The morning found him standing at the rise of the small atoll, alone and beaten. The heavens opened and rained upon him, matching and masking his tears of never ending sorrow and strife. So many broken and maimed bodies lay about him, some of the enemy, some comrades in arms. All have passed this realm in a senseless violent and abrupt end.
He falls to one knee, body racked with pain, his heart over whelmed with grief, head bowed as if in silent prayer. Eyes closed he tried to make sense of it all, tried to pin point when the tides had changed. It seemed so long ago this war had started, so long ago that those that now fought have long forgotten the reason and the cause.
Silence had fallen upon the surrounding land , save that of the rain. As if afraid to break the spell of reprieve, momentary peace. He knelt there it seemed as if for hours, resting and waiting for an answer to come, that would explain why, to give justification to it all. But there was no answer to come, only the rain and the sound of distant thunder far off in the distance.
He became aware of things around him again, the slight rustling of amour against amour, sword against shield, slowly moving closer. And the sounds of claws scraping against the rock, the silent whisperings in the distance. W either they be in his head or not, he was never certain, but he heard them all the same.
For those still standing with him, could never be certain when the stories were told years after around the camp fires and taverns. They were not certain wither it was the thunder or the growl from deep with him, was keeping pace with the other. But it was there, a storm was approaching, keeping tempo with his growing rage of it all. All they could say for certain was what happened that day.
For he stood tall that day, trembling with the rage, the growl becoming deeper and louder, as he pulled his sword from it's scabbard. The ring of cold steel ringing in the air loud and clear, as the lightning and thunder kept pace. They were not certain if he called the lightning or it called to him. It did not really matter, one was feeding off the other. Fanning the outrage with in him that day, calling him forth to finally release, to accept his destiny that was foretold many many years ago.
Nothing else mattered, the battle that raged had to end. Though he knew, he would always fight, never resting. With a deafening yell, that startled those closest to him, and the enemy, he leaped into the enemy battle lines, sword working it's magic, singing to him as he tore his way through. The blood lust completely taking over, killing those that would harm others. And perhaps a slight cry of the sorrow deep with in, knowing the battle will never end. It has been so through the ages, it will continue now......
As the years passed, no one saw or heard of him again. Save for the stories and the rumors of a man high in the mountains standing watch at night. Forever alone, forever watching and waiting for the next fight to fight for those that could not. They say, when the breeze in the night is just right, you can still hear his cry of pain and sorrow, and his sword singing to him.... for ever more.
The Battle Song by James W. Winegard is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://duenorth.typepad.com/terms-of-use.html.
