this isn't even a short story, it's a micro character piece. But the shortness means it is very high quality (there will probably be something you guys catch, though. 
)
Also, some of you might recognize the character...yes, this is the same Hioku from Carnage Bladers.
“To the Child Soldier”
War was so grand, back when the news came just as fast as the returning soldiers. The truth was masked to the civilians. Glory meant so much more, and oh, how people fought for it! So when the carriages came with the warriors, only cheers could be heard. It did not matter how many they had killed, what they had done for their countries "honor". As long as it was sons sent home instead of pine boxes, it was a glorious event.
One by one, the homecoming warriors were tentatively reclaimed by friends, family, lovers, all those who wished them back in the fold of civilization. Some would fit in seamlessly; others would be twists in the fabric of society. But there was one stray thread, more visible as the crowd around him dissipated: Hioku Rakakuri.
Normally, he would have been the first to go. He would walk with determination even if there was no destination in mind. But today he wanted to once again be swept up by command, to be told what to do. So he sat and waited for orders, orders that never came.
He sat against a building wall - he had no clue what it was. His body stuck out at odd angles, ruining any grandeur the army uniform had. Was he even old enough to be in the army? Hioku didn’t have a clue. He didn’t know when he had been born - couldn’t even read. If he was old enough, it was a close thing.
His luggage was in two pieces, completely at odds with each other - a ragged case that contained what little possessions in the world, and the bag. Small, leather, pristine - Hioku HATED that bag, for he knew its contents. Idly he passed it up and down in his hands, as though he could distract himself of its purpose. But still it mocked him, unceasingly, until in despair he threw it to the ground.
A few dozen small, purple stones rolled innocently to the ground. Through tears he looked at the nearest. Lamin Shuoto, from Hiyu. Nak Corps. Knight, Third Order. This was a death stone. Hioku had killed this person in battle. Didn’t know when, didn’t know the face, just that it was his doing.
Crim Olgi, from Shazar. Nak Corps. Knight, Fifth Order. What made this people any different from the soldiers on his side? It was just a war, a stupid war, nothing gave him the right to do this.
Shiryu Jalhara, from Shazar. Nak Corps. Knight, Second Order. That’s all it told him. What a disgrace. What a dishonor.
Mal Wenston, from Iopas. Nak Corps. Knight, Fifth Order. And then Hioku could stand it no more and fell to the ground sobbing.
When he stood up, his emotion stayed in the small, saline puddle in the dirt.
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Hioku Rakakuri. The murderous master solider. Thirteenth order, I heard. Didn’t know it went that high. And he’s so young! Must be one cold-hearted bastard, that Hioku.
The talk followed him everywhere. He had heard it all before. After all, not many soldiers had killed as many as he had. His extreme youth had allowed him to stay in the army much longer than most - still active duty after eight solid years of service. But each time he returned, he swore that this was the last time, that he was done with the service. And then he came to the military return station, and saw that wall, and remembered back before he knew to kill his conscience.
He always returned later than he was relieved of duty. This was because, after his service, he took a diplomatic visit to the other side. He turned the names on the stones into people. Hioku always came back with papers, papers describing surprisingly personal details. He may be the killer, but when he offered to keep the history going, quite a few people separated this mild mannered man from the war. Of course, many more people would not talk to their child’s killer, but he just asked around town to learn what he needed to know.
How can you record the history of people without feeling the guilt of their death? It was a mental tightrope, but for now he managed to walk it.
When he arrived home, he took the stones and carefully hung them up. In a small cabinet underneath each one, he placed the papers of their life stories. He would read them every day, again and again, until they were memorized. Of course, he would return to the war, because once at home he could once again realize the sad truth: he could never quit.
Someone killed in war becomes a statistic, or at best a name. Hioku killed people.
)Also, some of you might recognize the character...yes, this is the same Hioku from Carnage Bladers.
“To the Child Soldier”
War was so grand, back when the news came just as fast as the returning soldiers. The truth was masked to the civilians. Glory meant so much more, and oh, how people fought for it! So when the carriages came with the warriors, only cheers could be heard. It did not matter how many they had killed, what they had done for their countries "honor". As long as it was sons sent home instead of pine boxes, it was a glorious event.
One by one, the homecoming warriors were tentatively reclaimed by friends, family, lovers, all those who wished them back in the fold of civilization. Some would fit in seamlessly; others would be twists in the fabric of society. But there was one stray thread, more visible as the crowd around him dissipated: Hioku Rakakuri.
Normally, he would have been the first to go. He would walk with determination even if there was no destination in mind. But today he wanted to once again be swept up by command, to be told what to do. So he sat and waited for orders, orders that never came.
He sat against a building wall - he had no clue what it was. His body stuck out at odd angles, ruining any grandeur the army uniform had. Was he even old enough to be in the army? Hioku didn’t have a clue. He didn’t know when he had been born - couldn’t even read. If he was old enough, it was a close thing.
His luggage was in two pieces, completely at odds with each other - a ragged case that contained what little possessions in the world, and the bag. Small, leather, pristine - Hioku HATED that bag, for he knew its contents. Idly he passed it up and down in his hands, as though he could distract himself of its purpose. But still it mocked him, unceasingly, until in despair he threw it to the ground.
A few dozen small, purple stones rolled innocently to the ground. Through tears he looked at the nearest. Lamin Shuoto, from Hiyu. Nak Corps. Knight, Third Order. This was a death stone. Hioku had killed this person in battle. Didn’t know when, didn’t know the face, just that it was his doing.
Crim Olgi, from Shazar. Nak Corps. Knight, Fifth Order. What made this people any different from the soldiers on his side? It was just a war, a stupid war, nothing gave him the right to do this.
Shiryu Jalhara, from Shazar. Nak Corps. Knight, Second Order. That’s all it told him. What a disgrace. What a dishonor.
Mal Wenston, from Iopas. Nak Corps. Knight, Fifth Order. And then Hioku could stand it no more and fell to the ground sobbing.
When he stood up, his emotion stayed in the small, saline puddle in the dirt.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Hioku Rakakuri. The murderous master solider. Thirteenth order, I heard. Didn’t know it went that high. And he’s so young! Must be one cold-hearted bastard, that Hioku.
The talk followed him everywhere. He had heard it all before. After all, not many soldiers had killed as many as he had. His extreme youth had allowed him to stay in the army much longer than most - still active duty after eight solid years of service. But each time he returned, he swore that this was the last time, that he was done with the service. And then he came to the military return station, and saw that wall, and remembered back before he knew to kill his conscience.
He always returned later than he was relieved of duty. This was because, after his service, he took a diplomatic visit to the other side. He turned the names on the stones into people. Hioku always came back with papers, papers describing surprisingly personal details. He may be the killer, but when he offered to keep the history going, quite a few people separated this mild mannered man from the war. Of course, many more people would not talk to their child’s killer, but he just asked around town to learn what he needed to know.
How can you record the history of people without feeling the guilt of their death? It was a mental tightrope, but for now he managed to walk it.
When he arrived home, he took the stones and carefully hung them up. In a small cabinet underneath each one, he placed the papers of their life stories. He would read them every day, again and again, until they were memorized. Of course, he would return to the war, because once at home he could once again realize the sad truth: he could never quit.
Someone killed in war becomes a statistic, or at best a name. Hioku killed people.
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