A Soldiers Grief

Clash…

 Clash…

..Clash

Clash..

Heavy panting, burning throats

“YOU’RE DEAD, YOU HEAR!” He says as we continue to face each other. Our blades meet, glued together as we look into the spirits of the other. I snapped back, “Dead maybe, but NOT NOW!” as I gain the leverage to push him back. Time stops and the ground breaks as nothing else matters but landing a blow on my opponent, as we both continue until the other drops to his knees. Our screams rise above the commotion of the battlefield, drowning out the sound of gunfire to my right, where I see a soldier fall. To my left, there is a brawl between us and them, a soldier raises a helmet above his head and then brings it down on his own opponent as he lets out a desperate yell. He won that fight, then he moves to the next in line. That is the difference between us, his yell of desperation and mine of fury and concentration. 

Every swing is filled with those emotions, I need to. No, I will win this fight I think as my blade sharpens alongside my soul. Each attack is thrown to the side as I then try to exploit the second long gaps between blows. He is as I was, going by the book where every move has a block or counter. However, to a man like me it is only the beginning as the high and mighty officers write these down to be perfected. It leaves bewildering gaps for the crazy of man to fill with a poison that tears their perfect apart to rot in the ground alongside the men it failed. Almost as a self-proclaimed act of God, a shattering blow has made its mark on my foe, as I let out a yell so filled with anger that the battle pauses to see my opponent on the ground, lifting his broken blade towards me. A last desperate motion of survival, visibly seeing that his life is flashing before his eyes. My sword comes down, cutting the smokey air as it plants itself in between the neck and shoulder of my enemy. Down, down, down to his ribcage as I make a twist. Making a final crack as his body has finally been stripped physically along with the spirit he once had. The battle witnesses this scene, as I pull the blade from my stricken foe. We gain morale, the enemy grief. My last act is to point my blade at the enemy, signaling the battle is yet over.

The night now silent and no longer lit up by the sparks of blades clashing, there be a blade in the bloodsoaked and cratering field, created from darkness and metal, which lay upright. Entombed in a single body…until a hand grasps the hilt, and forces it out with a crack of flesh and bone. Shining with red blood, the sword is held high, men cheering to the sign, and with a flick, it disappears in a sheath of black. Now looking up towards the now fallen moon, which the sun takes to form a new day, hiding the distant explosions and tracers in its orange glow that is now dawn. My name is Shin, an MST in the Zetarass Ground Forces. A soldier who has been turned away from God’s righteous path, he who raises a blade against those who his leaders deem hostile.

Even outside of the battlefield, there are places that can drown a man in despair. One being the briefing room on the forward base, beyond the former border of this once peaceful country. Many men, including myself have become emotionless; or shown to be on the outside. Those who don’t make it past those ‘experienced’; but those who make it longer than those who are called “Survivors” and “Veterans”. Those who don’t end up dead, embrace the dead and start rotting at the core where the only action is to rip and tear, crack and twist the named “Enemies” who are merely the same as us.

Already the callout to gather around is heard, and the meager number of us that were called begin to shift towards our superior officer who stands on a decrepit wooden stand that raises him only inches above the ground.

With a voice so trained he calls out, “This is an operation that will win us the war!” Something we’ve heard many times, but is a sign that it is no duck hunt. “...Now, the reason you ghastly men are here is because some of you will be assigned to engage them,” he says as he points to the board with a branch fallen from a near tree.

“Are you joking?” A man behind me barks out. 

“That’s suicide!” Another pipes up. “Them”, is referring to a group of highly efficient MSTs, soldiers who are making the bulge in the frontlines appearing on charts. I, alongside the rest, am familiar with these demons. At this point, there is an argument that flares among all in the room, some complain, others despair, and I sit quietly; memories fill my head, creating a hellish nightmare of scenes long beyond complete. Pictures of the people I called friends, being torn apart without being able to scream. A scene races through of my friend, who enlisted alongside me being used like a pin cushion, all until the flesh was seared by the friction of worn blades and fell from his bones like ragged cloth. Kept upright by a spear that pinned his chest to the wall. I am brought back in a devils mood; a river's current through my body, flowing to every part. My darkened face now gains a devilish thought, now knowing it’s possible to not only defend those of many around, but complete my own just cause.

“I’ll do it.” I say sharply, silencing the argument and bringing back those out in deep thought. The quiet is broken by the Commander, speaks out “Okay then….Shin will be our diversion. The one to engage the four bastards who hold us back. The rest of you know their places, dismissed.” while everyone nods and starts for the doors, leaving the foldable chairs broken on the floor from the argument. As I sit, the Commanding Officer walks two paces past me, who stops and says “It’s time to find out who will win. The Devils or The Reaper?”. 

Alone, room only lit by the sunset through damp curtains I sit, grinding out sparks which sharpen my blade, making a single note that composers hate the most. Lighting up a tattoo on my left wrist, a chain with woven thorns that wraps my arm; a pact made, a proof of lost humanity. Demons only obey their lord, a force of commander and underlings; a known fact. But a force more independent, now banished, is The Reaper; a man made creation that is now proven real. Souls will not be reaped, but forcibly obtained when ripped out of throats and from spilled blood. They will be torn out by The Reaper…I will rip the souls out of any who I deem unworthy.