Why am I even doing this? I’m writing letters to you and yet I know that you will not receive a single one. A senseless task if ever there was one. But writing them is the only way I can pass the time without feeling so alone.

These letters I write, the company of the rats scurrying in the dark and the dim light of this candle are all I have now.

A small fire has been struck and is burning in the fire pit, yet I feel cold. I am wearing fathers old hunting furs to keep me warm and yet I am shivering. I’ve been completely alone for three days now, I cannot remember the last time I felt so vulnerable. I keep wondering if maybe the reason I survived our villages destruction the other night is perhaps some cruel trick the gods are playing on me. Have I done something wrong? Did I do anything to anger them so much that they have seen fit to curse me in such a harsh way?

No, they had nothing to do with. I survived because I ran. I ran away as our neighbours and the townspeople were being murdered by the Dothylfar and their fucking warmongering! That is why I am here now in this dark fucking cellar! Maybe I deserve to be here?

I went upstairs yesterday to have a look out of the windows as silently as I could manage. My leg still hurts but at least the bleeding has stopped now. It was pitch black, neither the white nor the red moon saw fit to help me and I couldn’t see a gods damned thing. I had to wait for nightfall, I just could not risk being seen by them. Maybe I should have gone during midday, when the sun’s light was at its peak? For all I know they may be waiting in the woods for traders or travellers, for the Amberguard or hopefully the Legion, whoever gets here first. Gods, someone will come, won’t they? Surely some word must have spread by now that there is a band of gods forsaken blood drinkers roaming the Westervale?

It’s still too quiet, I honestly don’t know if they are still out there.

There has been not a sound since the fires croaked but for the wind blowing outside. It still causes the floorboards in our bedroom to creak just like they did when we were young. It is oddly calming though. I pretend that the house is talking to me, trying to comfort me in some way.

So, I have decided Erin. I will be going outside tomorrow, I can’t stay in this cellar. The only food down here is a few bits of old bread and some stale cheese that father kept near the back wall near to mothers’ chest. Oh, and there is so much ale stowed away. I remember him saying that he was saving it for when the black merchants from Daggeron pass through again though I had no idea how foul it smelled. Apparently, the marsh folk are the only ones that can stomach it and so he thought he could make a few extra crowns. I shan’t be touching a drop of it.

Why he kept all these wheels of cheese I have no idea, they are covered in bite marks from where the rats have gotten at them. He couldn’t even stand the taste of it. The only reason he put up with them in the first place was because our mother loved to carve a slice every evening. Maybe that’s why? The smell of the cheese, just like her letters, he stored it all away so that he could keep something of her for himself. I miss her and I miss you too. Now father is also dead. Will it be my turn soon, I wonder?

No, wolfshit! I can’t think like that.

It is settled then, I need to get out of this bloody cellar and go into the village. I’ll have to check and make sure fathers body is still on our doorstep and then maybe I can give him a proper burial. I need to…

Shit! There’s someone banging on the door.

What should I do? For Samaia’s sake, what the fuck should I do? Oh, gods Erin I wish you were here right now. You would know what to do.

You always did.

17 Comments on “War at My Door: The Third Day

  1. You know this reminds me of a project I had in middle school, we had a project to write letters in the perspective of a soldier. Obviously your writing is much better, but thanks for taking me down memory lane. 🙂 This is just so authentic, I feel like this is something you’d see in a video game if you went to Erin’s house and found his letter on the floor or something. By the way, did you skip the second day? Or did I just miss it? Because the last one I read was the first day.

    Liked by 1 person

    • No, you didn’t miss it. Erin spent day two worrying about other concerns such as food, her wound and the village.

      Mentioning my work in the same notion as that which you would find in a game world is actually a big compliment. Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. This made me feel I’d stumbled across it: old, faded and abandoned – long after the author had answered the door, to whatever fate was braying upon its timbers…

    Liked by 2 people

    • I like your description of this, very appropriate. You have highlighted one of the many possible ways the readers of the letters can imagine just how they exist within the frame of my fiction. This is a tremendous thing for me to consider and appreciate. Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

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