The marcher
With utter despondence the warrior falls by the wayside, exhausted by war, exhausted by peace. It has come to an end and he knows it, the many journeys, the many calls, the longing, the hunger and the haunts by his long defiled wife. Time has been an unkind friend, denying him the taste of death, filling his heart with a longing for nothingness, a hunger and a wailing that will never be satisfied, a thirst that will drain his soul. ‘War has no victors’ has been his sigh for so long, even when voice fled from his throat, mercy from his heart, and fear and ire took the place of blood in his veins. He has seen it all. He has seen his friends fall, he has seen his enemies collapse. He had taken them all with a brave eye, with a brave heart, but nightmares wait till he closes his eyes, and they consume him with relentless torture. He thought he was hard, but war made him realized just how brittle he was, just how fragile his ego was. He had a huge sword, but his dreams, his nightmar