Mercy

A cloud of dust trailed down the road as the riders approached the village. The town’s inhabitants watched in nervous silence as the harbingers drew ever closer, bringing their news of the war. The enemy had breached the frontier and now all that stood between them and the village was the fortress at Simerton.

The first of the three horsemen drew up his horse. The men of the village watched grimly, several telling their women to retreat to their homes. Most of the women stayed.

"They’ve sacked the fortress." Announced the rider.

A wave of emotion swept over the assembled villagers. But there were no cries of dismay, only the sound of quiet defeat. Soon they would have to decide whether to fight or to flee.

"The general is going to try to stop them at the river, he’s asking for volunteers." The rider continued. "Any man who is able."

The call to arms fell heavy on each man who heard it, The weight of the decree forced every man to have to appraise his own worth. For a while no one spoke. So imersed in their own souls were they, that they refused to even look at each other, unwilling to face judgement in the eyes of another. Or perhaps unable.

The first of the men walked away from the assembled crowd in quiet refusal. He joined with his wife and child. The woman looked at her husband and seemed content, but not proud.

More men began to follow the first and not soon after many of the villagers had already set to stuffing their entire lives into packs barely big enough to hold a day’s sustenance.

The riders watched on with a look that mixed dissapointment and longing. But watch, was all they did.

Half of the villagers remained in the road, still uncertain of how they would choose to face the gods. A voice cried out from the crowd.

"I will fight!" Declared one of the men resolutely. His wife stared at him incredulously.

"Do you have arms?" Asked the rider.

"I do."

"Then hurry."

The man turned from the road and began to make his way to his home. His wife planted herself firmly in his path. She screamed at him but the man avoided her gaze, stubbornly refusing to answer. Next she pleaded with him. Her pleas fell like rain on stone. The man would not be persuaded. Finally, she cried. The man took his shaking wife into his arms and held her tightly.

A few more men followed in that example, though they were a notable minority. Most of the others were well into their packing by then. But the braver men prepared resolutely to make their claim on destiny.

#

Jerald entered his home riddled with emotions. Emotions that seized only those who chose death willingly. It was not determination, rather it was a sense of purpose. He entered his home to find his father standing before him. The old feeble man looked up at him expectantly.

"What news?" Asked the old man.

"The fortress has fallen. The general is trying to rally at the riverfront to hold them back. He’s asking for volunteers."

The father furrowed his brow and gazed at his son appraisingly. "What are you going to do?"

"I’m going to fight Pa." Jerald said solemnly.

The father did not respond.

Jerald looked at his father and saw the fierce pride burning in his eyes. Right then Jerald felt alive in a way he had never felt before. It seemed as if every moment in his life had been leading to this. Every decision in his life, a step bringing him here to this moment. It felt right.

The old man moved to stand before him, gripping Jerald’s shoulder reassuringly. The old man’s head nodded approvingly, as if affirming that he had raised a good son.