Gloves
Bishop laced up his boots with deft fingertips. His movements were stiff, his joints seized up by cold, by the frigid frost that wrapped around the battle field. This was war. This was the conscription he had been forced into as a boy. This is what he had to fight for. And now, as the enemy forces pushed them further and further back, and the chances of survival grew slimmer and slimmer, he took a precious moment, int a sea of chaos...to remember.
With shaking hands, he lifted the gloves from his satchel. They were made of fur, delicate and fragile. Just like her. Just like the lover back home, to whom he wished so dearly to return. His heart ached, and for a moment, the pain was greater than hat in his fingers. He twisted the gloves in his hands, and breathed them in deeply. They smelt of her, of peppermint and tea and something floral, like rose.
His duty was to his country, not to her, not to himself. His duty was to a country that would sooner see him dead than remember his name.
Bishop tucked the gloves back into his bag and stood. His boots dug into the grit and ashes of the dead, leaving his mark on their souls forever. He prayed that he would one day return to her. But as he stepped into the red dawn, he knew that he never would.
A/N: Been a while since I have posted a drabble a day. An assignment fixed that. Just a drabble speaking of Bishop's time in the war.