Post War Interlude

His generals rode in an oval pattern around him, leading him back to the castle and protecting him from the errant rush of ambitious war-mongerers, desiring his head as their prize.  As he rode he saw the world rushing by him, but he knew he was no longer part of it.  He had died on the field; the ruins of his ravaged kingdom surrounding him, as one by one, his soldiers succumbed to the enemy’s rage.  Numb, brief thoughts began in his mind, only to be crushed by peripheral screams and the encroaching sounds of death and madness.  How many men had he lost today?  Over the past few months?  He shook his head at the surreal brutality of it all.  No tears came.

 

She whirled around to meet Madrien’s sharp blue eyes, and an expression which seemed less stoic and more gentle than usual.  She looked on the verge of tears, frail, and she nodded her head.  Behind Madrien stood the King, standing alone and staring off into the distance, his armour torn, skin bruised and welted.  He no longer carried his helmet and his sword limply hung aside him.

 

Battle cries reverberated across the valley; blood soaked warriors rushed the enemy and bore into them with eyes that no longer feared death. He surveyed the bloody melee from the edge of the field, watching as the last few proud and fierce men fell before him. Nearly all of his loyal and faithful soldiers lay dead on the field, which hosted this macabre dance of death. The war party had overtaken them, nearly decimating the king’s once proud ranks. He shook his head and saw daughter’s eyes staring into him. She looked frail, and even worse, her eyes bore the same ancient sadness that threatened to permeate his soul. She knew. The King’s reign had come to an end.