Soaring on the wings of selfish pride, i flew too high;
and like Icarus i collide.
-Worlds apart
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
The Weary Soldier.
His eyes flutter awake. The time was almost here, he just knew. Slowly, he willed his body to wake, forcing fatigued muscles to pump with blood again. He had gotten 5 hours of sleep, a luxury for a soldier. Slowly and carefully, with every movement carefully calculated to minimize wastage of strength, the warrior picked himself up. Pain lanced through his side as his half healed wound at his abdomen reopened. Clutching his side with his left hand, he propped himself up with his sword, a painful reminder of the toll the war had taken on his body. Leaning against the nearby tree to catch his breath, he could hear the darkness around him slowly stirring awake. Among the rustling of leaves, he could pick out the soft clink of chainmail, the tightening of leather straps and the soft curses of his brethren. The company was waking and preparing to do battle. Looking around the depression he had chosen for his slumber, his eyes managed to pick out his meager belongings: a dented but still useable breastplate, his helmet and his boots. As he strapped on his boots, he let his mind wonder. He thought about his family, of Emily waiting for him back home. He thought of the lush meadows, the fields of dandelions, of running through them with Emily in tow, of lying down together just looking at the clouds drifting in the sky, with naught a care in the world but each other. But he could not afford the luxury of such day dreams, he had one purpose, to fight, everything else had to be pushed aside. With his full armour on, he gripped his sword, letting his fingers get reacquainted with the grooves in the handle, like lovers embracing. With a few swings of the sword to enable his muscles to remember the forms, he forced his weariness and pain into a ball, tucking it into the back of his head. He was ready. As he moved towards the frontline, the early rays of the morn formed silhouettes in the forest. Glancing left and right, he could see his comrades lumbering northwards, like phantasms. By the time he reached the clearing, he could make out the individual features of the warrior next to him: he could see the scraggy beard of Nell, the fresh scar on Jim’s face, he could even make out the perennial stench of Norrel standing 10 spans away from him. With only a few moments left before the charge, the warrior closed his eyes. In a ritual he had developed over the course of the war, he recalled the reason why he was fighting, why he subjected himself to so much stress, hardship, so much pain. With a long blast of the horn, his eyes snapped open, the command was given, the battle was about to begin. In a distance, he could see his commander, resplendent on a white destrier, sword appraised, catching the morning light. With a shout, He led the charge. His men, equally fervent, followed behind Him without doubt or hesitation. The warrior felt a war cry erupt from his lips, and with the sun’s rays behind him, he surged forward, ready to do battle once again.
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