The Tribesman

Sickly. That's how he felt. Sick in the head, more to the point. His allegiance torn between himself and his land. He had betrayed his land, like his land had betrayed him. Could they ever be at peace again, the land and himself? Could he? He had caused much harm. Maybe enough. He had thought about bringing it all to halt on more than one occasion. Only to betray and be betrayed again.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.