The war had taken its toll on Ceritavia, on all of its people. The invasion had forced so many families into the war effort, fighting when they were able, supporting the fighters when they could not. Tilla’s family was no different. Her brothers had all already been killed by the Durandan horde, leaving her, like her elderly grandmother, to be pressed into service as a healer. The tired physician who she assisted had taught her all the basics in a five minute session. Put your hands over the wound like this, Tilla. Concentrate the energy here, Tilla, say these words, Tilla, then release. Release. Good, next.
That quickly, she had started healing, and that quickly, she had found herself in the midst of the war, her hands always bloody, her mind always lost in the carnage that was wheeled endlessly into the cave where the healers were kept safe from etheric bombardments.
Until the day that the Durandan horde finally breached their defenses and swarmed into the camp, slaughtered the shift of Ceritavian warriors asleep in their tents. The last thing that Tilla saw was the tired physician as he was shredded before her eyes, begging on his knees, citing lines of scripture that stated children and healers were non-combatants, that it was their duty to heal whoever was wounded, regardless of allegiance. The Durandan soldier didn’t listen, didn’t care, didn’t even flinch as he ripped his way through The physician, dug his eager claws into Tilla and spread her across the cave walls like a bucket of crimson paint.
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BIO: I like to write sometimes. I enjoy reading the stories on Yesteryear.
Labels: Mara Wesseltorff