War breaks all; From swords to men, from castle walls to woods. No arrows are reserved for soldiers; the massacre continued even amongst the unarmed citizen. The scarred, knackered horses arrived at summer, carrying headless carcasses of the warriors who fell in battle. Darion rode with these men. And now, he'll have to face their phantoms in his nightmare. Their blood trickled down the thirsty ground, wanting anything to be spilled on it. May it be water or the blood of the people who stood upon it. The same people who call it their sanctuary from the rot of war. Darion brought their bodies home, wishing them one peaceful night from months of perpetual conflict.
Sobs of forlorn widows filled the streets. Of the men deployed, only Darion went home — to his wife and child. Hate-filled leer stabbed the ravenous fires that slowly raze the corpses and wood of the ancient trees.
"I coulda saved them," he griped.
Bane from anger boiled with his lifeblood as the songs sung by his fallen comrades clung on his ears. Of good times he wished remembered by another — not just him. He blames himself, but he condemns another, too. The enemy general Antonius Kyner Nero, also known as "The Headsman." He gripped his fist, craving to bash the general's skull until it shatters into fragments. Nestor, Darion's son, gleefully called his father — proud of his charcoal-drawn work. And with that, the hatred that festered within him hid at the bottom of his very heart. To see a peaceful image, even if just in a drawn work, moved his spirit. Darion's wife, Serina, leaned towards him and kissed his cheeks;
"Welcome home," a smile carved on her face as she spoke.
And with that, the sour night air turned ambrosial; Just like the sweetbread that his wife always makes. The reminiscences of dead fellowships fled. Only to leave a saccharine tinge, like the honeyed ale that he and the burning men enjoyed together. The bond of the living, carrying the burden of blame, to the eidolons that will be embroidered with negligence as epochs end.
The dinner's mead and the night's lullaby wind shuts Darion's eyes. A gentle but strong breeze wafted languidly in their home. With each candle blew, the abode's exterior became cozy and warm. The scintillating, pale moon's luminescence evanesced. As his eyes fell to the nightly drowse, his thoughts traverse to the realm of dreams and horrors. Darion felt peace in these lies and illusions. But the hush of midnight turned into the yowl of women and cries of children. Crackling fires and deathly screams echoed inside his head.
Darion rushed to wake up, and what welcomed his weary, bleached sight was the visage of The Headsman — standing tall inside his abode. Fear and anger coalesced into a strong feeling of hate — engulfing the exterior with intense fevered air. Darion brandished his war-forged blade before lunging on The Headsman's side. His other hand found its way around the general's neck as he pleasured on the tingling gore that streamed on his blade-wielding hand. Gripping hold pressured his shoulder. And as a response, another blood was shed. It was one of the Headsman's soldiers. Darion's focus went back to the Headsman, snapping his neck until it struck a loud crack.
"You deserve more than death," the words that harshly flew out Darion's mouth. He let go of the Headsman's neck. And as his dead corpse fell, the world warped into the reality he knew.
Was it a dream, he asked himself. But far from it, it was. He at the ground, pooling with blood. And of which sight he would not soon forget. His wife and son lie dead; their souls no longer one with their bodies, and their precious summer warmth turned into the winter's chill. Weak, jellied knees fell upon the iron-dank floorboards. Screams of grief and disbelief bounced in every wall. A grief-stricken howl permeated in everyone's ears: from the king's tall throne to the scums of the muddy boroughs. Three guards broke into his house. Their fear and dismay stacked after one another as they observe, with squinted eyes, at the unsettling scene. And the sight of a warrior bathed in his family's blood made it more disturbing. Incandescent pierced the dead's flesh until each blood, bone, tissue, and flesh flew with the wind as ashes. Only to cling upon Darion's roughened skin. The guardsmen, in terror, whack the warrior's nape — knocking him semi-unconscious.
Irking words are the only thing he could hear, "Throw 'im on the pile. This kind of err deserves no honorable death." Sharp pain punctured his chest as the dagger entered his vile flesh and ashen skin.
A phantasmic voice resounded in his thought, and flashes of vivid images plastered on his sight before the chill of decay embraced his barely warm body. The stench of burning flesh wafted beneath his nose, and the rusty taste of air bit his tongue. Tattered cloth covered his body. Peeling inside reveals a hole near his heart. It exposedly beat. Whenever his breath hastened, so does its movement.
"W-what..." he stammered, "... how's this possible?" Cling clang, it was the sound of iron hitting each other.
A guard, he thought to himself before hastily running away; To a city full of thieves and scoundrels. Answers, he wants answers. And he felt that there is where it lies. Quiescent beneath all the gossips and murmurs of the desperate and poor.