This is not a story of heroism, neither is it of happy ends. If you’re looking for one of these or both, I suggest giving up, although most of the characters in this story will never give up, not even if it’s the right thing to do.
The Golden Armor
It was dark and cold; there was no sign of life across the valley now painted in dark red, muddy brown and pitch black. The clouds were heavy with something that seemed as a distorted rain, now caring the same colors of the ground, as a mirror about to burst they waited for their great unload. A slow wind gasped for fresh air carrying the stale stanch of dead. In a valley like this not even the grim reapers would dare to enter. Yet all of it was erringly silent, waiting, yearning for a release.
The mutilated carcasses which belonged to two great armies somehow lacked dignity. No warrior would wish for their life to end in such manner. It was impossible to tell limbs apart from heads apart from bones and flesh. Their armors and weapons deep painted in mud and blood were unrecognizable. It was a picturesque “roll over and play dead” indeed. All that lacked to this picture was the source of such destruction.
And as if it has heard its name, a body staggered up from beneath the hill of diseased. The moment this figure that clearly was only survivor raised, wind started to wail as if in agony, and clouds gave the first sigh of thunder and rain. Slowly heaven and earth build up their anxiety around this person.
At first rumbling to themselves angrily as if they knew that they have been silent, asleep for too long a moment. Then colliding heavily on each other and on the lonely figure that slowly limbed to higher ground, they gave a roar of white hot rage. Wind was slashing, from above rain now red as blood pounded the ground, and thunders were shaking the space between.
She was nearly at the top. She didn’t mind the sudden change of weather, too disoriented to care anyways. But as the rain washed the gory shell of her body she came to realize her armor is too bright for the sort of place she found herself standing. Her eyes hurt when she tried to gaze upon it, but looking beneath her feet was easier. Now taking a step back she realized that she’s standing on a human pile of bodies, she turned to run, from this scene preferably from this nightmare, however she was stiff in place.
Horror followed across her hollow face, as she came to understand that it wasn’t her feet that walked up in middle of this dreadful battle ground, it was the armor itself that chose to be here. She wanted to scream but her gloved hand raised a golden dagger to her throat. As if she was menacing herself to stay in place and “enjoy” the moment. The gold caught her eye, it couldn’t be, she thought, it can’t be, she pleaded. Images flashed in her mind making her stomach whirl in sickening gale of vomit. They made her do it, denying she struggled to run from the truth.
But the truth was that a great battle has turned out rotten from the core inside, and she was the cause, she was the insanity behind all this death, because she wore it, she wore the golden armor.
(author: so tell me what you think, any type of reviews will be of a huge help! it's my first online post of anything I ever wrote, so please the more response I get the more frequently I'll update my story, thank you for reading!)
© Copyright 2017 Moonwalker. All rights reserved.
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