Gone. All is gone. A village with no one to protect, ripen fields with no one to harvest. The men probably all dead long before, their corpses strewn over a hundred battlefields. The children, the old, and the infirmed taken away by the plague and the famines. Everything will be soon consumed by the metaphorical and the all too real flames of war.
And now it's the women's turn. Oona gripped the scythe with all her remaining strength as she stared at the soldiers slowly moving forth towards them, like shadows encroaching, ready to snuff out the weak flames of candles. There must be dozens- no, hundreds of them, far more than the small huddle of women, who are armed with whatever farming and household implements: scythes, hoes, pitchforks, even the odd rolling pin. Utterly hopeless things against the forces of evil, with their thunder sticks and other instruments of war.
In the face of certain death with no hope of escape, the natural instinct of a last spasm of resistance asserts itself to the fore. The corned animals ready to make their last stand.
Then she saw him: the warlord himself, riding on top of a massive gray steed, his similarly dull gray armor somewhat covered by a fur cloak, presumably from some massive predatory animal. Surrounding him must be his guards, all massive and equally well armored.
Then there's a couple of hooded figures, swirling dull and faded reds of their hoods and cloaks masking every part of their body and face. Shadowy things that seemed to flicker in and out of the plane of existence. Must be the warlocks, the masters of the dark arts.
She took a step forward, the simple action drawing the attention of the warlord, though he and his retinue was already moving in their direction. There was no one else around, nothing else of note.
As the clopping of the horses steadily grew louder she gripped her scythe tighter, the sounds as if counting down the moments to her imminent death.
Suddenly the clopping stopped, and she opened her eyes, not even remembering closing them before. They're right in front of her. Out of her peripheral vision she saw that the other women had shuffled back a few steps, the instincts of self preservation overriding the acceptance of death, even if momentarily.
As her attention returned to the fore she noticed that the warlord had taken his helmet off, passing the heavy piece of armor off to one of his guards. The reveal almost took her breath away: an impossibly young face, with a head of unruly auburn hair. One could almost say- dashing.
Oona shook her head, discarding those useless thoughts. Innocent looking or not, he is still evil. If not his essence, then the essence of those who he is with and thus by extension back to him.
The man got off his horse, and slowly walked towards her. She thought of shuffling back a few steps as well, but caught herself at the last moment. It wouldn't make a difference in this world, and all the difference in the other.
"You, you are a brave one." The man finally said as he came to a stop a few feet before her. "It doesn't have to end this way." The last bit sounds more like a warning, rather than a statement of what's surely to come.
"The hell it doesn't!" Oona swore as she swung her scythe with all her remaining strength. The warlord quickly caught it by the shaft in midair with one of his mailed hands, and snapped it without a moment's hesitation. The shattered pieces fell to the dirt with a soft thud, but one that could be heard clearly, as if amplified by the weight of the situation. He didn't even flinch, nor change his expression.
"It really doesn't." He repeated the words, as if they meant anything to those who have already lost everything. "They didn't have to die either." There's a strange flatness in his voice. A conviction of sorts, as if he truly believed them rather than the bold face lying of all warlords and scoundrels. Or he's trying to convince himself of his own falsehoods.
"You killed them, and you despoiled everything!" Oona all but screamed out the seemingly obvious. Of course he did. He invaded first, he slaughtered them all, he corrupted all before him. The incarnation of evil itself. She threw a fist at him, which he casually slapped aside. A stab of pain flashed up her arm, but she ignored it.
"So I did. So we did." The words came out of his mouth haltingly, as if each word had to be dragged out of there. "We offered them to surrender, to lay down their arms. But their honor demands that they fight. That they die for the glories of their liege and gods." He gently shook his head. "War is the last and worst thing that should have happened."
"But it always ends up that way does it?" A female voice whispered. It was then that Oona noticed that one of the hooded figures had gotten off their horse, and now they- she, if only judged by voice, was standing next to the warlord. Must be a witch or sorceress of some sort. The figure turned towards Oona, though her face was still hidden in the unnatural shadows of the hood. "I swear, the less you peoples have in worldly goods, the more made up nonsense you conjure up to fill that hole."
"Huh?" Oona was confused at the sudden nonsense the witch is spewing, out of the corner of her eyes she noticed that the warlord twitched at the witch's words, as if he, while understanding them, also seemed to strongly disagree with those words.
"Please, not this again." The warlord said towards the witch in an exasperated tone, as if this wasn't the first time they had such disagreements. "This girl here deserves an honorable death for her bravery in the defense of her home and the honor of her people. Not- not the fate you have in store for her." It was almost as if he was trying to help her, or taking a jab at the witch. It's hard to tell which.
And the hint that there are far worse things than the hordes that he leads that consumes everything in its path, and leaves only fires and death. But what could it possibly be?
"But what about the opposite? How about living forever instead?" The witch asked, laying both of her hands on Oona's shoulders. Those hands, they were so clean, so smooth, no calluses, nor any blemishes. Like that of spirits and other creatures of fairy tales. "All the time in the world, to bear witness of what comes after. Heck, even taking part in something far more grand than this hardscrabble existence."
"What- why are you offering this?" Oona asked in a whisper. Surely this is against whatever nefarious plots of the warlord, who out of the corner of her eyes she saw drawing out his sword- a rather unremarkable and simple blade of all things. Or perhaps, perhaps the warlord might be right, that this witch is plotting something even worse than a mere quick death.
Or she has finally lost her mind, which is really the most likely thing. She's delusionally dreaming, dreaming of an out of an impossible no win situation.
"Because I can." The witch replied mysteriously, a statement that answered nothing yet with a finality that brushed aside furthering inquiries. "So. What will you choose? A fitting death as expected of this world, or a life of something else entirely to think it all over instead?" She shrugged, as if not caring about the girl's choices. "We'll even spare everyone else, how does that sound?"
Time itself seemed to have stopped, even though the whispers of the wind continued unabated. Oona mulled over the options again and again in what seemed to be forever but couldn't have been more than a handful of moments. No one and nothing would tolerate waiting any longer for someone as insignificant as her.
Death was appealing, when there was the remote chance of a struggle. But the moment had passed, and death now would be meaningless, pointless, fruitless. Yet there's something about that mysterious offer of life that feels suspicious on a gut level... but it also seems to make the warlord uncomfortable, perhaps even a bit apprehensive.
