Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Riding along the road to the city, he looks down at the bodies left to rot in the mud. No dignified end. No tears cried for them. No raising a tankard in celebration of their lives. Such a senseless war.
Raising his gaze, suddenly aware that his armour is grossly uncomfortable. He sifts in his saddle. His horse moves it’s head, acknowledging his masters uneasiness. It snorts, jogs a little on the spot. A settling word from its master, calms it’s nerves and it returns to a settling walk. He gives it’s necks a soothing rub and notices it’s magnificent mane flowing along, like a gentle wave on the beach, Wheat swaying in fields or desert sands shifting by the wind.
He feels tired,exhausted but he must remain the leader, to command and show no weakness. How he wishes he could rest and bathe and be warm. These winters leave one frozen to the core. The Sun’s rays insipidly filter down and weakly caresses his face. He spots deer in the distance and instructs his men at arms to go hunting. Hopefully he can fill the emptiness his stomach has felt for many days now. He dreams of a feast, with abundant food, friends, wine and song. And the softness of a woman who loves him. The scent of Rose on her skin, Her velvet gown with its fragile lace and her golden hair, soft in his hands.
The shrill of a dying archer brings him back to reality. He yells out, annoyed, ” the insolence of you Sir. Die quietly!”