She could feel it, the pain, etching itself into her heart, carving out tiny pieces and throwing them to the wind. It felt like someone had taken a knife and plunged it through her heart, as if she were the one dead, not him. Trailing her fingers along the squareness of his pale jaw, she let a tear slip down her face, and land on his cold cheek. His blue eyes were glazed over, his black hair matted with blood. This was not what was supposed to have happened. Death was not supposed to have happened. She lifted her head to the heavens.
Please God, she silently prayed, tears soaking her cheeks, Please, take me too.
“Lark; come, pining away in self-pity won’t bring him back.” An older woman, with graying hair beckoned to Lark. “The people won’t wait, we must continue on.”
“I will do as I please!” Lark spun around, “Let them travel on, but let the guilt of his death rest on your shoulders and theirs!” She pointed at the woman accusingly. “If not for Odin and his men, the caravan would have been attacked and we would have all died at the swords of the Raiders!” she pointed at the mess of battle that lay around her. Dead men, blood dirt. “If not for this we wouldn’t be alive!”’
The older woman shook her head sadly. “I know, Lark, I know. But sometimes sacrifices must be made for the good of the people.”
Lark beat her fist on the barren, bloody earth. “You call this sacrifice, Mother? No, my eyes only see slaughter, a massacre! Our men were forced to go out ahead, Marius made them go in front of the caravan, and did he go with them? Of course not! And you call him our leader!” Lark scoffed.
The sun went behind the clouds and for a moment existence hung in total darkness. Then it cleared.
“Do not speak that way! Your words could mean your life!” her mother urgently hushed her.
Lark stroked the blade of Odin’s dagger that lay in his outstretched hand, bloodied from battle. “I am already dead, Mother.” She looked down at it, and then picked it up.
Her mother ran towards her. “Do not do it Lark!” she cried, as she tried to rip the dagger from her daughter’s hand.
Lark struggled, a silent tear rolling down her face. “You must let me.”
“No, I will not!” her mother screamed.
Lark sliced the skin of her mother’s hand, drawing blood. Her mother drew away, stunned, the blood dripping onto her skirt.
Lark placed the dagger point on her breast. “You must forgive me,” she said, and then lying down beside Odin she placed her hand in his.
“Lark!” her mother cried.
“I’m coming,” she whispered and thrust the dagger into her heart.
Please God, she silently prayed, tears soaking her cheeks, Please, take me too.
“Lark; come, pining away in self-pity won’t bring him back.” An older woman, with graying hair beckoned to Lark. “The people won’t wait, we must continue on.”
“I will do as I please!” Lark spun around, “Let them travel on, but let the guilt of his death rest on your shoulders and theirs!” She pointed at the woman accusingly. “If not for Odin and his men, the caravan would have been attacked and we would have all died at the swords of the Raiders!” she pointed at the mess of battle that lay around her. Dead men, blood dirt. “If not for this we wouldn’t be alive!”’
The older woman shook her head sadly. “I know, Lark, I know. But sometimes sacrifices must be made for the good of the people.”
Lark beat her fist on the barren, bloody earth. “You call this sacrifice, Mother? No, my eyes only see slaughter, a massacre! Our men were forced to go out ahead, Marius made them go in front of the caravan, and did he go with them? Of course not! And you call him our leader!” Lark scoffed.
The sun went behind the clouds and for a moment existence hung in total darkness. Then it cleared.
“Do not speak that way! Your words could mean your life!” her mother urgently hushed her.
Lark stroked the blade of Odin’s dagger that lay in his outstretched hand, bloodied from battle. “I am already dead, Mother.” She looked down at it, and then picked it up.
Her mother ran towards her. “Do not do it Lark!” she cried, as she tried to rip the dagger from her daughter’s hand.
Lark struggled, a silent tear rolling down her face. “You must let me.”
“No, I will not!” her mother screamed.
Lark sliced the skin of her mother’s hand, drawing blood. Her mother drew away, stunned, the blood dripping onto her skirt.
Lark placed the dagger point on her breast. “You must forgive me,” she said, and then lying down beside Odin she placed her hand in his.
“Lark!” her mother cried.
“I’m coming,” she whispered and thrust the dagger into her heart.
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