The Wind Holds Memories

Snow fell like scattered ash upon the battlefield.

The ground was a stained dark with blood, with the marks of hooves and boots and the dying gasps of men.

Arrows hissed through the air, spears and swords clashed against each other. All around, the storm of war raged, the cold went unfelt. The snow went unwatched.

A voice roared, clear and commanding:

“Push forward!”

The soldiers surged.

The banner of victory danced just ahead and that was enough. They just needed to endure and push forward.

Through the chaos rode a commander cloaked in armor, his horse galloping forward.

His eyes locked onto a distant figure: the enemy captain, mid-duel, unaware that death had already marked him.

The plan that they had spent days and nights detailing and constructing was just for this moment.

All they had to do was let it known to the enemy forces that they were low on supplies and they needed to send soldiers to escort the supplies safely to the camp.

The three groups were headed by two other generals besides the commander.

A small force as bait.

It was a risky plan that could backfire quickly but there was no other choice.

The second group would strike from behind after taking the enemy’s camp by surprise.

The last group, the largest, would remain at the forefront, spearheaded by the commander.

The bait had held.

But the second force had not shown up yet. The pocket of capture wasn’t closing yet.

Could they have been defeated? It was too late for regrets or second guesses.

The commander carved his way through the melee, his sword flashing.

To his left, a soldier fell. To his right, another enemy crumpled.

He was close. Close enough.

With a sharp cry, he hurled his blade through the air, a direct strike aimed at his target.

But fate does not act alone.

From behind, an enemy bow snapped. The arrow sliced the wind, heading straight for the commander’s back.

He would not have seen it. He would not have known.

But someone else had seen

He took a bow from the ground and an arrow from the body of a fallen enemy. His answering arrow collided with the first mid-flight, deflecting it.

The commander turned sharply.

His eyes met those of a lone masked archer, who had deflected the arrow, standing firm amidst the chaos, bow still drawn, eyes calm beneath the falling snow.

They exchanged a nod.

If the archer was here, that meant that the plan was a success. The enemy’s camp was taken down.

The general had succeeded and brought himself back in time to save his commander’s life.

His thrown sword had struck the enemy captain’s horse, pinning it with a scream of pain.

The captain had leapt clear, blade drawn, landing light on his feet. The two locked eyes, then ran.

The commander slipped, rolled, and reclaimed his sword from the cold ground just in time.

The duel that followed was ferocious, every strike aimed to kill, every step calculated.

Around them, the battlefield faded. Only the fight remained.

Behind him, the archer dropped the borrowed bow. The twin swords came from his back in a single motion.

He moved into the gap behind his commander, knocking arrows from the air, holding the space open.

The commander drove his blade through the enemy’s chest. His opponent gasped once, then fell.

All was still.

The commander stood heaving, bloodied, but whole. Across the field, his savior lowered his twin swords, blood trickling down them.

Their eyes met again, this time with exhaustion and satisfaction.

The commander laughed, loud and victorious.

Across the field, the masked archer lowered his swords, as he finally noticed the flakes falling from the sky.

He reached out his hand.

The snow settled into his open palm.

Ten years. A decade of winter had come to an end.

Shouts of victory echoed all around as their flags stood high, stained with blood but high and proud.

And the snow continued to fall around them like cherry blossom petals.

“Under the silent snow, war drums freeze.

Blades clash, ground bleeds.

A decade of bitterness withered,

Standing at the foot of life”

Yutu