Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1105613
Rated: ASR · Short Story · Fantasy · #1105613
Some ideas can cause very interesting imagry...
Blood and chaos surround the warriors as they fought against the ever threatening darkness. There was no time to think about much else as the glowing eyes that encircled as more comrades fell to the ground. The silver haired death swept their souls away quickly and moved on to the next unfortunate who fell on either side. In the center two of the knights fought side by side, one good and the other evil. Sweat drenched their faces as they circled about each other, their weapons clashed in the heated struggle with the sparks and back fires lit their pupils.

Neither knew which was to die, this was only a minor battle in the many that would surely follow. Should one die another will take their place and another battle will ensue till it came down to the final commanders. The battle for the rights of the good and deserved or the evil and stolen. So much was need to be done before this battle could end and a victory could walk away from the carnage, the memory of the evil defeated held with them.

Behind the two fighters the silver haired death watched, sweeping away in his heavy black cloak to gather the bodies and take them to the crossing before returning to watch again. He waited patiently, aware both warriors felt his presence. He too waited to see who would fall by the fates hands. With a quick unsteady hand the warrior, his armor dulled by the red eyed ones, took hold of his hilt and took a brave and fate full swing against his opponent.
Death watched with his usual morbid fascination to see which he would take away with him this time. The knight opened his chest for a brief moment, the moment the red eyed one waited for, and swung. The red eyed one leapt forward to make his kill, only to have the long blade of the knights sword find its way into his unarmored chest. The battle field fell silent as the red eyed one fell to the earth, his black blood spilled from the mortal wound delivered to him.

The knight lifted his sword into the air and signaled for his army to continue forward, the darkness would be weak without a strong commander. Under the visors of heavy and shining metal the knights advanced, ravaging those who stood in their way to the back lines. Standing upon the hill fought upon he looked down at the chaos under him and removed his helm. His short red hair stuck to his forehead and dark brown eyes surveyed the damage done to his people and the others. There was nothing more disturbing and disheartening to see the fallen ones he had taken under his command and led in when they were untrained and unfit for battle.

When the enemy had retreated and his knights regrouped he started away from the blood, grabbing the bodies of the young ones as he went, piling them in his arms. Their light weight piled with the thick and heavy armor didn’t phase him in his moment of strength and sadness. Behind him his men traveled about and gathered those not on the path he walked upon. Ahead he could see the fires of the camp they had rushed from to make the attack against the darkness burn. So it would stay that he and his men remained, the kingdom they fought under coming only to take away the dead and dispurse more live bodies and provisions.

With a pause he shifted the bodies he carried and looked down on the face of one of the men that had recently been brought forward to him. This was no man, but a child. He was someone so young that his face, though splattered with black, was smooth and fresh. Never again would this young boy know the breath of fresh air or the joy of the sunlight. He would not breathe another breath in this realm, but awaken in the realm of the silver haired death. The sad music of his heart projected to his ears and he listened intently as it traveled by, carried by the whispery wings of the wind.

Stooping low he managed to take hold of the boy and place him atop the pile he already carried. For those who had fought and failed, there would be no tomorrow, but for those who carried on it was but more time to avenge those who had fallen. With a slow shake of his head, his red hair, dried by the sorrowful winds, swung into his vision. No different from a battle; red, the color of the blinding rage, the hell bent eyes, and the blood of my own. I will be the gate keeper till I fall. The winds blew up again and blew his sash against the cold metal of his breast plate. Under all his armor his sweat drenched body pushed on to give his men strength to continue.

Off in the distance he could see the harsh and jagged lines of the horizon where the red eyed ones resided, planning a new attack to finish of the rest of them. Beyond the edge of his vision, in the corner of his eye, he could see silver haired death sweeping over the blood drenched battlefield. The soft flap of his heavy black cloak pulled away from the misty frame to show the sharp silver edge of his soul collector. Turning his sights away, knowing the silver haired one had spared him again from the mercy of his blade by taking the lives of the others, he looked to camp and paused.

At the front of his camp two women in white danced around the returning wounded and weary. Their long white hair twisted and snapped in the wind with the flutter and flair of their snow colored gowns. Bare feet barely touched the blood soiled earth as the line continued into the camp and they made their way down it. Long arms with spindly fingers reached out towards the sky and those who had fallen prey to the red eyed ones. With a limpid gesture they floated along, angels among wreckage that would never be repaired.

As the sorrowful winds struck up their mournful chords, red washed his vision in strands as they approached him. He paused as they did and watched the pale faces float by. One of the dove white winged arms of the women reached out and touched the helm of his helmet. Their touch was a cold as the silver haired one, but theirs was of a different purpose. They were only marking him as alive while death made his rounds, black cloak covering the blood stained ground carrying the lineage of many a great warrior in its soil. They were not angels, but Valkaries for the silver haired one.

Bowing his head at their touch he continued on, knowing his fate to life had been determined before hand. Without much relief in thoughts of mortality he pressed through the gate of the realm he protected and laid those he carried with the others of an empty shell.
© Copyright 2006 ShadeGlass (shadeglass at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1105613