bluesky

His heart slowed, His gripped loosened, His shoulders dropped. The tunnel vision faded, he could see the whole battlefield, the crying, shouting of his mind was gone, his head lifted a little as his body relaxed and allowed the blood to flow. He could hear. He dropped his arms and stood up straight, a sight unusual on battlefields, the armor had seemed so heavy. He sheathed his sword and stretched his arms out wide. Tilted back his head to see blue skies, and now they weren't too wide. The sun was out butitonlylittheworld, it's heat did not oppress. Their swords and spears and knives, spiked balls on chains hit and bounced or slid or simply stopped. They were somewhat frantic now. The noise and shouts stopped railing down on him, instead he heard them crisp and clear. The breeze whipping through the banners horses hooves and shouts that carried orders redirecting fiercest warriors. He grinned. Drew his sword. Held it out into the chest of a great advancing man. man caught himself died and fell. He let it go, no need for swords now. He lifted his arm horizontal bent at the elbow looked and thought the armor was his weapon now. He felt it so good now, it was a good weight and he could use it, he did. Ahhhthebattlefeltsogood their armor crushing under his, he waded through the warriors looking for a man toflexhisstrength against. He breathed in deep he loved the smells, turned up earth ,horses’ hides grass leather and the smell of fallen men.

The persuite.

The knowledge of her was brought to Him by the people. It was this knowledge of her that brought the desire, for her, to Him. And it was His desire for her that brought Him back before the Elders. ~back before the Elders~ They warned Him, "Don't look her in the eyes". The crowds cheared Him on, cheared him in His pursuit, cheared as the straps where tightend, fastening His armor to Him. He had no need to look for her. As He approached her He diverted His eyes to save them. He fought she evaded. His gaze passed over hers and He was stone. Unlike the rest there, He had the Elders they came restored him, reminded him, and left. He went back and did it again, and... again, and again. Over and over and the Elders continued to free and remind Him. Then again as He passed through the forest of stone men He relized, they never had to tell Him where she was all the gazes of stone, the ones that had gone before Him pointed the way. She never left there, she never searched out to destroy, the voices of the people brought knowledge of her and from that the search for her. He realized there was no mastery of her, he had to lay down that persuit to go back to the town to tell them no, to silence there cheers, and tell them to silence there storys.

Prelude

He was created to live forever he could not die, his purpose was to reveal the story, even to be affirmation of it. Like a window in a door, He was not the door, nor was He the passage way, only a small view of what lay behind. For this He was created. And as all things that are created, new, only the hands that strung Him together could approach Him properly. Where you find Him here is separated and bound to time and when time and purpose inhabit the same place failure and accomplishment will follow. They knew this so they bound Him fast and bleed Him every day. It was His fault he loved it. This was torture, to live everyday without the substance that gives life. All that was black to Him was white, and all that was white to Him was black, this is the effect it had on Him. This is his backdrop, should be seen in every story that is told of him.

The metal slips between antogonists ribs. Niether of them can die, He dosen't want that, He grins. Suffering is all that His mind is set to. The battle is painted in the land beneath them. Antagonist is pinned to the dirt the earth opens her mouth to drain away the blood, the blade has found a home inside. Hate is here, what had always been an idea took flesh became a man and like every wave of the oceans converging on a single grain of sand, He thrust that sword. Every beat of antagonists heart must contend with the edge of this blade. Every breath will drag his lung against it. The sword found it's way there and He continues to lean into it, every muscle in His body flexs against the wound. Deeper than the darkness between the stars Antagonist would wish for death if it was a place that could open for him. This is not enough, revenge was the motive, was the goal, was found. But this revenge can only spend his strength and use his hate to propel him on, strength will waiver and seep away, but hate no matter how much is drawn to fuel, need not ever be found in lack.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

He wonders will He ever fight again? Still dazed. Still knowing the mundane has not set in again. He can't trust his feelings now. But, the question is will He ever war again? This last battle fought, He fought unsanctioned. The elders never knew. No battle lines where drawn, no parameters, perimeters where found. He just fought. Found himself drowning in the wilderness, the faces sought His death. Is this how warriors are born, of whom the legends are told? Was this last fight fought, without a win without loss, reality, a warning, or a sounding in the depths? Did it announce the loss of another or the rise of a vicious hero. When they struck out against him was it desperation in there eyes in there blows or confidence picking each brick away to make the layers fall. Was it his fate or theirs that was sealed in those days. Is this how the lives of those who choose this path are to go. Like a strong strong wind that carries him away. Where have the elders gone. There may never again be another enemy with who the battle lines are drawn. Who are these people what was that place and where has He landed now? All cares with the reminder lost there weight. He was dazed again but he'll find his place.

Set in the peaks of a cloud laced scene there houses hang, laid out as if they put no strain on the ground beneath. They did not clear the ground, it receded before them. Made of thin light wood, and filled with paper walls and paper doors these shelters do not sway. There weapons too, curved slits of wood, there arrows firm shoots of the same. Rival all weapons conceived in the hearts, in the minds of men. The city is to be seen as one built of hard hard irons, and mists that can not hold. The picture of the people here is hard to show. Regarded as fools, but feared they heed there lives to inked words, on paper too. Words like discipline, patience, and self denial. These are words to stand against most others. Used and never practiced so rarely seen as verbs in the places where "men" walk. They, the people here are small and pale. Dark hair and dark eyes that look out through narrow lids. This is why there fools, even there power comes from paper, comes from words. Frail homes, frail weapons, frail people, frail words on which there lives are built. Here will be the last time there called by frail, for this paper place is strong.

Those who have nothing to live for, who do not fear death are the most powerfull in battle. No, it is those who have something to live for. The messanger has arrived he came down from off the mountain from his meeting, with the etchings in his grip. He poured it out on You. They say that once you have mastered your art, you transend the tools with wich you began it. That all things are incorperated into your skill. His grip loosens, his sword relaxes, his shield rests against his back. They become less and less a necesatiy as his powers grow. It is supposed that once you have hit the oceans current to fight it is to drown. The churning is his home now the situations that rage. He knows no rest will come. He embraces it, the churning, he will use it to define the battle. Allow their weapons to guide his own into there submission.