The Chronicles Of The Council #1: The Sun's Tears

Chapter 7: Aebbé - Monsters

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." – Stephen King

Raven's Peak, Ardam 40

I survey the battlefield. It is bloody. Seeing this makes it hard to understand why men sing and brag about their deeds from battle. This carnage is revolting. Things shouldn't be like this. People should not be dying in these circumstances.

It stinks. The flies have already descended on the corpses.

I make my way between the corpses. It is hopeless. I'm not seeing any survivors at this point in the field. Those who were injured and mobile enough to stay standing retreated to the back. Those here never had a chance. If they were still alive when they hit the ground, they didn't remain so after being trampled by those fighting over them.

My dress' hem is soaked and caked with blood and mud.

Somewhere in the back, a body cart squeaks. The smell of burning flesh hits me as the wind ruffles my hair. I gag.

An unwanted memory surfaces.

I've mostly succeeded in suppressing it – mostly.

The reason my father allowed me to study healing: to help me to attempt reconciliation with myself.

The smoke on the battlefield mixes with the fog.

I barely think about it – barely. There are some triggers of which lightning and burning flesh are the most potent ones. Luckily I don't smell burning flesh too often – only its aftermath in the tent of the injured.

But today the stench is everywhere.

Our enemy does not even go to the trouble of removing their own dead. We burn the bodies in two piles: ours and theirs. There is no space to bury our men.

Elan also forbids any bodies to be carried into the city from the battlefield. He dreads disease.

All our soldiers have been given a piece of flat stone with their name engraved on it. The body gatherers only collect these name tags that the soldiers carry around their neck by means of a leather string.

My father instated the system. The family of every soldier gets an exact copy. They can claim for some compensation after the war – when the king announces it. But money can't replace your husband or your son.

I kick an arm out of my way – an arm!

That day was a beautiful sunny day with clear blue skies and no clouds blotching its face. It was almost high-summer - much like today.

Suddenly it is all too much. I flee from the battlefield and my inner monsters, my heart hammering in my ears.

By the time I re-enter the city walls, my breath has normalized and I have regained my composure.

My heart is still thumping against my chest.

I walk away from the main throng of people moving between the city and the battlefield.

I finally stop walking when the crowd has thinned.

I close my eyes.

I feel the sunlight on my skin.

I listen to the sound of the city.

That is in the past, Aebbé, I chide myself.

It happened sixteen years ago.

Finally, having calmed myself, I go to the hospital – taking the solitary walk up the stairs.

This time I count them, but my brain gets stuck at the hundred-and-sixty-seventh step – still way below halfway up.