Here, by the way, is a sample of my writing. It is a first draft. I havn't done much to it. Please post your opinions.

Whit ran across the battlefield, dodging bayonets and bullets and guns. No one asked what a fourteen-year-old girl in a torn nurse's uniform was doing put there; they were preoccupied with driving lead balls into the enemy soldiers. In the fury somehow she made it to Charles, who was slumped unconscious against the cliff. She gathered her brother's body in her arms and held him, feeling for a heartbeat.

It was there, thumping against his chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sounds of the raging battle roared on, uncaring, unmerciful: cries of help, begging to spare a life, prayers and desperate bargains shouted to their Maker, a gunshot, a cannon's scream.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Please live, Charles, Whit pleaded with all her might. Please. You are all I have left.

The cry of a dying man. Shouts and gunshots, always gunshots, pressed in from all sides. The air was thick with lead. The sun itself had cloaked itself with the grey, grey clouds in protection and protest, but still the people fought.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Please, please, Charles, my brother, my friend. Live, live, live!

Thump. Thump. Th-

And then there was silence. The vibration from Charles ceased in Whit's arms and the world came spiraling down into darkness, and when she saw that the battle was still being fought she wanted to curse the armies, curse war for taking the last thing that she had left and being so ignorant, for not acknowledging that her universe had come crashing down. But all she did was cry.

She was too tired to do anything else, and too grieved to do anything else.

Take me, too, Whit wanted to yell through her tears. If you have to take Charles then take me too! But she did not die and nothing happened.

Globs of salty water poured off of her cheeks and onto Charles' body, and phlegm dripped down from her nose, staining her once-crisp shirt.

A memory surfaced. They were five and eight, Whit of course younger. They were climbing trees, oblivious to the coming war. Brother and sister, seeing who could go the highest. Whit falling off of a high bough and hitting the ground with such force that it felt like her eyes were being knocked out of her head. And Charles came down from his tree and carrying her all the way home, his arms around her the way her arms were around him now, comforting and strong, even at eight years.

Then Whit heard something.

Thump… Thump…Thump…

It was a heartbeat.

It started slowly at first, then got louder and clearer and stronger, until it sounded as wick and alive as Whit's herself.

Charles stirred.

The battle still went on.

His eyelids began to twitch, and then they fluttered open, the brown irises staring into Whit's, and he sat up.

He sat up.