A Banshee Howls

A banshee howled upon night winds, keening a death song.Good, the old man thought, it was about time. He stared into the roaring fire, not seeing the dancing flames. Instead his life stretched out before him, visions of battles fought, won and lost. Of soft skin and softer sighs, of friends he would never see again and enemies that had yet to die.

He sank deeper into the robes seeking warmth from a cold not brought by the wind but instead the icy touch of fear. Fear not of death but of that which remains to be done, that which remains to be accomplished.

Extending his arms to warm his hands in the heat. It was then he remembered that he had but one. The gnarled scorched stump of a limb mocked him. His eyes filling with tears as he felt the phantom hand still there, still whole. But he remembered the blow that had severed it, he remembered the pain as it was stuck into the fire, closing the wounds. He stared into the flames feeling the searing agony once more. His soul felt raw like that limb this night, useless like the hand that lay still on that long ago battle field. The weight of so much after so long seemed to haunt him this dark night and he prayed that the spirits would claim him. Ease his suffering, his pain.

Long ago he had discovered that life was naught but a forced march to the grave and nothing mattered in the end. Your deeds, good or ill, forgotten come the dawn of a new sun. He drew his blade from the scabbard at his side and studied its razor edge. Like the wind that howled about him, the flashing blade carried the promise of death but it carried more for it made the user responsible for that death. Years ago he waited for a lover each night. Now he awaits the spirits. Closing his eyes, he slept.

Tomorrow he would fight once more, wether upon the field before him or in whatever spirit world that awaited, he would fight. This he knew with a dread certainty for peace was his greatest desire and the one he would never find.