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Bodies of the Pear Tree

The Wasteful Battle

By Patrick MarreroPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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Bodies of the Pear Tree
Photo by Johann Siemens on Unsplash

Bodies littered the field in all directions, limbs sundered, blood drained or draining. Arrows filled several, and broken swords poked out of others. The very dirt and grass was awash with red, muddy not from rain but from bloodshed. Even now, though much quieter than before, the sounds of people shouting and calling curses echoed in the air. The clang of metal was sluggish, tired from the carnage around. It was only a handful of warriors that remained in the field of the dead. Armor that were it not for paint or colored cloth would be indistinguishable from each other, swords and shields clattering with parry and strike. Those fighting would or could not put all their might into it anymore. A single soldier charged three, all of them holding spears. They stabbed but he just allowed the spear tips to bounce off his plate armor. His enemies could not react quickly as he closed in, their weapons to long, and his sword found purchase in the necks. The soldier did not wait to confirm their deaths, he moved to the next only to see a single enemy pull an axe from the body of his comrade, the bodies of the others freshly dead. Both looked at each other. Instinct told them to charge, to claim a final victory, but both did not move. Standing tall, weapons at their sides they just looked at each other for a long moment, turning ever so slightly in the same direction.

Atop a hill stood a lone tree, untouched by the battle but surrounded by the dead. It was large, spreading out twenty feet at least in all directions with pears shining in its branches. Something about them looked delectable, enticing. Beyond the battle was only fields of grass or stone as far as the eye could see. This tree was alone here, the sole source of nourishment for countless miles. The warriors could only look at it then back to each other, and as one they put their weapons down. Each took a seat on empty earth, hard to find at present but neither would use a corpse as a chair. The axeman spoke first.

“It seems foolish that we cannot share this tree now.” He said, but his tone was grim. “But how many died for it?”

“Too many, far too many to be forgotten for sake of not being foolish.” The swordsman replied. “Would be an insult to both our dead. If we wished union, or peace for resource, it should have been before.”

“That tree could not feed all of us, or even one of our sides. Death had to happen.” The axeman gave a deep sigh when he finished. The swordsman couldn’t argue with him.

“How long were you marching this waste?” The swordsman asked. “It was three weeks for us, rations and water ran out at two.”

“Four, but we found a small spring in the third week. That helped somewhat.”

They were both silent now, as if considering each other. Their stories were similar enough, different nation, different king or queen. Both were sent to war, to march directly through the wasteland for expediency, and saw each other at this field. Enemies by powers beyond their control, battle for what little was available seemed inevitable. At least they thought that.

“I’ve never seen the point of our war. You’ve done no wrong to me.” The axeman stated. The swordsman laughed.

“My prince was less charming than your duke, my king was a better fighter than yours, some queen was jealous of a dress. The nobles look for any excuse, damn us all for it.” The swordsman replied. “Today, by my understanding, the earl of the outlands fifth son was killed in a raid by your people.”

“Those were cutthroats running from his majesty’s sheriff and guardsmen. Had they been caught this wouldn’t be happening.”

“Any excuse for the nobles, like I said.” The swordsman laughed. It was ridiculous and brought a chuckle to the axe man as well. “I remember the western horde.”

“Aye, beast tamers who rode bears, lions, horses, any animal able to do damage. They came in force, unpredictable and relentless. A real enemy, simple and easy. There was honor in fighting them, defending the realm.”

“Exactly, not this waste.” The swordsman gestured around them. “I’m sure if we both look we’ll find someone we fought alongside in that invasion. Now, our kings want to outdo each other, and pay with our lives for it.”

Neither knew how to continue after that. It was safe to say here, in the killing fields, away from spy masters and fanatics. If they were to say such things in a town, village, or city they would be hung for treason. That though unsettled them both, however they were experienced with it. They would look around them, for something to tell them this wasn’t such a waste, but it was a pointless hope. Here, still, they had to take stock of how many innocent lives they took today, over a tree that couldn’t feed them all anyway. Both wondered if they simply hoped the loses would make it easier to feed the remaining. Sickness erupted in the pits of their stomachs at that, held only by discipline. They stood then, weapons in hand but did not move to attack.

“This cannot be made right. A few moments of reflection wont undue what we have done to each other.” The swordsman said.

“Kings be damned if you aren’t right. We can’t walk away. A compromise then?” the axeman said. The swordsman arched his brow, listening. “One pear each, a small meaningless gesture but at least they died achieving something other than our monarch’s stupidity. Then, we end it.”

“Given everything, that’s fairer than can be asked.”

With that the two warriors approached the tree. Slow as to avoid the bodies, careful to be respectful, they arrived and reached high. The pears were strong, even these powerful men needed to pull somewhat hard. Still the pears came free, and both at once bit in. Their hunger and thirst overtook them slightly, eating quickly without the ability to savor it. Then the axeman started laughing.

“These are the worst pears I’ve ever eaten.” He said. The swordsman could only stair at him, and burst out laughing himself.

“The wrong time of year, or just rotten soil, but damn it all if you aren’t correct!” he laughed on.

Laughter only occurred because they could not form a thought otherwise without going mad. Every soldier died save them, in a war they didn’t understand or want, for pears that tasted terrible. This removed any possible justification for this battle, for all the death. The two warriors could only laugh, half mad perhaps by this new understanding. Minutes, hours, neither could tell, but they eventually calmed themselves. Pears finished, bitter taste in their mouths, they drew their weapons and stepped away from the tree. Eyes locked they needed no words. To many died for them to just walk away, to many were killed by each for the other to forgive. It would put shame to the lost lives if they did, and that would not stand. A single nod, and the battle was on again. The pears only swayed in the wind at the clanging metal, and eventual silence.

Short Story
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