Shaneara's journal

The battle rages on, even after three days, I still remember sitting at the gate, wondering who would return from this repulsive war. The sound of the others wailing, is painful to my ears, and yet I wish to do the same. If only I could have gone to the battle lines, then if I were to die, I would never have to hear of the tragedy of others. The flowers which I have pressed between these pages may soon be laid on a grave, in remembrance of a loved one. I fear I cannot wish my father to come back, for he passed in a battle many years ago. My dearest brother Rammod must return, as must the only true love of all my days: Jolen, both of which are too young to die. Although age has no distinction, no one should have to die such a death as at an enemy’s sword. This is a thought that enters my exhausted mind much too often. Sleep has not been a close friend of mine these past few days. Even though we were well aware that an attack was at hand, and we knew a siege would soon be laid on the city, I still fear for the lives of the men. My conversations have been cut to minimum; most of the ladies have mastered the art of nervous chatter to distract their troubled minds, from thinking unnerving thoughts about your family. I have been told by many, that I am too serious a girl for my own good, but I simply do not wish to cause my distraught thoughts to wander away from feeling the pain of those on the front. Thus is the reason for my mouth being set in a firm grim line. From my seat, I can hear the clashing of swords against armour, and the twang of bows, as a mighty arrow is released; a sound that does not comfort a grieving heart. If only this battle would end in victory! But then what is victory in a battle of flesh and blood? I cannot help but wonder what the women on the enemy’s side are going through at present. They are not overcome by the mortifying sounds, but perhaps the silence is deafening all the more. It is impossible to distinguish the cries as coming form the foe, or our beloved Effevlians, which is very much a greater distress set upon my sagging shoulders. I find it an increasing difficulty to remember the voices of the ones dear to my heart above the clamour and confusion outside and surrounding this terror-stricken city. The food at all meals is as appetizing as ash, and drink is coal in my site. I wish only to hear Ramod’s soft voice, and to gaze once more into the tear-stained eyes of my dearest love; Jolen. It is as if they have already passed, as a wilted flower, and yet a slight hope remains shadows of a fearful heart. It is a tale of deep sorrow, and I only wish to know the end of it. What if the day, four long days ago, was the last time I will see one of the two closest to my heart? Life without them, shall seem aimless, and void of some essential thing. How my heart longs to once again not feel so alone in a world of other beings surrounding me. Will life ever be the way it was before this indescribable worry came upon me? I wish not to move forward, but to look back at the already fading memory of the smiles, the tears, the sorrows, and joys we shared. Why did this revolting war have to interrupt a life of such abundance? This depressing sorrow shall follow me, until the moment I hear of the fate that has been bestowed on my loved ones, so I shall say my good byes, and close you, for the night is no longer young. Perhaps by morning my report shall be more pleasant to behold, but then it may not be worth recording for the pain may be unbearable, only time will tell. Only time will tell.