[enchilado]

PROLOGUE:

Dust. The was the primary feature of the ground, which had been lush grassland when they had started the war. Now the dried, cracked ground, flat as far as you could see, was dotted not by trees but by rusty black guard towers, red eyes glinting and glaring at whoever looked at them.

But there was no one now. The war had ended, the rival countries were allies in their latest confrontation, and still the rickety structures watched the battlefield, waiting for the enemy that would never come.

A soft creaking from a dilapidated windmill was the only sound. It groaned as the soft breezes turned it slowly around, and around, and somewhere there might have been the buzzing of a fly, but probably not.

The windmill stood in the midst of ancient tents, ragged with tears, mostly collapsed. Once soldiers had lived here, slept here, died here. Nobody remembered them. The people of today had no time for unimportant figures of times long past.

And yet, these soldiers had had friends, and families, and hopes and fears, and anger and joy and disappointment, and everything else that made them alive.

They had dwelt in these tents for a long time, waiting until the day they were able to leave, to go home. What had it been like, forced to stay here for months, years? What had the soldiers done with all that time? What had their names been?


~well... haven't the time to write too much now... maybe later.
Enchilado