I apologize beforehand for any potential errors in my English as it is not my first language. This is my second story I have ever worked on and is also my first try at a more light novel-esque format.

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He told me that he would come back. He said that I was only there as a placeholder until the real man of the family came back. Where is he now?

I don’t know, but the tears stream down my face. This is bad, papa told me that boys don’t cry.

There are armored men who stand around us. They all look grim as they hold onto the hilts of their swords.

They’re talking about something, but I can’t hear them past momma’s wailing.

I hold my little sister’s hand as she clings to me.

She looks up at me and asks “why is mommy crying?” I look down at her, and can’t find a reply.

So I simply said, “I think momma lost her favorite treat.”

My little sister drops my hand, walks over to our mother and says, “momma, don’t cry, you can always have my crystal honey.”

Unable to find something to say, she hugs her daughter tightly and tries to stay strong.

The pain stabs into my small childish frame, and anger begins to build up into a tangible mass inside me.

It festers and grows inside me more and more as each tear hits the floor.

I put on my brave face, and walk over the the soldiers. “Who did this to daddy,” I ask through thin lips.

Stolen story; please report.

The soldier goes down to one knee to answer me. One name escapes his mouth, and I cling onto it. After a time, they leave, and the sun hides itself behind the vast hills that surrounds us.

I tuck my little sister in and come back outside. My mother is still bent around the tomb, the tears dried on her face. She doesn’t stir from where she is. She doesn’t acknowledge me even as I draw near.

I crouch beside her and look into her face. Only lifeless eyes stare back.

“I’m sorry momma.”

I reach out to hug her, but she falls over, trapped in the stiff embrace of death.

I let everything loose, I shout, yell, curse, and bemoan the gods. I curse the war, and the one who slew my father.

I weep uncontrollably, and without restrain.

After a long time like that, when the sun has finally set, I grab a shovel. I begin to dig up the dirt, and drag large stones next to my father’s. I grab a burnt stick and scrawl ‘momma’ over the tombstone.

I put away the crude writing tool, and lower the body into the pit I dug up.

Drawn out by the sounds, my sister appears in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Alshy, why are you not in bed? Momma will be mad,” she asks.

I don’t turn around as I reply. “I’m tucking mommy in.”