You do not always wage wars on battlefields.
It can be as silent as the autumn breeze, or as thunderous as your heartbeat as you stare at the one you once called friend, brother, from what feels like a world away. It can either make you a legend, or leave you to rot in the earth; to return to the weeds. You see him give you a placid smile and you realize; then, that it could change the world. You know that his next words will determine everything. Whatever he does, also directs your move.
You compare it to the way you used to play knights as children and you come to the conclusion that it can also make your heart break. You tighten your grip. Hands crush together into fists. That was a long time ago, and you are not the same.
"Pestilence," he starts, and all at once you're reminded why you hate him," I love what you've done with the place." There are bodies everywhere. They litter the ground and if you were to close your eyes and listen — it's almost as if you could hear their fragile bones break. Bird bones.
"I felt as if a little renovation was in order," You sneer. You want to feel satisfaction. The tiniest hint of glee. Instead you only feel empty.
His eyes are suddenly downcast. He looks like a kicked puppy. His light caramel-colored brown eyes contrast with his dark skin. How dare he? Look at you like you're the reason for all his sorrows. You are. You want to punch his nose, and make him bleed.
"What happened to you?"
Crush him—
"Please,"
Dance on his bones in your glade!
He's just like the rest of them.
"Don't make me do this,"
Slice his throat. Make him bleed.
"What happened to you?"
Show them how fragile they are in the face of a God.
"So many things, brother," Your hand grips your weapon," so much pain, so much rage. I called out for you, I thought I needed you, until I saw things clearer. I don't need you. I never did. Your words are hollow, empty. We are not kids anymore, nor am I your shadow. You will die here. I will slit your throat and watch you bleed. Your dying screams shall be my lullaby, you shall be my final masterpiece before I rest."
And then you charge—
He meets you in the middle, the clang of metal makes your ears ring. And everything fades to black.
War does not always take place on a battlefield.
It can be a pent up emotion, a voice in the wind. It changes just like the seasons. It leaves you breathless. It is like a thief in the night. It takes away innocence, hope, love, and lives.
And never gives anything back.
YOU ARE READING
DEATH BRINGER
FantasyHumans have an uncanny ability to romanticize even the most inhuman acts. We twist and turn and bend things until we start to believe even our own lies. We are dangerous, in that aspect. Our ability to manipulate is almost as deadly as our will to s...
