Blood

Prologue

I only recently came up with the idea for the prologue (which relates to the final epilogue of book 3) so I had to put it at the end of the book.

Thanks!

Enjoy!

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The car came grinding to a halt, its tyres moving the gravel about noisily as it stopped. There was a pause before the door opened slowly, clicking loudly in the dead silence of the early morning as a young woman stepped out. She was a pretty, if not beautiful, person but the sadness in her reflected on her skin, shone in her eyes and burned in her chest.

She looked around her, taking in her surroundings slowly. The sky wash an ashen grey and filled with clouds, hiding the sunlight and blue skies, and a cold, bitter wind travelled in the air. There were trees dotted here and there, void of any leaves or foliage, but otherwise the landscape was pretty bare; just a big green lawn with gravel paths winding through it.

She was brought away from her observations by a loud whining. She rolled her eyes but the action didn't quite fill her face, and opened the back door of the vehicle, revealing a small toddler. The woman unbuckled the child car seat buckle, pulling the toddler into her arms and murmuring to her soothingly. The child whined again and tangled her small fingers in the woman’s red hair, tucking her head into the crook of her mother’s neck.

The girl was a pretty thing like her mother, but, strangely enough, she bore little resemblance to her mother which had, of course, caused many problems for the woman wherever she went. The child’s eyes were a bright blue, vibrant and energetic, unlike the dulled brown of her mothers, and her short curls were a chocolaty brown instead of red. However, the two did share some resemblances. The shape of their faces, eyes and nose along with the angle of their jaws and cheekbones were very similar and their personalities were shared also.

Kicking the door shut and rather awkwardly locking the car, the woman set off, child in arms, walking along the gravel path.

She soon lost herself to her thoughts, barely away of the small girl desperately trying to get her mother’s attention, pulling at the long strands of hair almost painfully. She followed the path until she came to a large memorial. An angel stood on top of a white pillar, an arm stretched towards the sky holding a thorn crown and the other slung around a soldier. The soldier was lying limply, only held up by the angel’s arm supporting him, eyes closed peacefully and a rifle hanging from his shoulder. It was a beautiful statue, the carving exquisitely done and the white stone clean and pure.

The woman stared at it for a long time, drinking in the detail, completely mesmerized by it. The child in her arms squirmed and whimpered, tugging at a strand of mahogany hair impatiently but her mother remained absorbed by the statue.

This time, the loud and sharp call of a crow woke the mother from her reveries and her head shot up to lay her eyes upon the black bird. It sat on a leafless branch, feathers bunched up around him keeping him safe from the cold and eyes fixed on the woman. She glared back at it, its ominous song ringing in her ears, returning memories of old to her mind.

She looked away, her throat thick with emotion and began stroking her daughter’s hair. The action became quite desperate, making her begin to shake as she fought back the memories and the emotions associated with them. She took in a deep breath and stared back up at the statue, this time reading the placard on the pillar.

3,935 British lie here with 17 Australians, 8 New Zealanders, 1 South African, 25 Poles, 3 French, 2 Czechs, 2 Italians, 7 Russians, 466 Germans and one unknown unidentified.

She only read this; this was all she needed to know.

She strode away from the statue, continuing on her way along the gravel path, holding her daughter close.

Then they appeared.

She came to an abrupt halt, jolting and startling her child who let out a small cry of surprise.

The woman remained frozen and now, the sadness seemed to flow off her, filling the air around her.

In front of her, rows upon rows of white crosses stood. They were all aligned in near to perfect precision and looked exactly alike. They stretched along the green expanse before fields replaced them, filled with livestock and crops and beyond all of that, the faint outline of the blue ocean was just visible on the horizon.

She faintly remembered today’s newspaper, the eleventh of the eleventh it was.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them

She had heard those words twice that day and she remembered them again as she stood there.

“We will remember them,” she murmured, just loud enough for her daughter to hear.

The girl cocked her head but her mother offered no explanation.

Instead, her mother fell to her knees and began to cry. She cried, and she cried and she cried. The tears flowed down her cheeks, splashing on the toddler’s face as she released the emotion she refused to show anyone else.

Her grip tightened on her daughter as she sobbed harder and the small child began to squirm and whine again, frightened and confused.

“M-…” She began but her mother cut her off, placing a finger on her small lips as she began to recompose herself.

After a while, the woman rose without a word and began to walk slowly towards the white crosses.

“One unknown.”

She walked through the crosses.

“One unidentified.”

She searched for the cross.

“One.”

And she found it. She slowed to a halt before one white cross. Unidentified was carved into the old white stone and nothing else. A red poppy was growing by it, just one, unusually bright in the dark and grey sadness of the lost souls.

She kneeled down by it slowly, her jeans absorbing the melting frost.

“We will remember them,” she whispered again, a final tear falling and landing on the cold earth.