[size=150]LOST CAUSE[/size]
The slow zyphr passed by his ears with a sound he had not heard in years. Faint like an echo, yet bringing memories so clear in detail as if they were real. For a man who stood alone on this old battlefield, the land was not as clear as some would percieve it to be. The blood of many who had been slain may not be seen on the surface, where now the bright green vales of grass carpeted the land. Indeed that blood still resided in that land, deep below the peaceful wind now whispering the echos of time in a graceful language.
Those memories were indeed so clear, he could see them before his very eyes. Men clad in steel weilding shields as high as their bodies and spears of likewise lengths. Onwards they marched, slowly poking down the infantry of the enemy. An enemy whose armor was light but swords agile and fast as the wind. Their shields were of wood and no match for the deadly spears driving at them, but their blades curved like leaves with a sharpness only matched by the keen fervor of the enemy. The spears, shaped like leaves themselves, still peirced through all that fervor, as if the combatant's zeal was unmatched.
He closed his eyes, letting the built-up tears roll down his cheeks. When he reopened them, looking down at the ground where his feet stood, he kneeled and put his hand to the grass. Soft it was, like the words he onced believed in. Yet underneath it all lied a past and pain that could never be erased. The tears dripped from his chin to the ground. Water is water, in any form it may take. As a tear would promote the growth of the grass, so would the blood of those who had fallen. He looked up again at the land he once stood at and saw more memories become reality.
The clouds covered the sunny sky as archers on both sides let loose the barage of steel points craving the frailty of human flesh. For each man that fell there was a smile or gleeful chant on the opposing side. Calvery charged in as the infantry was wiped out on both sides. The men clad in armor held small steel shields and swords as long as their legs. A swift prance through the field of corpse tended to end with a smiteful bashing of one's head, along with a sense of justice in the mind of the attacker. Justice felt upon striking, and righteousness upon killing. This was the sentiment on both sides, as if there was some ultimate good from doing something so unethical and immoral. Why was there supposed to be any sense in it, if indeed there was any?
It came soon to the end. The enemy was crushed and the soldiers clad in armor were the victors, but at a substantial cost. Friends and fellow countrymen poured their warm blood in to the rough dirt where few strands of dead and trampled grass still stood. The color of blood matched the red cross on the white shields of the victor. Yet for such a glorious victory, the few who lived had little to say.
Again the man closed his eyes, releasing the tormenting teardrops of pain from his body. He wished he had died on this battlefield that day. Why didn't he? Then he suddenly remembered, as he had continued to forget for many years why no one killed him. He was a priest. One who stood at the edge of the battlefield chanting the words of his god. He began crying as he fell to his knees wondering why he blessed all those men who slaughtered those trying to do the same to them. He wondered why he praised such bloodshedding. He wondered why he was sparred. As clouds covered the sky and cried thunder through the air, the whispers in the wind shattered abruptly. And when a bolt of lightning struck the man, killing him where he knelt, some would ask if it was a matter of chance or a matter of fate.
If he still lived, he would surely say it was fate.