Warborne

• Astrid Webb, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2015

I have heard of things through cracks in the walls, things like butterflies and green grass, happiness and freedom. Where the sea is blue and calm and the sky is light and welcoming and filled with fluffy clouds, white as snow ... snow that's fun and safe and just a little chilly. I dream of wishing wells and golden coins and stars to shoot across the sky.
But these are stories. Myths, theories, fiction. I live here. Here in this world, this galaxy, of blood, of hatred ...
Of war.

I am a Fiend, and I have no name, only my title. My title of hate and antipathy, which shapes and moulds me into nothing but teeth and claws. Everyone is bred differently. But there is always one definitive feature; bloodlust. I have never known anything except for commands and scars and terrible, terrible war. Others feel privileged. I only feel the chains around my neck grow tighter every day. My eyes are dry and merciless, so I cannot shed tears, but I know the grasp of freedom becomes more and more helpless as minutes of no sleep pass by relentlessly.
The moon sheds its light across my compound and I look to its cold face with longing in my eyes. But the moon only replies in the cruel glare of a master to his peasants and I am a fool to beg to differ.
My head falls back onto the hard stone floor and I close my eyes, knowing full well this will do nothing for me. Because I can hear, from far away, the sharp metallic sounds of the carriage rolling along the uneven path leading to my stable. There is no escape. I am hopeless and soon I will be trapped. Soon I will be gone with no comfort or familiar grounds. I will be lost and my soul long dead to my training. To kill, to steal and to cause so, so much pain. And I can do nothing. I wish I could kick. I wish I could run. I wish I could fly away to times of happiness and families and love. But I can't. Because they, like I soon will be, are dead.
Now my ears try to block out the shouts and crashes and clattering. I feel my body cut and I struggle to my feet out of instinct. My back is lashed and I dare not wince, but only follow. Follow like a swine to a slaughter house, because everyone knows what happens to those who rebel. But what does it matter? I will feel my last choking breath and hear the final snap of my neck soon enough, once they realise I am different.
I am soon walking faster to avoid the hot burn of the whip and I say goodbye to my final wisp of freedom. And my reality snaps like a bone.