So! I've been busy, but seeing as how I can't claim to be busy writing or doing much of anything else, I've decided that I needed to write down something that sparked from walking back to the dorm from lunch. Oddly enough, the Halo theme song sparked this short passage, so hopefully you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing! More to come!
War
drums, those damned things that thundered across the marching hills, taking
each cresting rise just before the mighty army appeared at its peak. Each
thundering crash of the war drums brought about the tumultuous clash of
heartbeats as breath became heavy and almost too much to bear as the cold air
stabbed at throat and mouth like daggers or the spear points that they saw
grasped in the hands of their advancing enemy. Swords beat shields in time to
the beats of the drum, all that heard it knew that one thing was true in this
world: blood would soon be spilled. Theologies, ideologies, cosmology,
chronology, and apology could be heard spouted from both sides of the
battlefield. Each general inciting bravery in the hearts of their men, but only
the ears took these words in as each man feared that their life would be cut
short. In battle, one man may rely on another to be at his side, in war, an
army may rely on another to be their comforting death. As the battalion of
bashing boots came to a halt at the crest of the hills, the drums ceased their
incessant beating as the world stood still, not even the wind dared to be the
one to spark this bloodbath. This land that once held farmers, their sons,
daughters, wives, grandchildren, great grandchildren, was now to become hell on
earth. The paradise of demons and devils as they reached out to grip at souls
that sought refuge. The only guardians over these brave men are the Valkyries.
Those lady warriors who sought out the bravest, strongest, and most inspiring
of heroes to uplift into the place of the Gods. The world trembled as the drums
slowly began their cadence. No one was safe when the cries of a million dead
men roared from both sides of the valley. They ran from their points, like
cattle charging off a cliff in fear of a snake, they ran to one another, and
then came the clash. Like
Bahamut's impossible body crashing to the land, so came the smashing, gnashing,
bashing of steel and hatred. Liken to the roar of a mythical beast unfathomable to hear the
blood spilled and coated the land. As it did, so did the first demons burst
from the ground and drag that soul to the depths of Tartarus, Hell, the Land of
the Dead, that sickening place where worms make meals of flesh and bone, and
from there came the screams. The Valkyries watched, they waited and they
watched, knowing that the first to die in a battle will always go to the devils
below, and they could do nothing for that poor soul. A million men die, half
are for the demons, half are for the those winged maidens, and all are for the
grave. The generals grow old, the survivors have children, and these children
grow old enough to go to war. Ever is this cycle repeated, ever is this cycle
eternal, ever is this cycle. It continues for decades, centuries, millenia, eons, til the day that peace rests upon an empty world. Still, even then, nature will bloom, flourish, and the war drums will sound again.
