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Death at the Top of the Mountain

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Red snow littered the ground, tainting the delicate scene.  The beauty lessened as the mortality rate rose. Men fell left and right, marking the enemies' path. Their tracks foreshadow their preplanned course.

But the path is unnecessary. We already know where they're headed and who they're headed to.

Me.

I have been the target from the start. No one has said it out loud, as if it is a taboo to state the truth. But every single one of them knew that I am the cause, the reason so many are dying and are dead. But I just draw my cloak around me tighter. I am used to this death.

Death follows me wherever I go.

The base was on top of the snow-capped hill, high over the battle field. One who is less sensitive to others might say it was the perfect view of the bloodshed, the bloodbath. They would be correct. The lieutenant's strategy board is seated on a table in front of a tent, right at the edge of the hill. I don't need to stay here. I am not needed. I can do more harm than help. But, I know not if they would let me. They think I don't see them as they glance over "subtly".

I know I'm under watch, under suspicion.

The lieutenant looks back out to the field. His brow furrows and he changes the pieces on the board in order to represent the soldiers on the field. An earsplitting scream sounds and I cannot take it any more.

Another regiment has fallen.

I turn away, silent and very aware of their eyes on me (and their hands on their swords). I walk to my tent, merely yards away from them. My cloak flutters in the wind as I go, looking straight ahead, willing myself to be unaware of the whispers.

I am still aware though.

I arrive at my tent with a cold look at the two guards standing outside of it, daring them to stop me. One moves suddenly and my hand snakes to the weapon concealed in the folds of my clothing. My alarm is for naught as the lad simply pulls the tent flap aside for me.

"Mademoiselle."

He gestures with his other hand inside the tent, his voice tinged with a slight French accent. I nod at him, my look warming to his. He was always a good boy, a nice, young gentleman who had little place to be here on a battlefield. I pray that he returns home as handsome and alive as he is when he tells stories around the fire.

The other guard takes his cue and pulls the other flap side. I spare him not even one look as I proceed inside cautiously, covering up my initial trepidation by drawing the cloak tighter around my throat.

Warmth surrounds me now, setting my worried mind at ease.

What feels like hours later, I emerge from the tent. It was eerily silent. I poke my head out and adjust my ponytail lazily, not aware of was taking place. I straighten up and come face to face with my worst nightmare.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, my love. I was starting to think that I would have to come in there and get you. Thanks for saving me the trouble."

The handsome young Frenchman lied at his feet with his throat slit and blood staining his usually clean uniform, all the life gone from his once bright eyes. The corpse of the other guard was farther away, sprawled out on the ground on its stomach. His position screamed coward. His death seems to be the result of an attempt to escape. Silly boy.

He didn't realize you can't escape death.

It seems as if she couldn't either. The man had a purely malicious look on his face as he shook the blood off of his dagger. The deep red of it seemed not to disturb what should have been his angelic appearance. It just added to it. He was truly the son of the devil.

He suddenly looks up, seeming as if to sense her thoughts and as if he realized that she has yet to say a word to him.

He just grins at her, positively pleased at what he had in store for the young blond who stood in front of him. She couldn't escape him anymore. There is no place to hide.

When will she ever realize that you can't hide from death?





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