Irritated, I push back a lose strand of hair out of my eyes as I slam a basket of wet laundry onto the ground. It's a quick, annoyed gesture. Something that isn't a normal thing to see. I'm a sweet person, or so I am told. Not one to be annoyed easily.
But I've been moody since he left to join the army, my sweet Ian. I'm always fretting, always waiting for his return. I hope he is still alive, our country has been in many fights lately. It could easily take a soldier's life, blow out the flame of life that rests deep within him.
Our country is torn with wars, rebellions. We live in constant fear of raiders, bandits, robberies. Or that the war might come our way, with death, destruction and fear in its wake. Execution befalls those who only dare speak a word against our emperor, spies lurk everywhere.
Again my hair blows into my face, stirred by a disgustingly warm and cheery summer breeze. It's been well over a week since we've had a proper rainfall, but that doesn't harm the crops in the least. We live on fertile land, a river coming from a nearby mountain spring runs through the village. We've never really had to suffer before, maybe I should be thankful.
Thankful? For what? They've taken away the man I love, claiming they want to preserve our land. Oh, damnation take them all! If he'd only known what would be.
I've heard more than enough tales of the horrors of war, but never has a real word of glory fallen from those old veterans who live here. Few of our elders have ever left the village, most of them came back after a short while. Most of them took a liking of the job of a soldier, the propaganda having blinded them to the truth. But now that they've come back, they spew with tales of glory for those who are naïve enough to believe them.
I don't believe them. I never really did, but every belief I once held dear left with Ian. It was the day he took off that I confessed my feelings to him. Yet it couldn't keep him with me. I promised. Promised to wait for him. And I shall, no matter how much my parents pressure me to waken from my childish dreams of true love and his return. They've given up hope for Ian, though they were fond of him while he was still here. They've forsaken every thought of how he might come back for me.
My doubts in his return disappear when the mindless drone of constant housework takes over. I'm still cursing, fuming under my breath while I hang up the laundry I did only half an hour before, wishing my childhood back. I was so carefree than, I had a lot more time to myself. Maybe I can go back to the meadow for a few minutes when I'm done with my chore.
Just as I'm about to hang up those tiny trousers belonging to my elder sister's son, I hear someone coming. I roll my eyes with annoyance, knowing it will most likely be either one of my sisters or my mother, bringing new laundry to dry or give me a new task.
"Sianon?"
I groan inwardly. Even worse, it is my father. He gives me the most horrid chores to do, almost as bad as those my mother makes me do. There is absolutely nothing I find more humiliating than crouching on the floor, scrubbing those damned wooden boards.
"Yes?" Wiping a bead of sweat from my brow, I turn to face my father. He looks solemn, sincere, as if something important was up for discussion, but he looked somewhat excited as well.
"Well, there most certainly is no point in standing there, staring at me as I've grown wings. Out with it, I still have to do," I say with a hint of annoyance in my voice, wiping my hands on my apron.
"Your mother wants you to come inside, there's someone here to see you," he says, ignoring my tone of voice.
"Who is it?" I try to suppress my hopes of it being Ian. I'd be foolish to let my hopes rise so high, only to be failed.
"A young man."
"Send him away if he's not Ian or carries news of him."
"But -"
"I said send him away!" I shout. Fool! Thick-headed fool! I do not want another man, stop sending them to propose!
My father leaves, and I cannot help exhaling gratefully. They say I am pretty. All of them do, the men, the women, some little girls have even stated they wanted to grow up to be like I am. I don't understand . . . Why can't they see further?
There have been worse cases of tortured souls, I know this. I have seen old veterans who have been tortured beyond human belief, I have seen fever steal away the sanity of both old and young. Illness has reached even our peaceful little village; the creeps in its wake - only a faint shadow of what my poor Ian has seen out in the battle field, I know.
But it pains me nevertheless. I want him to come back, and never leave again. Warfare is not for him, that much I could always tell. He was such a gentle nature when I saw him last . . . And yet I can only call him a fool. He thought he could win my affections by being brave. He listened to those foolhardy idiots that called themselves his friends. Hah! I can't say why he believed them.
Ah, he must have been desperate. Despite his gentle, caring nature, he was always restless. Like any young boy he wanted glory, wanted to be known. He wanted to see the world, explore the lands, venture where no one else has been before.
It could have been cruel to bind him. And yet I wish I had done so. It would have spared both of us a great deal of pain. I know I sound selfish, but that is how it is.
Sighing, I bend down and pick up the whicker basket that is still halfway filled with linens that need to be hung up, and carried on with my chore. The quicker I work, the sooner I will be done with this task. That is definitely a prospect to look forward to.
