Turning True Blue

[Thunderer]

Upright posture, uptight uniform, energetic pace, bridled hear, and just a little cut above the left eyebrow to show participation and sacrifice in the war -- a laurel wreath was the only thing Elizabeth lacked for a true triumphant entrance. "See, the conquering hero comes! Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!"

A funeral march, that's what the trumpets would be sounding. Elizabeth's metaphorical trail of triumph was paved with corpses. A girl craving to pluck the golden apple that was rightfully hers, through fire if necessary, that was Elizabeth when she enlisted. A broken spirit that had smelled the scent of a billion dead, the fire tasted, the apple not yet -- herself now. The place where she was born, destroyed -- not the house, not the city -- the planet! Then Bretonia's daughter, now striving to become the caring, though limping, mother -- that was Elizabeth.

Not something her father would ever feel. No, he lived for himself, and only for himself. But unlike him, Elizabeth was born in the slums and understood the miseries of common life -- and she was a woman.

Her gentle frame, subjected to the explosive crescendo of the Gallic War, exposed its newfound resilience with a curt salute. Her eyes avoided direct contact as she was in front of a higher ranking officer, but exuded a flame of individualism thirsting to burst out of all the memories of sentient, human souls waiting in a queue to be mechanically slaughtered, as if on a conveyor belt, devoid of their humanity, out of a series of tragedies that had been reduced to mere statistics. Her name to be remembered, that was Elizabeth's motive.

"At your service, Sir!"

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