~Not all that is under Heaven is right, sometimes we must see Hell to know our fate~
He stared out over the rolling hills and grassy plains. The quiet sound of trundling wheels passed him slowly. The people, clothed in strips of torn rags, staggered on. Death was close at their heels; not even beyond the past hill.
The sword was ever-present at his side. It was old and rusted. There was no beautiful shine to the blade any longer. It was dull and scratched and close to ruin. The sheath too was aged and filled with holes. The leather had thinned to the point where it could barely hold the sword's weight, but it was his dearest ally.
The whines of children rose. He turned his gaze to the ground. His stomach ached with hunger pains too. His legs trembled lightly and he wondered, not for the first time, how they could force themselves onwards. They weren't warriors. They hadn't the stamina that he had.
He turned, then. His footsteps were heavy with the weight of burdens placed on his shoulders. With deliberate slowness he made his way to the front of the procession. They were farmers and vendors; they knew nothing of warfare. They were innocent victims who were unfortunate enough to remain with the living.
He could feel their fear in the hollow air. It burned his throat with every breath. He was the only one who could lead them. It was his duty to be what they needed most. He would fight, walk, calm disputes and live in a world without night.
A scream filled the air and he turned once more. Those at the end of the procession were struggling to run. The elderly and sickly were abandoned as their carers fled. A man rolled down the hill and the horses of the army rose into view.
The riders with their spears, bows and arrows, swords and shields glowered down. Their eyes were hidden by the helmets they wore in cowardice. They would slaughter the peasants without a single ounce of mercy. The people's unwilling leader ran to greet the enemy forces with his old sword.
He could almost see them laugh at his pitiful weapon and lack of armour. His leather clothes and the ancient sword were all that he needed. Lives were on the line and that alone would provide the strength he so lacked.
His sword, spinning and twirling in his hand, gleamed with age old battles etched onto its surface. The faces of the living, the dead and the dying flitted across the matted sheen. Two dark eyes blinked intermittently in the image.
A dark face with honey glazed eyes appeared for the smallest of moments before the blood began.
~When the way is lost there is but the delusion of hope to offer us a shadow of comfort~
Author's Note: This is my exam year so I've been busy. I've also been struggling with my emotions so I've had a lot of difficulty. Order of the True Faith will be completed. In the meantime, I have this to offer you. This account has been neglected for far too long. I truly feel that I need to pay this more attention and this is the start of that.
Thank you for reading. I hope that you've enjoyed this. I apologise if I disappointed you.