It doesn't take long; I'm working faster than usual. But I leave the whicker basket out on the grass, and head off to wander around the village. It's been a while since I've just been there, not out to do any chores or something along those lines . . . I'm sure it will be different.
Our small farm is a bit on the outside, it's about a twenty minute walk. I like traveling by foot better than using the wagons, they're a waste of energy for the horses we should be using for plowing. Ah, I'm such a terrible hypocrite. I admit taking off with one of the horses once in a while, to take a ride. Even I need a break from everything, some time away from it all. Those little escapes of mine have gotten more and more frequent lately, I simply can't sit still anymore.
My pace is brisk, the slight summer breeze stirs my blonde hair. The work outside in the sun has bleached it to a pale, almost whitish color, though it is usually the color of wheat in the late autumn. A sparrow flits over the path, I almost step on it because it was so close. My moods lift, it's a beautiful day and I can't help being cheerful now.
I start braiding my hair as I walk along, humming a merry tune that has randomly popped into my head. Small clouds of dust rise from the ground where I step on, the path is always a bit rocky, no matter how many carts pass here. The wheat fields sway gently in the wind - I haven't seen such a peaceful day in a long time.
A faint tremor runs through the ground, I hear the rumbling of many hooves behind me. I stop dead in my tracks and turn, anxious. I sense something coming this way - something bad. Ill news carries fast. To me, ill news sounds like the stillness that suddenly lies in the air right now.
My eyes narrow when I spot a huge cloud of dust a few miles away. I'm in luck, the ground is flat in these parts of the empire. You can see things coming when they're miles away.
I can make out the blurred shapes of horses, their riders are no more than misshapen lumps on their backs. Their coming - fast. What is all this about? News would have reached us out here if the tax collectors are coming, or if a troop of soldiers were passing through, wouldn't it? My father is one of the elders of this village - yes, it would have reached us first, even.
I stand frozen in place, watching whoever it is drew near. The pounding of many hooves is obvious now, the impact of when their hooves meet the ground shake me like a small earthquake.
They have come so close I can "Out of the way, girl!" one of them shouts when he spots me, standing in the middle of the road. I am still unable to move, paralyzed. If this is death I am facing right now, it is absolutely not what I had imagined. I have never even dreamed of being trampled to death by horses. Never.
Realization finally strikes me, and I dive out of the way just as they pass. I hit the ground hard, coughing from the dust the riders have raised. I'm sure I will have a few bruises after this.
Before I can stop myself, I spring up again and shout, "BASTARDS! THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU! What are you trying to do, kill innocent people while they're walking here?!" at the top of my lungs. I'm boiling with anger. How dare they act like this! It is not their land, they can't just -
My train of thought stops abruptly when I see them turn around. They're fast, it doesn't take long for them to be on me. I can do nothing but stand my ground, chin raised in defiance to whatever comes now.
They surround me, one of them coming up to me directly. He rides a circle around me, once, twice. What is he trying to do, make me dizzy so I fall over and don't give him any trouble? Tough luck, lad, you can't be much older than I am. I don't listen to men who think they have authority over me, and aren't even adults yet. Only like to believe they are.
I glare at him. "Well? Going to keep me waiting all day? Is it beneath you to speak to a woman?" I say viciously, aiming my verbal blow at his ego, a move which is not hard to calculate. Males are always so sensitive when it comes to their dignity.
He stops his horse, a pretty chestnut mare, in front of me, and leans down a bit. "Cheeky, are ye?" he says as he reaches out and lifts my chin a bit, as if to get a better look at me. "Pretty enough. Makes up for your behavior, don't it."
My reaction is violent, worse than I thought they would be. I spit in his face, and slap his hand away brutally. "A common wench I may be, but not a common whore!" I shout, clenching my fists, ready to hurt him if I have to.
He is startled, I can tell. The look of surprise on his face is as bluntly obvious as the fact that I have bruised his high self-esteem. Good. He doesn't deserve any better. Bastard. How low does he think my status is?
What he does next is probably to make himself feel better, thinking he could put me In my "right" place with it. He lifts my chin again and kisses me full on the mouth. His comrades make hooting noises, jeer at me, cheer their friend on.
It doesn't last more than four seconds, though. I shove him away, then give him a right hook that catches him in the jaw. He nearly falls off his horse backwards, this time it is I that jeer. The rest of the soldiers - they can't be more than twelve, really - have stopped their cajoling, they gape in stupor.
"Don't ever dare do that again, you son of a whore," I hiss, loud enough for any of the bystanders to see. "I have said that I may be a common woman; but never, EVER a whore!"
