Echoes of Ossian
Solan's POV:
On this autumn day, the sky was a tapestry of fiery hues, the leaves scattered like confetti from a celebration of seasons. The air was crisp, and the scent of earth and dying embers filled my lungs. A great contradt to the war that raged on the battlefield.
The soldiers were getting ready for the impending battle, but I found my mind wandering, lost in thoughts I couldn't shake. I hoped to end this sensless war.
As I walked, looking at the camp, adjusting the straps of my armor and eyeing the anxious faces around me, my gaze caught his.
It was as though the world had paused for a heartbeat. His eyes locked onto mine — dark, fathomless, like a void threatening to swallow me whole. The sharpness of his gaze unsettled me, not because of its malice, but because of the strange emptiness that lay within them.
There was no joy, no sorrow, no warmth, only a haunting stillness that spoke louder than any battle cry.
I looked away, unable to hold his gaze for long, interupted by another soldier, but a strange curiosity bloomed in my chest. I didn't understand why. He was different — a soldier, yes, but one who wore his silence like a shroud. His very presence was unsettling, and yet, it tugged at something deep within me, something I couldn't explain.
The next day, I saw him again on the battlefield.
The chaos of the fight, the clang of steel on steel, the cries of men, and the acrid stench of smoke and blood—it all faded into the background. There he was, standing amidst it all like he was detached from the war itself, his sword moving with cold precision. But it wasn't the battle that struck me; it was his expression.
His eyes were no longer empty but filled with something else. They glinted like the night sky, distant stars shimmering faintly in the distance. He wasn't just fighting; he was lost in some kind of trance, as if waiting for an answer from the heavens themselves. His gaze lifted to the sky, his sword slicing through enemies without a second thought.
And then, as though he had felt my eyes on him, a tear—just one—slid down his cheek while his gaze locked on mine.
I froze.
It was like he was asking me for help.
What kind of soldier shed a tear in the middle of such madness? Was it regret? Pain? Or something deeper? My heart thudded in my chest as the realization hit me—this wasn't just a soldier. This was a soul who had endured far more than he should have.
I could feel it—the weight of his grief, heavy and palpable, hanging in the air between us. Why did he look at the stars as if he sought answers there, answers that could not be found ?
I knew I had to learn more about him. Something about him called to me, pulling me closer, even as my mind told me to keep my distance. Who was he ? What had happened to him ?
As the battle raged on, I saw the wounds he bore. Shallow, but too many to count. His body was marked, not just from the physical blows, but from the emotional scars. A young soldier, no more than a few years younger than me, yet his soul was burdened in a way I couldn't fathom. I saw it—his heart, it was like shattered glass, broken beyond repair, pieces drifting like fragments of stardust that couldn't be gathered again.
But there was a strange, fragile beauty in it. And fear. His heart… It could break with the slightest touch. But it endured, and that terrified me more than anything.
When we returned to camp, the weight of the battle hung heavily over all of us. We were exhausted, pale, walking corpses with haunted eyes. I needed to clear my head, so I sought the solace of the sky, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him.
Where was he? Had he fallen like the others? I scanned the camp but found no sign of him. A knot formed in my stomach. We had lost so many already, and the possibility of losing him too made something inside me ache. Could he have left us? Could he be gone, just like the others?
I needed to know. I had to find him.
I made my way to the infirmary, hoping, but fearing the worst.
And there he was.
Alive, but in a pitiful state. His wounds—scrapes, bruises, and deep gashes—were a testament to his sacrifice, yet it was clear that most of them could have been avoided.
I saw him on the battlefield, shielding his fellow soldiers without them even realizing it, disregarding his own safety. Death did not frighten him— and that terrified me. There was no hesitation in his movements, no instinct for self-preservation. It was as if his life meant nothing to him, and that, more than anything, was what truly unsettled me.
I wanted to reach out, to pull him back from the edge, but how do you save someone who doesn't fear death? How do you protect a man who refuses to protect himself? Every time he threw himself into danger, a part of me screamed to stop him, yet I knew he would never listen. He wasn't just fighting the enemy—he was fighting something within himself, something I couldn't see, something I couldn't save him from. And that helplessness tore me apart.
