I'm peacefully plowing crops in the fields when a sound like thunder rings out.
Footsteps follow. I drop the hoe. It strikes the soft ground and I know it will leave a mark, but my confusion is rampant. In the foggy distance I see a head on quick horseback, and then another, and then another. They wear pointy metal caps and shiny red armor. Their faces are like mine, but not their expressions. They're at least a mile away, but I run for the hills.
"They're coming! They're coming!" I pant as I sprint toward the village. My feet create prints in the soggy brown soil. I almost slip on a half-dying green plant a few hundred yards from the main land. What will happen to our crops? Or worse... our people?
Dread fills me. I hear shouts. I'm not sure whether they belong to our villagers or the ruthless barbarians of the north. My feet turn heavy. I'm out of breath. My feet are dirty and blistered.
"Help!" someone cries out. I look behind me. The invaders are nowhere to be seen, and neither is the source of the shout. A piercing shriek from the same direction, to my left. In my peripheral vision, I see a small figure with black hair and no shoes dash past me. It's a little girl, but not the one who cried out.
I feel terrible for not stopping to help, but I cannot stop running. They need me. But the invaders have come. My father predicted this day. That is, the day the northerners came. Some saw them as allies, but those were soon overridden with depictions of them as cruel warmongers. I'm afraid the latter is true now.
I stop running when I see our shanty huts and collapse on the ground. Something hard hits my head. A rock? No. Whatever I was thinking slips away from me. So does my life. I'm a victim of the Mongols now. And I'm the first of many.
Footsteps follow. I drop the hoe. It strikes the soft ground and I know it will leave a mark, but my confusion is rampant. In the foggy distance I see a head on quick horseback, and then another, and then another. They wear pointy metal caps and shiny red armor. Their faces are like mine, but not their expressions. They're at least a mile away, but I run for the hills.
"They're coming! They're coming!" I pant as I sprint toward the village. My feet create prints in the soggy brown soil. I almost slip on a half-dying green plant a few hundred yards from the main land. What will happen to our crops? Or worse... our people?
Dread fills me. I hear shouts. I'm not sure whether they belong to our villagers or the ruthless barbarians of the north. My feet turn heavy. I'm out of breath. My feet are dirty and blistered.
"Help!" someone cries out. I look behind me. The invaders are nowhere to be seen, and neither is the source of the shout. A piercing shriek from the same direction, to my left. In my peripheral vision, I see a small figure with black hair and no shoes dash past me. It's a little girl, but not the one who cried out.
I feel terrible for not stopping to help, but I cannot stop running. They need me. But the invaders have come. My father predicted this day. That is, the day the northerners came. Some saw them as allies, but those were soon overridden with depictions of them as cruel warmongers. I'm afraid the latter is true now.
I stop running when I see our shanty huts and collapse on the ground. Something hard hits my head. A rock? No. Whatever I was thinking slips away from me. So does my life. I'm a victim of the Mongols now. And I'm the first of many.
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