Foul Winds

[tcs_tonsils_ 3666]

 

 

 

 

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Foul winds blew over Balian, bringing with them the stench of blood and sweat. The walls of the Capital lay barren, torn to shreds by hundreds of rocks. The cannons still fired, though their shots were far between. Surely, most of the Burgundian Imperial forces had relinquished manning them to attack through the breeches. League men poured through the walls, striking down those who remained to sleep forever in the city's ruins. 

 

Waves of men rushed onward, waving through the palisades and mazes of wood. The few Balianites that remained attempted to hold their ground, but there was little hope of beating back this darkness. It was inevitable… and they understood… Sigismund understood. 

 

He had been waiting for the initial wave of Hellfire at the front gates, but now that they had broken through, he had pulled back to their secondary defenses. Yet as he drew backward, he found himself blocked by fellow soldiers who attempted to make their way back to the church. He cried out as he watched the King swarmed by Burgundian soldiers, yet was helpless to get to him as he was continuously pushed backwards. 

 

He watched as Norns, Numendelians, Burgundians, and Elves flew through their positions in front of the front gate and focused their gaze towards the Church. Then he watched as they cut through the remaining forces that had been left. Sigismund paused, breaking his way through the retreating crowd to bring his steel to their own. His sword lofted and broke the stance of one soldier, yet two more advanced upon him, raising their blade and bringing them downward in a strike. 

 

One bastard-sword down its way across his armor, leaving a large gash where his plate was. The other, however, fell upon his face. The cool blade cut deep into his skin, and he could feel the blood begin to ooze down his face. Darkness took him- and he could not tell if he was dead. The exhaustion gripped him… His face flared in pain, yet his adrenaline kept him upright. Surely he was to die… his eyes… he couldn’t force his eyes open.  

 

The blood. It had to be the blood.  He forced himself to believe as time slowed to but a few motions. He couldn’t force his eyes to open… 

 

Then there was a force upon his chest, causing him to be thrust from his position. He hit the railing and screamed as he felt his body tip over the side. His fall was brief, and he plunged into the depths below. The cold water, however, did not halt the searing pain on his skin as the salt washed into his wounds. Still could he not see? The blood washed away, yet no sight returned to him. The world was darkness to him. And it would be when they found him and killed him. 

 

He sank below the waves before bobbing just above the surface. He did this once… twice… three times… yet nobody came. The sounds of fighting still echoed through the city briefly before the cries of agony and steel died down. Soon, cheers echoed. Yet no voices called for him. He remained bobbing and treading. Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Years… time was irrelevant as he floated in darkness. The image of his Brethren being slain flashed through his mind. Soon, cheers and chatter turned to silence… hours of silence. 

He felt tears flow down his face as he was unsure where to go… or what to do. The deepening void filled him, and he felt his hope, the little Sigismund had to begin, dwindling as well. His heart panged- he was drowning: mentally, physically, emotionally. The weight sat upon the entirety of his soul. And so he did the only thing that was left to do…

 

Sigismund hopelessly pleaded for restoration. 

 

 

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