He rubs his jaw gingerly, cursing. I can see a bruise is starting to form where my fist connected. I'll congratulate myself on that later - if I get out of this alive. And avoid anything else that could happen. More than often enough have I heard of horrifying tales of what soldiers have done to poor, defenseless women. Rape, murder . . . I can't help but wander if Ian has ever done anything like that.
Murder - yes, likely. That is what war is. Murder. Killing. Hurting others. There is no way he can survive in the military without killing others. But rape . . .
Put that thought aside, woman, I scold myself. Get out of this first, then you can ponder what your love has been doing all these years. Get out of this alive. Come on.
Then I start running, diving under the bellies of the horses, squeezing in between the riders. Just running.

I don't know why they let me go. Just without even trying and following me. Not that I have a problem with it, quite the opposite . . . But it does make me wonder.
They're men. They were on horseback. They could have easily caught up with me, caught me, done whatever they liked. They are stronger, they have weapons. And yet they chose not to follow. They chose to let me make utter and complete fools of them. I don't understand.
I reach the village unharmed, a bit out of breath. I usually don't run that long, I'm more for short distances. But I was in a hurry. I was scared. There is no way I am going to insult a troop of soldiers like that again. If I'm alone, that is. If there are other people there, I will. I have taken a liking to bruising male egos.
It's eerily quiet in the village's streets . . . I'm not used to this. There are no children running to greet me, no other girls my age smirking in my direction because they are married and I am not . . . What is wrong today?
Almost panicked, I run to the marketplace, ignoring the pain that stabs my sides with every breath I draw. My instincts were right; everyone is at the market place. A rather large crowd is milling around something I can't yet see. So, curious as I am, I approach the mass of people.
Several of them start to protest when I start pushing through them, but they see it is me and back away, a sad expression on their faces. I frown, puzzled. What is wrong? Have I done something bad? Why do they look at me with pity written all over their faces? Why do they look so sad?
I reach the front of the crowd and my gaze falls upon what they've been looking at, crowding about. Riders . . . the soldiers I have encountered before. And a wagon. A wagon bearing a dead man.
He seems familiar, so I take a closer look so I might identify him. He wears a uniform that, at one point, has been a deep, rich forest green, but is now covered with mud, dust, and blood. A horrifyingly large crimson stain is where his heart was, surround a gaping hole. A wound that killed him, obviously.
My gaze wanders up to his face. He is young, he wasn't more than nineteen when he died. The scraggly beginnings of a reddish beard are on his angular jar and almost up to the high cheekbones. He has a straight nose, and high forehead. His entire complexion is smudged with dirt, perspiration, and a thin line of blood runs from the corner of his mouth. I can't tell the color of his eyes, but my heart fills with dread when I see his long and tangled, but straight coppery hair. Ian.
Tears blur my vision, I can't see clearly anymore. Now I know why people looked at me with sadness and pity. Ian. He is dead. He kept his promise, he came back. But not to walk among the living.
I don't care what the soldiers from earlier think as a cry of anguish escapes me, and I break down over Ian's corpse. Heavy sobs tear at my throat and chest, but I can't let them out. I can't. I mustn't. The bitterness of the situation snares my throat, it's hard to breathe. But I don't care. I could suffocate here and now and wouldn't care. He is dead. Dead! Died for the sake of bloody warfare! He died for the sake of absolutely nothing!
Oh, how I despise his friends for ever having talked him into joining the military. How I hate the Emperor and his idiotic games of war. He is no more but a greedy old idiot who has nothing better to do than stuff his ugly face with the finest food while parts of his empire die of famine and starvation, who plays with the lives of so many. I hate him from the depth of my broken heart.
Someone approaches from behind, I feel hands gently tug me away from Ian's body. I dare look to see who it is, and feel almost relieved to see it's my father. Through my tears I can see his grief in pain at my distress, at the loss of someone who would have made a fine son-in-law. I can't bear look back as he leads me away.

Clothed in black as any widow would have been, I stand in front of the hole in the ground into which they will lower the coffin soon. I want to throw myself in it, beg them to burrow me like they will do for Ian. I don't want to live, I've lost every hope I possessed. Like an angel fallen from grace, I feel both betrayed and grieved. I know Ian would never have left this world by free will without saying good-bye to me.
I can't cry, I don't have any tears left. I watch detachedly as Ian's parents and mine sob their hearts out, as well as quite a few village girls who had liked to flirt with him. I refrain from shouting at the girls; Ian was mine and mine alone, they had no right to try and steal him. Yet somehow I pity them, for I had something they never could have owned. Ian's heart.
The priest speaks praises of Ian, of his good heart and nature. He tells us he is now in a better place. But how can he know? How can he know if the next world is a better place for him? How can he speak so freely of Ian's wonderful personality when he has never really known him?
