The Past

“All right, men, area secure,” I said. “Mik, give me a head count. Vano, secure the perimeter. Truk, take stock of the ammunition.”
“I…” began Truk, with a lethargic intonation in his voice. “I feel… tired…”
“No, Truk, no!” uttered Vran. “You’ve got to stay awake now!” The multiple gunshot wounds to his abdomen were doing him in: Truk was bleeding out.
“Kai, all the Unggoy except Basab and all the Kig-Yar except Tes are dead,” said Mik. “We need reinforcements or else we won’t be able to maintain this position-“ He noticed Truk’s ailing demeanor. “Gods, he’s not long for this world.”
“He’s going to be fine, he just needs a combat physician!”
“Let him die with honor,” I said solemnly.
“I am ready…” uttered Truk. “Ready to join my fathers and fathers’ fathers… I go… to join them…” Truk died in Vran’s arms, who was stupefied that his brother-in-arms and dear friend was gone, just like that.
“Damned Humans!” said Vran. “Such a waste.”
“He died well,” I reminded the Minor.
“He was going to be a great bard,” continued Vran. “His songs and poems would have thrilled his children and his children’s children.”
“Did he even write any?” asked Mik.
“Just a few poems,” answered Vran. “Give me a moment, let me find his book.”
Vran rummaged through Truk’s datapad on his wrist, which was slippery and covered in purple blood. “Aha, here. Here is… the last one he wrote. Dated just a few hours ago.”
The Minor sat down on the ground, wiping the pad clean of the mix of drizzle and blood. He began reading from it.
Harken not to battle brethren
But seek thrills and glory within
Do not shy from that which is in the heart
For where else can one but start
Do not be afraid of speaking your mind
Lest you become deaf and blind
And do not believe in falsehoods and lies
But instead believe with your own eyes
Do not be afraid to ask a simple question
And do not be afraid of this transgression
For fear is something we do not know
And we must remember what they do not show
Remember the days of old
“The poem is titled, ‘The Past.’”
There was a deafening silence among all of us, even as the commotion of friendly forces approached.
“I’m no lover of poetry,” said Mik.
“I have no way with words either,” I added. “But I recognize that he did. Indeed, a bard he would have been.”
“Someone…” started Vran. “Someone should publish this.”
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