light a small, warm fire and keep watch till morning. Her mind would never leave his; a gentle curtain of comfort shrouding his being from the pain.
Then again, he reflected, if he had her, none of this would have happened. As it stood, he knew it was a miracle they had lasted as long as they had. He reflected, grimly, that he could only wait for others till midnight. Then he would have to leave, solo or not. It didn't seem right. Down there, on that field, lay brave men. Men whom he had come to respect and admire. Men whom had saved his life over and over. Men who would never draw another breath again…
He shivered in the rain slightly, feeling his wounds sting. If he were further away, he would risk using magic and heal them. But where he was it was not such a great idea. He knew he had to at least get them bandaged up, but he couldn't tear his eyes from Aberon.
"I shouldn't be alive…" He muttered, watching a rainbow of brilliant color crest the evening sky.
The sun was setting rapidly by the time he began to come to. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but there wasn't too many other places he could be. His whole body ached and burned, but that was the least of his concerns. He dared to slowly open his eyes. The field had stilled long ago, but he knew there would be sharp shooters on the ridge, ready to cut down the few men whose injuries were not severe enough to kill them.
He could feel his clothes through his armor, thoroughly soaked to the bone. He looked down his own body, examining the large gash on his knee which had thankfully clotted and the spear which had clipped his side and pinned him. He rose his right hand up, flexing it till he realized where the pain was coming from. His ring finger wouldn't move and was slightly puffy. When his middle finger went to touch it, he was greeted by a constant burn.
Damn it! Broken! He thought through gritted teeth. He gingerly let his hand down and raise is other to his head as he sat up. It must have been quite a hit from the egg on his scalp. He took a deep breath and sat up, feeling a rush of blood flow into his head. At first, he wanted to lie back down, but then the moment of clarity hit and suddenly, all the pain in the world didn't matter. He felt like vomiting, looking at the light grey smoke rising from the broken.
His eyes flashed around the battle field, panic suddenly filling him. If he hadn't been thinking clearly enough, he might have screamed. Everything around him was dead, some more obviously than others. His eyes continued their search. Finally, they rested on something as a certain memory came to him.
It wasn't as if he ever thought they'd win. So while the sight before him was shocking, it was what was missing that finally pushed the bile out of his throat. It wasn't as if he ever thought they'd win. So while the sight before him was shocking, it was what was missing that finally pushed the bile out of his throat. His brother.
He cursed under his breath, rose to his feet, and began a crippled trudge toward the city, hoping the black skies were enough to hide his form.
Forty-four hours earlier…
A tremendous concussion jarred the air as a massive boulder collided into the building, crumbling the structure into a pile of rocks. The lightning above cackled as a rolling spur of thunder filled the air. Above lightening and arrows rained down, meshing with the ever-falling, frigid precipitation.
Crows and two dragons circled above the city, both searching for one thing or the other.
The first was a great red beast, whose scales cast bloody prisms onto the ground bellow. His maw opened, sending a puff of black smoke between his lips. He veered off to the left with two great pumps of its translucent wings, the electric sky seen clearly through them. They tipped upward, catching the wind at the wrong angle and for a moment, they failed. But in a moment, the still-young dragon corrected himself.
The second made the first look like a chew toy.
He was massive, like a flying mountain, with scales so black he disappeared as he flew till lighting lit the sky. His tail thinned rapidly, ending in a ten-foot long whip covered in ivory spines. His wings were each massive black tents lined with little black veins. Each were nearly the size of his younger counterpart's torso. His black eyes watched the scene below impassively, not so much as turning his thick, corded neck to watch below. He flew effortlessly, with none of the occasional slip-ups of the younger. And what's more, nearly silently, though that didn't much matter in the chaos below.
From the ground came tremendous battle cries as men raised forward to the walls, occasionally getting picked off by a lucky shot. Their weapons tight in their hands and armor holding true, few seemed to be slowing.
