Falling Rain

A Short Story Winner

For those of you who didn’t know (or forgot - because it was a while ago), I posted a note announcing a short story contest inspired by Alex Warren’s song A Fine Place to Die (which I listened to on repeat after it released). Thank you to 𝕬𝖇𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖑 𝕽𝖍𝖔𝖊𝖆𝖘 Miss K NorahHelen💕 and Rachel for submitting their entries.

After reading through their stories (or should I say, crying and sniffling my way through - my fault for giving such a sad prompt), I have come to my final decision (not without a lot of consideration and rereading). It was a really hard choice to make, but I have decided to ANNOUNCE THE WINNING STORY.....

FALLING RAIN by Rachel

Smoke swirled around in acrid fumes. Flames danced high, casting dancing shadows all around. Rain pelted down, from clouds that covered the whole of the night sky. The showers of sparks were the only stars left tonight.

It had been about an hour since the women and children had left the village, and they were prepared. Like an omen of what was to come, a flash of lightning lit up the scene.

But Ronan didn’t need the lightning to see the long rows of red torches snaking their way up from the cliffside. There was no subtlety in the Viking’s approach. And like the breath of a dragon they were upon the thin straggling line of Irish men awaiting them, most too old or too young, holding pitchforks and sticks, instead of swords and shields, for they were not a people of war.

Ronan cast a prayer up into the sky, and began to fight. He had already told the men all that he could, already given them all the encouragement that he was able, for, like them, he had known since he first saw the length of the line of torches, that they didn’t stand a chance of victory. All they could hope for was to buy the other villagers enough time to reach the caves. But they would surely pay for it with their lives.

The clash of swords surrounded Ronan on all sides, the yelling of men, the hammering down of rain, and the cries of the dying. On both sides, men were falling. There was a boy, he could not have been more than fifteen, lying there, his eyes staring at nothing.

And there, an old man, locked in deadly battle with a Viking half his age. All around, devastation reigned. Ronan could taste salty sweat, hear the surrounding battle, but his vision was tunneled, taking in each attacker one at a time. For a while as the battle raged the sides appeared to be evenly matched. But soon the Vikings’ larger numbers began to make a difference.

More and more of the Irish, neighbours, friends, brothers and fathers and sons, lay on the muddy ground, and soon only a straggling few remained. Some of the Vikings had left the fight, and entered houses, bringing out all they could see of value, and setting alight the rest. Soon smoky black fumes covered the village, and the roar of a devouring beast of flame swallowed it up. Ronan had lost sight of all of his men, and was at the very edge of the village, fighting a burly man with a beard down to his stomach. Although larger, the Viking was unskilled with the sword, and Ronan’s training soon prevailed. And then, coming from the left, he heard a quiet but terrified scream.

That scream, although he heard it but rarely, was as well known to him as the sound of his own heart beat, and it was enough to turn him pale. Fiora.

He scrambled to run, disoriented, lost among the sea of flames, searching for the source of the scream, praying incoherently and wildly to God that he was not too late. It was in Caitlin’s house that he found her, standing as close to the wall as possible, and yet with a child, Caitlin’s sister, little Niamh, behind her. Even now she was protecting others, and his heart swelled with love for her.

Before her was the source of her terror. A Viking, tall, young, strong, perhaps even the leader of this band, stood before her. His sword was raised threateningly, but he was laughing. Laughing at her terror, at her distress. Her beautiful eyes, the colour of the sea on a cloudy day were wide and terrified, shimmering with tears that Ronan knew she wouldn’t allow herself to shed, and her jaw was clamped firmly. But when she saw him, she gave a gasp, crying out to him. “Ronan!”

The Viking warrior turned to face him. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

In Ronan’s face, the Viking could read, plain as daylight, that this man would die for the girl who stood by the wall. And so it began.

The Viking started with a powerful slash, hoping to end it quickly. But Ronan was quickly able to parry, and began to attack, pressing forward, yet at the same trying to turn the Viking around, so that the fight would go out of the doorway, away from Fiora and Niamh. But the Viking was too skilled to allow that. He countered every one of Ronan’s sword strokes, and soon, Ronan was on the defensive. Retreating, his back against the wall, it was desperate. The Viking’s sword was large and he was strong enough to wield it, and had already inflicted multiple small cuts on Ronan.

