by Barbara C.
Blood streamed down the side of her face matting the auburn tresses that laid upon her shoulders. The blood wasn't hers. It didn't even belong to anyone she knew; faceless strangers, hoards of them.
She gazed at the carnage surrounding her. She shouldn't have done this. It was wrong. The bloodshed, the loss of life, the families left to grieve. The broadsword in her hands felt heavier than it had all day. She looked down to see blood trickling down the blue engravings on the blade. The blended color was purple, the same color as many of the wounds and bruises the dead, dying, and injured wore.
She was not meant to lead these people. She was not a leader, not a warrior, she was a mage meant to follow command against the evil that plagued mankind. She was not meant to take the lives of farmers and merchants and squires, nor knights. She was not meant to become the evil she desperately fought against. This was not her calling. This would not be her life.
The rain began to fall. The miserable, cold rain often said to be the tears of God. She agreed with Him. If ever there were a time to weep, now was that time. She threw back her head and screamed.
She screamed with the agony of victory. She screamed with the agony of defeat. She screamed for the loss of innocence. She screamed with the injustice of it all. 'Twas a blood curdling scream from her soul. Her wretched lonely soul, a thing she hoped she still possessed after this massacre.
She continued to scream until her throat burned with ill use, until sides ached and her lungs felt like they would burst. Only then did she stop. A few hours earlier her cry started a battle. Now, her cry ended one.
Her head slumped forward. She fell to her knees, her hands still gripping the hilt of her broadsword. She wept. Her tears mingled with the blood and soaked earth. This battle was over, but a new one loomed in the near future. It was one that she was expected to take part in. It was one that she would not take part in. A surge of anger boiled through her as she lifted her sword up high. She then brought it down with all her strength burying it deep into the dirt, which quickly turned to mud.
Rising to her feet, she gazed at the carnage surrounding her then lifted her face to the heavens to let God's tears wash away the blood of her sins and purify her soul. She would learn from her mistakes. She would leave. She would go home, to a place where she was wanted, to a place where she was loved. A place where leadership and carnage did not go hand in hand, but where there were such things as happy endings and where the lines were clearer between good and evil.
She would return to the Nomad. She would return to Sinbad and the rest of her friends.
Maeve took one last look at the place she had thought was home. It wasn't any more. It hadn't been for a long time. With that, she left.
Her sword along with her memories of this place, Eire, was all that remained.