The Warrior

Among a sea of fallen heroes, the battle-worn warrior stood, surrounded by death and despair. An unbearable stench of rot and decay swarmed the air like a hoard of locusts, hungrily seeking a new destination to feed. A northern breeze, struck the glowing red grass, which once lay green, and blew it to and fro under the mid-day sun’s heat. The piercing sound of shining black crows, feeding on the flesh of fallen warriors echoed through his ears, and tormented his disturbed mind. Beads of salt-filled sweat ran down his face, striking his wounds and sending a stinging sensation up his spine. Silent and motionless, he peered out at the battlefield, and it’s desolation, clutching firmly his bloodstained blade in one hand, and his ravaged shield in the other, a true testament to the strength of man. Fatigued, dehydrated, and pushed beyond all boundaries, the warrior stood victorias, yet unsatisfied. Before him lay his brothers, and adversaries, all extinct to this cold world. Alone, the last of his kind, he stood, and as he realized this harsh reality he must face, he began to cry. Showing no emotion, a cascade of tears rolled down his cheek, joining sweat as it went. His armor glowed brightly in the sunlight, silver and blue, and with it dawned, he stood as a beckon for all to see. To kill was his only talent, and he hated himself for it. Horrific screams of dieing men, haunted his thoughts, and the memory of his closest brothers falling to the sword, guarded him from finding any such solitude. As the cool breeze hit him, his long matted brown hair, blew across his face and then back again, for he had lost his helm in the chaos of battle. When he closed his eyes, he could see them, the faces of those he had slain. He began to cry more violently now, and as he did he could hear the voices of the fallen in his head. They whispered to him faintly, “ come brother, come...” Opening his eyes to this hellish scene once more, and raising his sword to his chest, he said a short prayer to his god, before spilling his blood onto the grass before him. Letting out a long crackling groan of pain, the warrior stumbled for a moment, with the blade of his sword drawn through his chest, and fell to his knees gasping for air every few seconds. Kneeling in a pool of blood, with one final yelp, the warrior met the ground with a thud, on his side, and his mouth lay open, dripping from it the juice of life. Free at last, the warrior’s body lay cold, and motionless, silently inviting the black feathered beasts which infested the blood bath that was this field, and the famed legendary death bringer, a sword feared throughout the land, which had claimed so many lives, and defeated so many brave, lay through his chest, soaking in the blood of it’s master.