Flash Fiction

It is the days leading up to the next grand war. There appears to be a choking atmosphere, but as hindsight was not yet available it is difficult to tell how real it might be.

I carry the flag of the North Umbers. It is bold, it is bright. It says, this is ours. We own it. Everyone has a flag now. I’m not sure how many there are, even in the next valley. We number close to one hundred and we are ‘afeart o nowt’. That is the collective we. Me, I am terrified. 

The call to the banners came but yesterday and already we are formed. We shall climb Beal Bank to face them, the others, not of our flag.

We climb the Beal Bank. I am at the fore, the flag as high as I can muster. At the summit, knees trembling. I look down on them. Strangers, others, their flag flying, their chanting as a deep low rumbling. Then from behind our cry rises. 

Battlestrong. 

Battlestrong.