In side the city was possibly even more chaos than the skies. Men raced around, bracing the gates and climbing up to the walls to shoot invaders down. They slipped and fell and overshot and undershot. It wasn't long before each could testify to a heavy coat of mud. Some for the gates, putting on their armor and, for a few, their clothes as they went. One soldier slipped on the slick cobblestone, bashed his bare head on the stone, and lay still. He would be known later as the first of Aberon's forces to fall.
The castle, where most of the men had been staying, was mostly vacant save a small militia of soldiers. Each eluded the confidence of worn soldiers. A formation of thirteen. Near the front was a noble dressed in bright gaudy armor. He was Arribane, the elder left behind to look after the Varden's greatest hope. Who, ironically, could not be picked out of the crowd standing behind the elder.
One of the soldiers shifted his weight back and forth. He caught the man next to him at just the wrong angle and the other soldier punched him in the shoulder.
"Pace! What was that for?" A voice rapidly whispered.
"You stepped on my foot."
"It was an acciedent. You didn't need to punch my shoulder!?"
"Actually I did. Seriously Haydi, grow a backbone!"
"Could you be any less mature? Come on! We've got enough to worry about!"
The soldier next to the two boys shot them a stern glare and turned his attention back to the front where Arribane had began plan details.
"Four scouts have been sent through the tunnel out of the city to meet with other forces. One consists of a little over a couple thousand dwarves. Another was sent to an Urgal encampment with an estimated million units. With any luck, both will join our cause by sunrise. There is a small force of elves reported to have been sent into Surda which another scout is looking for as well. The final is simply looking for anyone left too close to the city to have any shot at reaching the mountains.
"Our task here is to hold the city till they arrive or as long as we can. Kill as many of those bustards as you can. Don't hesitate. Don't think. Just do. Each of you also has a special purpose. Lead the dragons to you and keep him from your mind." His amber eyes flashed towards the regimen, looking right at him for a moment. For everyone knew who Arribane referred to as 'him.' "divide into groups of five and try to last as long as you can. We march to our deaths. For Aberon!"
His last words were met with a collective cheer as one of the boulders smashed into the upper tower. The men dispersed, each heading for the wall in their group. Hayden looked down the hill, at the thousands of faces surrounding Aberon. How could they even hold the city for a few seconds? There was so few to defend and so much to conquer.
He could feel the breath catch in his throat. The massive lump. The loud beating of his heart and the steady thrum of the rain against his armor. Pace patted his back. Hayden turned toward him, giving a feigned smile which mirrored Pace's. There was a glimmer of worry in there. In his eyes which had always seemed so unbreakable. The boys stayed in the courtyard, the last group left.
"You okay?" Pace said softly. "We don't have to do this."
Hayden looked around him at the other men. They were here to make a difference. So why should they leave. He shook his head. "No, you're wrong."
"You ready then?" He asked, voice colored with worry.
"No. I'll never be ready. But what the hell."
He took a step forward, his group following. As they made their way down the stairs, Arribane grabbed one of the men near the back, the same which had been glaring at them earlier. In a swift motion he had him behind the building, pinned against the wall.
"Let me go." He growled.
"And just what do you think you are doing, Shur'tugal." he flinched at the word. "You wait here with me."
"But—"
"But nothing. You put me in charge of your army in your stead. I'm ordering you to stay here, soldier. Wait for the elves. Or at least more men to cover you up. You'd be picked out of a crowd by those dragons in a few second."
"Those are my men down there. I won't make them fight alone. Besides, staying here would attract attention as well. No matter what I do, I won't stay secret for long."
"No, if you are on the wall, you will. Take it slow. Let a few gash you a couple of times. I won't have the Varden's greatest hope walking around the battle field down there."
"You can't order me, Arribane."
"I beg to differ, boy. I've been around for decades longer than you." Eragon looked away defiantly. "Fine. Make me this deal. You will wait till dawn to fight. Then you'll be on your own."
Eragon contemplated it for a moment. "Very well. Till dawn."
