When Meredith found out that she was pregnant with a second child, her already crumbling world collapsed around her. Even with the casualties from the war, overpopulation still held humanity in a tightening chokehold. In an effort to combat the overpopulation, the government instituted a one-child policy. If the pregnancy is discovered in time, the fetus is subject to an abortion. If not, the parent is allowed to keep the child at the price of a heavy fine. If they can't afford the fine, the child is considered government property.

Meredith could never find it in herself to have an abortion, nor did she have the money to pay the fine. In truth, only the 1% would ever see that much money in their life. So she hid the pregnancy as best she could.

Meredith Mills was a brittle sort of woman. She spoke quietly and uncertainly, afraid of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Her hands had developed a slight shake, and she bore her 40 years badly. She was thin and pallid with none of the womanly figure she had once had. She had relied on her husband to make the big decisions in their life, but when he left for the war and never came back, she was thrust violently into the role of authority. Her oldest, Ellie, had been a joy to raise. Eager to please and quick-witted, Ellie had been no burden on her mother.

"Mills, Jackson." The tinny loudspeaker blared. One the boys sitting around in the parade square got up and walked over to the general's office. A bored-looking soldier in a pristine khaki uniform let him in and closed the door behind him.

Writing

Writing is hard. You're afraid of the terrible whiteness of a blank page. Every word wringed out of your desperate, twitching imagination emerges warped and twisted (those mean the same thing, asshole), empty of substance. You line up the words like soldiers on parade and march them off to war. You make ridiculous metaphors that feel pretentious and slightly offensive. Good job, you.

Harding Redhand 2

    Harding's eyes drifted closed. The pain was fading. The sounds of battle came muffled from beyond a veil of numbness. Back to the mud.
    A bone-rattling slap snapped Harding's head to the side, and he came instantly, painfully awake with a squawk. A pair of startlingly blue eyes loomed over him.
   'Blue-Eyes?' he croaked.
   'Oh, good,' Blue-Eyes said, a wide smile on his face. 'You're still alive. On your feet, Redhand!'
    Harding was pulled roughly to his feet, screaming in pain as the arrows in his chest and gut twisted. 'Did, fuckin' shit, did we win?'
    'Well,' Blue-Eyes said, 'Not exactly.'

Harding Redhand

Harding squatted next to Blue-Eyes and handed him a heel of dry bread.
    'See anything?' he asked.
    Blue-Eyes shrugged. 'Not much. Reckon I saw movement in the pass, couple of hours ago, but this damn fog ain't making my job any easier.' He sniffed at the bread, frowning. 'We got any butter?'
    Harding snorted laughter. 'Bread's all we got, and there ain't much left of it. Be thankful for what you get.'
    'I'd be more thankful for a prime cut of beef,' Blue-Eyes said, chewing reluctantly on the weeks-old bread. 'Roasted on a spit, maybe. Smothered in rich butter.' He stared dreamily out into grey depths of the misty forest. 'Fat sizzling on the coals,' he murmured, Harding forgotten.

***

    His heart beat like a drum against his rib cage, blood rushing through his head like a river. He was shaking with fear, excitement and impatience, one hand clamped around his axe like a vice, the other gripping his round shield. Through the mist, he could see the line of dark shapes moving through the valley like a great snake.
    Soon, the chief would sound the charge. Soon, the Northwind tribe would descend from the mist like wolves falling upon sheep, and the White-Spear tribe would be no more.
    He started as something hit his forehead. For just a moment, he was certain that it was an arrow. I'm dead! He thought. The battle hasn't even started, and I'm fucking dead already! The drop of water ran down his face, dangling from the tip of his nose. He stared cross-eyed at it for a moment before it dropped off. He looked up. Rain.
    'Shit,' he whispered.

***

    The chief had sounded the charge too late. Harding knew this even as he ran screaming down the hill towards the White-Spears. The rain had driven away the mist too quickly, and now White-Spear arrows were picking off men all around him. They had already formed the shield-wall, spears pointing at him like accusatory fingers. Harding ran as fast as he could. He had to close the distance before-
    He was on the ground, staring at the . He blinked, confused, and tried to stand up. He gasped as pain shot through him like lightning. Breathing hard through gritted teeth, he lifted his head to look down.
    One arrow jutted from his chest, another from his gut. He almost passed out from the sight of the.
    'Shit,' he muttered. 'Shit. Shit.'
    Someone charged past him, heavy scale boots clanking and rattling, and Harding tried to stand again. The pain was too much, and he fell back onto the wet dirt.

***

    The drops of rain fell like hammer blows on Harding Redhand's bruised and battered body.
    He could hear sounds of battle not far off; the clash of swords and shields. The thump of axes biting into wood and steel and flesh. The rapid series of twangs as someone let loose a flight of arrows. The screams of men. Harding wondered who was winning.

Bloodbeard

Bloodbeard crouched behind his shield as arrows, spears and rained down around him. He huddled at the base of Whitehaven Keep's northern wall, trying to make himself as small as possible and praying to every god he could think of. A spear thrown from the ramparts above struck his shield with a sharp crack of splintering wood.