Where there is a battle, there must be a victor.
The soft squelch of the dirt and grass under heavy footsteps & heavy shoulders. A progressive line of soldiers in not quite matching uniforms, marching upon their battleground with some silent reverence, eager for the battle to come. Or rather, nervous? Perhaps the fleeting instance across the minds of all these warriors, of what may come to them if they should fail in their duties, somehow belied in the rigidity of trained movements. When Generals command their troops no more but for their yells upon deaf ears. The howling, whether rain or wind, or neighbours cry, are naught but for the pinching nerves of every muscular fibre in their being.
Lungs heavy, legs heavy, hair wet with effort, the speckled black of their calves lifted from feet pounding grass upon its roots. Rising and falling with the act of motion. Pushing and pulling, away and toward.
A sharp cry above the clash of blackened tools wielded by trusting owners. Shrillness, a lone whistle.
A momentary struggle lost in the forgetting of effort. The muscles lose their tone. The ground, pounded hard, grows thick and fast and bright among the fallen. The battlefield silent. Reverential silence, a hush, falls, but upon deaf ears.
The victor leaves victorious. His trophy; the chance to fight another day.
The soft squelch of the dirt and grass under heavy footsteps & heavy shoulders. A progressive line of soldiers in not quite matching uniforms, marching upon their battleground with some silent reverence, eager for the battle to come. Or rather, nervous? Perhaps the fleeting instance across the minds of all these warriors, of what may come to them if they should fail in their duties, somehow belied in the rigidity of trained movements. When Generals command their troops no more but for their yells upon deaf ears. The howling, whether rain or wind, or neighbours cry, are naught but for the pinching nerves of every muscular fibre in their being.
Lungs heavy, legs heavy, hair wet with effort, the speckled black of their calves lifted from feet pounding grass upon its roots. Rising and falling with the act of motion. Pushing and pulling, away and toward.
A sharp cry above the clash of blackened tools wielded by trusting owners. Shrillness, a lone whistle.
A momentary struggle lost in the forgetting of effort. The muscles lose their tone. The ground, pounded hard, grows thick and fast and bright among the fallen. The battlefield silent. Reverential silence, a hush, falls, but upon deaf ears.
The victor leaves victorious. His trophy; the chance to fight another day.
