Through His Eyes

He stood on that roof longer than he wished to, starring down upon the vicious crowd. Animals he had never before witnessed in his long, brief life, they almost foamed at the mouth, roaring, chanting, screaming. Too quiet to fully hear, but too loud to be people. Fists beating against the air mercilessly. Pure joy he could once remember now feel like they never belonged to now contorted faces. Hands clamor, grab, claw at the old wooden theater stage that was a place of innocence, now wood warps as it soaks up blood. The king stands, his royal robes of the desert stained with disgust. His silver eyes look so lifeless yet still cut through Shadow with that same cold mist. There was no jury, no innocent, but there was judges all around, and three forced to be executioner in the unfair trails of this maddened war.