We used to sit around the table, all five of us, every Sunday at lunch. Until the trolls invaded and all my boys left; called up and conscripted.
I harvested the land with the women, and waited at the gate every sundown. Those who returned were unrecognizable. A guilty thought chafed at me; if this is what they came back as, did I want my boys to return?
But the choice was never mine.
Three of us sit at the table now in haunted silence, staring into the fires of the two lit lamps; a tribute to our dead.
For this episode of Friday Fictioneers, I went with fantasy. I hope you like it.