Gott Waits For Thee

[Sujamma Addict 514]

Some very minor gore is described in this

A late post, but while sitting in a bus for four hours, I decided to finally write up something about the Battle of The Forest. The inspiration essentially derives from everyone who made post related to the Civil War. This short story can be ambiguous for some despite my efforts, but aw, well, it can work either way.

Also any constructive criticism would be helpful as I am rather new to story telling.

 

 

A leaf strewn fall had begun to settle and the once vibrant green covering that clothed the trees and bushes had long been gone, flying off and spreading the russet colored leaves over a dirt blood covered road. Four horses trotted across the path, that had been, littered with corpses beyond count. The light taps of their hooves and the wind made it all the more eerie. The two stallions that led the pack were a dark shade of brown with various splotches of black, big and small, covering their toned figures. Two empty saddles rested on top of each one, both appearing to have been torn at and bitten. The third beast was lean and ugly, grey, and one long infected scar drew its way across its side; a dirty and rugged saddle dragged across the ground, still attached on the opposite side.

 

The fourth and last horse was the ugliest of the four. Multiple gashes and cuts covered its white body as if they were splotches from the first two. It trotted behind the other three awkwardly and was missing an eye. On its right side rested yet another worn saddle, but stretched wider than the others. On top of the saddle lied a rider. His once silk brown hair was now highlighted with crimson stains and his face was unrecognizable. His ruined uniform, however, identified him as a crow; a “traitor.”

As the horses continued on their futile pilgrimage, the abnormal calm was interrupted by a slice of the wind and a clang of chains being ripped apart. The horses took notice to this and in panic, doubled their efforts and turned a trot into a gallop. As they took off into the distance a single arrow now protruded from the back of the rider.

 

“Sixteen. The age you pledged to be like me.”  A calm, dead voice came from afar, “You get that down?”

No response.

“Good, there’s some more over there.”

He lowered his short bow and grabbed onto the reigns of a brown stallion, tugging on it lightly as he walked on, “Once we’re done here we can head on back to the farm and see if your mother has supper readeh.” His crooked face contorted into a somewhat kind of twisted smile; dried liquid covered his dirty and ruddy cheeks. The walk didn’t last more than a few minutes and soon he stood over another. A set of hazel eyes met his, but he felt no emotion.

The man released the stallion and reached for one of the three arrows left in his quiver. The wind began to die down while he pulled back on the bowstring with his lacerated hands. There was no hesitation when he released his already loose grip, sending the arrow three feet down into the head of another fallen crow, “Seventeen. The age you joined the army.” Pride was laced in his voice. A hard and loud thump of chains and leather sounded behind him followed by a light snort from his horse. The man closed his eyes half-way, clenched his red-tinted teeth and stood in silence for several minutes without ever taking his depressing grimace from the crow’s temple, “…Your mother,” he uttered shakily, his lips dry, “She’ll have warmed milk, sweetened with honeh when we arrive.” He struggled to blink back tears and lowered to his knees.

 

After a time he slowly rose from his crouched position to his full height, he limped over to the lifeless form behind him. The man in his forties wiped at his face with his trembling calloused hands, swallowed dryly, and bent down to get the heart aching task out of the way again.  Half-way through it, however, his eyes widened in disbelief and realization; he quickly joined the choir of wailing that he had now just noticed. His eyebrows lifted while he frantically tried to reattach a limb. Suddenly an immense silence filled him and he found himself calmly taking the reigns of his steed and leading it on towards another crow, uttering with a calm, dead voice.

 

“One.. That year I came home to a son.”

[Jachnun 566]

Gideon Gov the bard begins to compose songs

[James 425]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.