|When Mona Cried
Author: Wren Saille PM
As the sacred Isle of Anglesey burns the Celtic people show what they are made of; because savagery is subjective.Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy/Spiritual - Words: 888 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 2 - Published: 07-16-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2933512
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Just a short little piece on the Roman destruction of the sacred groves of the Isle of Anglesey. As usual feel free to drop me a line and tell me what you think. Remember to check out my other stories if you enjoy this.
When Mona Cried
They cried once. When the fire consumed the sacred groves they cried, tears flowing freely across painted skin.
This was the start and they knew it, it had been foretold so long ago- that didn't stop it from hurting.
The soldier was lagging behind; he heard the echoing noise in the near silence. The charred remains of the sacred grove had almost finished smouldering and he could hear something in the forest.
He could hear weeping.
It was then that he hung back and took a step into the dark where the savages lived and worshipped their Gods.
He watched them weeping for their loss, truly heartbroken. He felt a strange tug in the bottom of his stomach as he watched their grief.
Was it wrong? Was what he had been ordered to do wrong?
He had never felt so conflicted as he watched these secretive people gather together and mourn.
The branches near him cracked and he jumped as a young woman approached him; her face was painted and covered in tear tracks.
She did nothing except to look at him with her dark eyes and wrap her thin arms around herself.
"Death." She spoke haltingly to him in his own language- just that one word.
He opened his mouth to question her, but she had melted back into the trees.
The soldier started to walk out of the forest and back towards his legion, a sudden chill creeping through his veins.
The chill was back. He could feel the adrenaline thrumming through his body as the order to charge was given.
The mass of people had appeared from over the hill and the great army all felt fear at that one moment.
A great mass of raw, passionate warriors, all covered in intricate markings and brandishing swords.
They struck fear into even the most seasoned warrior. These people who let their women command them and walk amongst them as equals and leaders, who lived their faith and defended their Isle with everything they had; these people who were open with their activities and truly embraced the threat of death.
The soldier fought these people. He slew them and let their blood run across his hands, they were the savages.
On the battlefield he saw their now blank faces staring up at him and he turned away from the sight. His comrades were walking back, talking amongst themselves. As they reached the crest of the hill they stopped and turned to look at their retreating enemy. Families had fought and died side by side in their army, yet no mourning could be seen as mothers carried the bodies of their children and husbands the bodies of their wives.
"They never cry." The soldier's comrade commented.
The soldier made no comment and simply followed his comrade back towards their encampment.
They had walked a short way when a cry went up; a soldier had grabbed a young woman, the same young woman that the soldier had spoken to in the forest.
She was cradling the body of a young boy, painted with the same patterns as her. Her eyes were swollen and red but tears had long ago dried up. She clutched the body to her chest and pulled away from the soldier.
"Kneel down." A soldier commanded.
She stared at him for a moment before starting to turn away and walk back to her village, the body was clutched to her like the most precious possession she had.
"I said kneel down." He repeated.
She still ignored him. The soldier guessed that she understood what the man was saying but chose to ignore him.
"Well if that's what you want." He walked forward and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her around to face him.
Everyone knew what he was going to do. The soldier felt powerless to stop his comrade. The young girl simply calmly brushed her lips against the forehead of the corpse in her arms.
The soldier's comrade laughed briefly.
He plunged his sword through her stomach almost lazily.
"Kneel." He commanded her again.
She didn't look at him, instead choosing to make eye contact with the soldier.
The soldier felt the chill return to his veins as he watched her carefully lower herself down to the ground so that she was now lying on the grass.
She still had the corpse wrapped tightly in her arms.
The soldier's comrade huffed and turned from the dying girl. He started to walk away but the soldier lingered.
"We die." The young girl whispered, his language came uncomfortably from her lips.
He could see the blood seep through her dress.
He was powerless.
They knew they were going to die, and die they did. The soldier was powerless to stop the destruction, he had to follow orders.
He never saw them cry again, and unlike his comrades he knew why they didn't.
Crying didn't stop it. Crying didn't help; and now there was too much to cry about.