His eyes, though, told the real story. The pain in them was something deeper than just physical. He wore his suffering like armor, and yet I couldn't help but think he was protecting others. Protecting them from the cruelty of the world. Like he didn't care about his own life.
I didn't understand why my heart clenched every time I saw him charge forward, why my hands shook when he barely dodged death. It wasn't just fear—it was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. My soul screamed at me to stop him, to drag him away from the battlefield, but I didn't know why. Was it admiration? Guilt? Or something far more terrifying?
All I knew was that, for reasons beyond my understanding, I couldn't let him disappear into death as if he had never existed.
I had to help. It was all I could do for him.
Without thinking, I approached him, my hand instinctively reaching out to tend to the worst of his wounds—those on his back, deep and painful, etched into his skin. He tensed when my hand brushed against him, his body stiffening. But he didn't pull away.
I hesitated for just a moment before bandaging his wounds. His eyes, though filled with pain, softened for the briefest of moments. I couldn't help but wonder—What had happened to him?What had broken him so completely?
Some scars were older, as if he had been broken long before the war ever started. What had happened to him? What had made him this way? I couldn't help but wonder how someone could become so shattered, so willing to throw away what little they had left. The thought gnawed at me.
What could have hurt him so deeply that he no longer cared if he lived or died?
For me, life was sacred. It was fragile, a gift that should be held close, treasured, and protected at all costs. Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment was a thread in the tapestry of existence, something not to be taken for granted. But when I looked at him, I saw a man who had lost that reverence. His life meant nothing to him. His body, battered and scarred was a testament to his indifference.
I couldn't understand how someone could lose sight of life's value. How could he throw himself into danger without a second thought? How could he walk so close to death, as if he had no fear of it, no respect for what it meant to live?
It haunted me, this stark contrast between us. To me, life was a sacred thing to protect; to him, it seemed like something he had already given up on.
From were I came from, life was sacred. It was fragile, a gift that should be held close, treasured, and protected at all costs. Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment was a thread in the tapestry of existence, something not to be taken for granted. But when I looked at him, I saw a man who had lost that reverence. His life meant nothing to him.
I, too, was bound to this war, forced to fight as the world around us bled. But for me, there was always a line—one I could never cross. Even in battle, where death reigned and blood soaked the ground, I never lost sight of the sacredness of life. I fought with honor, but I did not take lives carelessly. Every enemy I faced, I respected as a fellow soul, fighting for their own cause. With each strike of my sword, I aimed not to destroy, but to end it swiftly, mercifully.
I could not desecrate the memory of their sacrifice. They, too, had families, dreams, and lives that once mattered. And so, when the time came to strike, I made sure they knew a respectful death, one that honored the fight they had chosen, not as enemies, but as warriors, just like me.
But when I looked at him—when I saw the reckless abandon in his every move, the way he threw himself into death with no hesitation, no respect for the fragility of life—I felt a deep ache in my chest. How could someone who had once known the value of life, the sanctity of a death fought with honor, fall so far? How had the world broken him? Was there any part of him left that still understood what it meant to live?
I hailed from a family of warriors, trained to fight, to protect, to serve. War was in my blood, and I had accepted that fact. But what he had been through—what he has become —it made me question everything. What was this world we fought to protect ? Was it worth it ? Was it worth watching souls like his break under the weight of endless violence ?
I was filled with anger.
As I worked, I found myself lost in thought, oblivious to the moment. He was so quiet, so distant, as if he had already slipped away mentally. And then, without a word, without even a glance, he slipped from my hands, vanishing into the shadows, leaving me behind to question everything I had ever known.
Where had he gone? What was he running from?
I didn't have the answers. And I didn't know if I ever would.
But in that moment, I understood. His heart—shattered, beautiful, broken—it was a mirror of the world we were all trapped in. A war with no winners, just survivors.
I could only hope, somehow, that he would find peace.