A/N: This story is a part of a series being written by the Jane and the Dragon fanfiction. A complete list of stories can be found in my profile. Now with hyperlinks!

And now back to our regularly scheduled Laree programming. Um...yeah.

War.

Conflict, bloodshed, slaughter.

Barbarous.

Unrelenting.

War, dependable cycle of death and destruction-

-A relentless, perpetual crusade of the hungry void.

July is the cruellest month, bending dry dessicated stalks where once lilacs once stood.

Dull roots would clamor for the spring rains, if their voices had not already been silenced by the dry pulsing core of a ruthless sun.

Wasted bees crawl through the cracked lips of a forgotten bloom. Searching, hungry.

What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?

None.

For what can really scrabble for purchase under this trampled earth, this wall of stone, this red miasma? It persists, obscuring all with its malignant presence.

Harsh reality of the forgotten wasteland.

But all is not dead, not dying.

As there, held captive in the affectionate firelight, under the swift stroke of brush, her hair spread, stood his pale maiden. She draws her dark tresses out tight, rigid where softness once lay. Fiddles whispering notes on sooty strings. Pulling, releasing. Tugging them into dulcet tones, a silken song.

She is goodness, divine gentleness in the harsh, unforgiving world.

He is loathe to leave her, and would not if fate had not called- nay, if fate had not wailed his name.

Duty. His duty. It was all.

To serve. To provide. To protect.

To protect her.

Oh, but to watch her step and sway. To gaze upon her serene visage and dream of softer days. He can almost hear the whisper of his name on her lips. It would pass with teasing, sensual caress over her reddened lips. Can one be jealous of one's own name?

He knows it matters not. Should she speak, it would only parallel the heavy beat of her name in his thundering heart.

It takes the full well of his fortitude to turn away.

Today is a day of carnage, death, revenge. There is no time, no space for ruminations on the gentle lure of feminine charms.

This is not the first battle, nor will it be the last.

Since its creeping sanguine dawn, humanity stretching and pulling towards wakefulness, blood has been let to soak and stain. Battle, war, death.

It is nothing new.

First by the murderous power of rock and bone, then the lethal light of flint and fire. Now, laid out in silent malice, hard leather and gleaming iron.

His instruments of slaughter lay before him, waiting, waiting. Hungry in the early light. They've been cleaned but he can still see the stains of battles past. Victims of his own calloused hand.

If only the thick walls of the castle were enough. The graying stone of the house, a thin line of defence.

It is not enough.

And thus, like his forebearers, he must make war.

It injures his gentle soul.

Resigned, he pulls on the weighty vestments of battle.

Course fabric and thick leather.

It abrades.

Reminds him that here, in this now, he is still whole.

Time yet for a hundred indecisions, time yet for regrets and longing. Remembrances of days past. A life measured out by soft smiles and wooden spoons. The tinkling laughter of a doe-eyed maiden. The eyes that keep you, hold you. Possess your soul with glad surrender.

It was time to go.

Already weary with the task which awaits, he steps out into the pulchritude of the morning light.

Squinting against her lingering migraine, Jane watched as a grim-faced Rake stalked off to the garden, pitchfork in one hand, sharpened trowel in the other.

"Voles in the garden again, Pepper?"

"No," she replied, a worried crease crossed her pale brow. "Squirrels."

"Ah," Jane stood up, "I'll get the bandages."

A/N: Shout out to Eliot, Klink, and Bethesda, for the wasteland and poetry, in all forms.