Kings finality

The grey clouds finally broke, the rain they had been promising now fell to the earth in a light drizzle, hazing the lands as far as the eye could see. It was well that they had held out for as long as they did for the battle had been brutal enough without the added problems of everything being wet.

The field was now strewn with the bodies of men from both sides, left here to rot until the peasants who worked this land once again came to reclaim it. Green grass could be seen in places, though a lot of it was darkened by the litres of blood that now soaked into the earth, nourishing any plants with roots close enough to absorb it.

None of the men who had died here today had been left unmarked, every one of their bodies showed at least one external marking inflicted during the fighting. There were hands missing, cut throats, imploded heads, sword and axe wounds to head neck and torso. Legs had been hacked off, arms lay on the ground, still gripping the weapons that had in the end proved to be useless.

Under the trees at the far end of the field lay the bodies of two men, both dressed in the most immaculate of armour. Upon their breast, the Black dragon flew across a field of green, blowing fire to cover its escape.

They could have been twins with their visors down, though even with them up they were of similar appearance. Beaked noses, blue serious eyes, thin lips. The only real difference was the age difference between the two. While one was starting to go grey, his full beard and the sides of his head peppered with the signs of age, the younger, with his yellow hair still couldn’t get his chin to hold onto a suitable growth.

Both had fallen through similar wounds, struck down form behind as the invading armies had circled their beleaguered forces, almost unhinging their heads form their bodies.

The country wouldn’t go leaderless however, for although the two had fought bravely, they had not been able to save the day and as their armies broke beneath the might of the invading horde they had both fallen to the hordes leaders.

Five men encircled the body, all that was left of the guard whose job it had been to keep these great men alive. They also were immaculately attired, their armour almost outshining that of their liege lords, their kings.

The Elder had held the post for almost two decades, taking the reins from his father who had also perished at the hands of the men who had finally been able to eke out a victory. All those who met him, the all-conquering man who had been more than fair to his subjects, both rich and poor alike, would remember him. His hand reached out and touched more of his people than those who proceeded him and the one that followed.

He had been coroneted in a glorious ceremony that he shared with his people. No expense was spared during this glorious week and the people loved him all the more for it.

His son however was not as lucky. His coronation had been celebrated in blood, the ringlet that now encircled his head carried both his and his fathers blood, caked through the intricate working. He had been king for less than a minute, the crown dumped on his head as turned to help one of his guards. As he stood, bejewelled sword had made its way through the gap between helm and breastplate, devouring the life that he had just grown into.

The five men extended their swords, mighty weapons that were now as impotent as a eunuch was, their power sheathed with the kings lives. They touched the tips over the two bodies, then raised them high in the air, opening the gate to the heavens for the kings souls to pass through. A gentle flash reflected off each of the blades as the five turned to the east. They knelt down onto one knee and with all there might they gave the earth its precious steel back and with the ease in which they slid in, the earth eagerly accepted.

The five then made their way to their feet and circled their blades until they were now facing the west. The sun was just above the horizon, but it was slipping fast behind the mountains, where it would rest until the night was over.

The five men reached for their belts and they pulled the ceremonial blade their king had given them. Each was only to be used once, in the event of their liege’s death. Once again the five men knelt and as the sun dipped below the mountains, they cut their own throats, their night to never end.