Her village burns bright against the starless night. Crawling along the mud like a beast, one hand holding in what is left of her guts, the world shimmers before her in a bloody blur of fire and shadow. The pain in her stomach is so absolute that she hardly notices her palm slipping on a broken spearhead, slicing down to the bone. This is her end. It's a realisation that hits numb nerves with the same dull impact as the spear blade.
She wonders where her children are. Running off into the night, bare feet slapping on the mud. The reavers were all around the village. She saw her husband’s head crushed under their horses. She knows there isn’t much of a chance her children can outrun them. But it’s all she has, in these final moments.
She wonders why. Why has this happened? Why did they come? What force has taken all this from her? Not just her life, but any hope for the future. What permits this absolute annihilation?
She coughs up blood. It runs across the back of her palm. Her fingers tighten their grasp on the wet earth, furiously clinging to every second that she has left, and the mud sluices up between her knuckles. The mud glistens in the flames. Specks of gold catch the flickering lights of the inferno.
As she dies, she understands why.
Paddy Dobson
15th March 2022