It was the end. Ronan had his back firmly set against the wall, and he could see in the Viking’s eyes his certainty of winning. But then, behind the Viking, he saw Fiora. Her face was screwed up tightly, her eyes closed, and he could tell that she was praying. And he was filled with love for her. Please, Father, help me. Help me to win this fight, to protect her, give me strength O Lord. With a last, desperate lunge, he brought his sword up, ducked under the Vikings sword, and drove it home!

The Viking’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and then in anger, as he sank to the floor.

Ronan gave a sigh of relief, all of the battle rage leaving him. It was over then. I thank thee O Lord-

Fiora screamed out a warning too late. Ronan felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and the world went dim before him. He stumbled, falling down to his knees, looking down to see the Viking, his face contorted in a vicious grin, his hand raised high, holding on to the dagger that had inflicted the deadly blow, before falling down, as his eyes closed.

For Ronan, the world turned dark. He was conscious of Fiora, her half choked sobs, conscious of her gentle hands bandaging him, but he knelt in a numb, dreamlike state.

But he shook himself awake.

“Fiora, my love. Leave it... It’s no use.”

“No!” Choked, her voice was stubborn. She frantically worked, her jaw set firmly, her eyes hard. But nothing helped, and her hands began to slow down. Her face came back into focus.

“How could God do this? How could he let a man like you, the chieftain of our people, my love, how could he allow the heathen to triumph over you.”

Her bitter, angry words washed over him. For a moment, he too doubted. He had hoped for so much more than this. Was it truly fair for something like this to happen? Should God not want him to triumph over the heathen Vikings? But then, a voice inside of him whispered Thy will be done. He struggled to speak.

“Fiora... you know... that that is not how it is. We are entitled to nothing. I admit... I had hoped... to grow old with you... to watch our children grow up... and our children’s children.” For a few seconds, his mask of calm broke, exposing the tight, pained face beneath, and he gave a shuddering breath. “But... that was not God’s will for us. Fiora... he spared you. I believe that he had a purpose for you. You must not give up faith! And besides... I am glad... to die for you. Here... in your arms... seems like a good place to die.” He began to cough, lungs wrenching in the ash filled air.

Still, Fiora refused to accept it, sobbing, holding him in her arms. Ronan felt himself sinking into despair. The pain was so great, and he couldn’t bear to witness Fiora’s sorrow.

“Fiora. Please... sing me something... to help... with the pain.”

She raised her red eyes towards him. And at first, her voice wavered, shaky, marred by the smoke and her sobs. But as she looked into Ronan’s dark eyes, his strong face, the sorrow in her face was mixed with love, and her voice grew stronger. It was an old song that she sang. A song of their people.

Come Home:

When Autumn ends, and leaves are falling

I’ll walk beneath the trees

When Winter comes and frost appears

I’ll hear you on the breeze

Come home my love, and rest your head,

For you’ve travelled many a mile

Come home to where the sun is warm

Come home and rest awhile.

When I traverse the paths we trod

I’ll think of all you said,

And when among the woodland trees,

The promise that you kept.

Come home my love, and rest your head,

For you’ve travelled many a mile

Come home to where the grass is green

Come home and rest awhile.

I know it is a dream I dream,

You’ll n’er be seen again

The leaves have fallen from the tree

And all is falling rain.

When she reached the final note, it seemed to linger, until her voice cracked. Ronan felt a strange peace steal over him. Somehow the pain seemed more bearable, and the darkness less thick. Indeed, for a second, he thought he could see a light. He gave a last breath, and whispered her name. And then his eyes closed.

Fiora felt her voice breaking towards the end of the slow, mournful tune. It was a song her mother had sung after her father’s death. And now she sang it to her love as he lay... er mind refused to say the word. She looked down at him. His eyes gazed somewhere behind her, and the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Finally, his lips moved, and she bent, straining to hear.

“Fiora... Fiora...” But that was it. His head sank low, his eyes closed. Fiora leant close, unwilling to accept it, desperate to hear his voice just once more. One more sentence...

But the only sounds left were the crackling flames, and the falling rain.

THE END