Bleeding Colours

He never wished for destruction yet it followed him like a shadow, an inseparable companion woven into the fabric of his every step.

He could see manifestations of ruin everywhere. The once-vibrant earth now bore scars of conflict, with craters dotting the ground like wounds inflicted by some unseen giant. Tangled masses of barbed wire, twisted and gnarled, served as metallic reminders of a desperate attempt to control the chaos. And the forest, once green and breathing with life, was a sad mere semblance of a once flourishing ecosystem.

As he sat in the heart of the desolate battlefield, where shadows clung to the ruins of a once-vibrant village, he stared into the flickering fire before him. The flames cast dancing shadows that played upon his weary face, etching lines of sorrow and heartache.

His name, though seemingly inconspicuous among the ranks of soldiers, carried profound significance; for it signified not just an individual, but a collective embodiment of valour – Alexandre, warrior, and defender of the people. Bearing the name shared with the indomitable Alexander the Great, it wasn't just a nomenclature but a mantle of legacy. A moniker that echoed not only through the annals of history but also imbued its bearer with the weight of conquest, leadership, and an enduring symbol of greatness.

With tousled blonde hair and piercing green eyes that reflected the fire's glow, the man felt the weight of a nation's destiny upon his shoulders. That night, he was tasked with keeping the fire alive—a meager flame that dared to defy the pervasive blackness that stretched beyond the fringes of his makeshift camp.  The night had claimed everything, reducing the world to an impenetrable void where only the fire's light held sway.

He identified with the fire—a feeble flame entrusted with the daunting responsibility of illuminating the overwhelming darkness. It embodied his own sense of insignificance in the face of adversity, yet mirrored his unwavering determination to cast light upon the abyss that enveloped his world.

Despite the desolation that had befallen his world in the aftermath of war, he remained resolute. The pillars of his existence, his family, and friends, now rested beneath the debris of their homes. The love of his life, a solace in times of despair, had become a captive of the enemy, ensnared in the relentless grip of a war that had devoured everything he cherished.

However, amidst the ruins of his once-thriving life, Alexandre's strength endured. His love for his country, unyielding like an unwritten oath, continued to stand firm. In the face of personal tragedy and the relentless tide of conflict, he clung to his sense of duty, an unbroken force that propelled him forward despite the shadows that clung to his every step.

His determination burned hotter than the fire he tended; a flame fuelled by an unwavering love for his country. The tricolour flag stitched onto his worn uniform was a promise; he was ready to die for a land that for him was a sanctuary of memories, echoed with the whispered tales of ancestors, crafting an unbroken legacy and a profound sense of kinship.

Around his neck, a pendant of Joan of Arc swung gently with the rhythm of his laboured breaths—an homage to the heroes of his nation, the echoes of courage that resonated in the ashes of the past.

On his thumb, a ring bore the Fleur-de-lis, a symbol that connected him to his homeland. In the silent moments between the distant echoes of gunfire, he traced the emblem with calloused fingers, finding solace in the small, tangible link to the place he called home.

Stale bread and cheese, the only remnants of sustenance in a land stripped bare by war, lay untouched on a makeshift table. Despite the sparse fare, the taste of cheese brought a momentary flicker of joy to the man. In the darkness, where despair clung to the air like an unrelenting fog, this simple pleasure was a small victory against the encroaching hopelessness.

As the night wore on, the fire dwindled, casting long, distorted shadows that played tricks on the man's fatigued mind. His gaze remained fixed on the flickering embers, a silent companion in the deafening silence of the night. Memories of happier times, of laughter and warmth, seemed to dance within the flames, taunting him with the echoes of a life now lost.

The man felt the cold tendrils of fatigue creeping into his bones, his body worn from the incessant demands of war. Yet, as the first whispers of dawn touched the horizon, a renewed sense of purpose surged within him. The fire in front of him, now reduced to feeble embers, mirrored the flicker of hope that still burned within his heart.

He knew his destiny lay beyond the confines of this desolate camp. With every step he took, he would carry the weight of the pendant and ring, the silent symbols of a nation's resilience. His love for the land was a flame that refused to be extinguished, even as the world around him crumbled.

With a deliberate exhale, the man rose from his vigil by the fire. The branches on the floor beneath him crackled as he stood, the wind tenderly ruffling through his hair, an encouraging caress that whispered promises of resilience and possibility. He cast one last glance at the pendant and the ring, both, poignant reminders of his purpose in a life irrevocably altered by the merciless hand of war. With that fleeting gaze, he felt a quiet whisper, guiding him back to the path of duty.

The sun, a distant promise beyond the shroud of night, would soon cast its golden light upon the battlefield. Alexandre knew that as the fire in front of him dimmed, the flame inside him would burn brighter than ever.

The battles that lay ahead were uncertain, and the enemy's shadows loomed large on the horizon. Yet, with each step toward the impending conflict, he carried with him the legacy of heroes of the past, a testament to the unyielding spirit of a man who, for his people, would bleed the colours blue, white, and red.