He holds the blade, steady and sure, a lethal weapon but a toy to him, the one who forged the shadows in the night.
He picks up the gravel and throws it high, emitting a heart felt roar that rocks the armies to their knees from the mere effort it takes to listen to such raw emotion.
Time all but stops, only present because of the pulse of each heart, thrumming in ears and in chests. In silence all else is amplified so that each heartbeat is heard before it rests for ever more.
His eyes are like daggers, dangerous to behold, and I fancy I see a glimmer of resent in other's as he takes his stance. One more cry sleeping on his lips, the only thing not alive with panic and over-excited exhilaration.
The wind is warm, letting me know that too many are clustered on these ashened fields. How many poppies will congregate to mourn the passing of their heroes, the men who fought and died on the plain I still see before me? It, too, senses the innate dread of this stuffy morning. There are too many men to die, too many to witness the power of man's evil.
He raises his metal and a slight chink rustles as they mimic their sovereign. There's a haze of hasty breath smudging the air, closed eyes and the soft murmurings of a prayer before his horse rears and he plummets forwards into the revels of blood and awe, gathering as he goes the souls of those left to wait for the reaper's steady footsteps, long delayed by the sheer immensity of this one day's passing. Perhaps he too will lie in a bed of tears once the dawn awakens tomorrow, still red from the blood of today's demise.