Several people go up front to reflect one some occasion they shared with Ian, what they learned from him. Ian was a person who was as good as many could only wish to be. When my father asks if I would like to speak in front of the crowd, I agree. But I request to be the last to speak, for I still have to carefully think over what I am going to say. So I let others speak before I do.
Just before it is my turn, the soldier whom I slapped a week ago on my way to the village steps up and holds his own speech. I listen intently, despite my resentment for him. He says Ian was a fine soldier, brave and true, and loyal to the empire. He says he sacrificed himself for others, often risked his life for his friends. I growl under my breath, but stop when my father shoots me an odd look.
The soldier continues with the bloody tale of Ian's last battle, which he ended in all glory. He fought bravely against the leader of the enemy, and, in the end, killed him after receiving a fatal blow into the heart. And he ended the battle so no more would die.
He steps away from his place in front of the others, who are silent - stunned -, and gestures me to take his place. With an arrogant air I lift my chin and stalk past him, resisting the urge to slap him square across the face when he sneers. I'll show him who the braver one of us is. He can be sure of that. I will smash his ego into the ground. I will stamp his stupid army to dust.
I clear my throat as if to gain the others' attention, though I know I undoubtedly have it. There's been gossip about my reaction to his death, so why not help it along?
"Ian," I say, ignoring the lump in my throat, "was a fine man, better than any of us - especially those who glorify war - could be. He died for a cause of no worth, whereas we have only mislead friends and propaganda to blame. He was a gentle person, he never would have killed unless attacked himself. He was talented, sweet and generous. And now, obviously, he is dead.
"And why? Because some the idiot we call Emperor thought it he had to satisfy his damned greed by taking over lands that have meant us no harm ever. That is why we are here, why we cry, grieve, why he is not among us anymore. Have any of you ever regretted a decision so badly it hurts? I most certainly do. I regret having let him go to join fools such as him" - I point at the soldier and his little troop, who are all giving me nasty looks - "to serve such an arrogant bastard as our Emperor!" I almost shout the last part, furious.
"Sianon!" I hear my father hiss. I brush his anxious tone away, but fear itself wraps itself around my heart when I see the soldiers have pulled their swords and have begun filing up front.
"NO! I refuse to be stilled! My love died for idiots! None of you ever knew him, never!" I scream at the soldiers. "You made him a damned killing machine! It was you who killed him, not the so-called enemy! You alone are to blame! I hate you! EVERYONE ONE OF YOU! FOOLS!"
They have reached me, taken rough hold of me. I'm not listening to them anymore as they shout something about treason, call me a traitor, yelling at the villagers because they have been around me all my life. I struggle, kick someone. But they bring me down. They are too many. I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore. Take me, you fools. Take and kill me. But my legacy will live.

The crowd is hushed, almost silent, as it parts before me. I am in chains, have two guards who have a strong hold of me on each arm. They should know better. I won't escape. I don't want to anymore. I don't want to live, they're only doing me a favor without noticing it. But let them believe they are ridding the folk of a traitor. Let them believe they are taking out a black sheep out of the mass of white ones.
Familiar faces are in the crowd. I spot my mother somewhere as I pass, see her crying. I want to reach out to her, comfort her, but I can't. Don't cry, Mother. Everything will be alright. You won't have a disgrace such as me to worry about anymore when this is finished. She is gone as quickly as she appeared in my field of vision.
I am lead up the steps of the raised wooden platform; I am to be hanged. Several times my parents have offered the guards the fee to bail me out, but always I have declined. Why should I want to be free? There's nothing to wait for anxiously every day. Nothing to keep me going.
The executioner's face is hidden by a mask, but I can tell he is grieved to kill me. I trust him, though I know I have never made acquaintance with him. I stand patiently as my chains are removed, and he ties the nose around my neck. Curious, I study the trapdoor beneath me. It will open soon. I will fall to my death.
But I'm not scared, that's what matters.
The noose is tied, they ask me if I want to speak any last words. I shake my head as best as I can with the nose around my neck. "No. Just do it."
My guards look at each other, surprised, then shrug and step away. The executioner also puts a distance between himself and I. I feel the boards beneath me quiver with each step the men take. I lift my chin proudly, fix my gaze upon people in the crowd. Most find it hard to meet my eyes, but my parents and those of Ian can. The latter nod at my bravery, and I can't help but smile a bit.
But that little expression is broken when I lose my footing. They have opened the trapdoor without warning, obviously trying to get a surprised, if not pained expression on the face of their victim. But they receive neither. I smile as I hear a sickening crack, as my vision turns black. And there is no more.
Ian, wait for me on the other side of darkness . . .