the sun won't rise again
It's the time of day when everything has to kiss something. Husbands and wives kiss each other goodnight, while a craftsman bids his work sweet farewell. The sun kisses the horizon one last time as it sinks into oblivion.
On this night, blood kisses the ground hello.
Swords clash and ring, no longer with the glory of sunlight reflecting from polished metal. Now it's all crimson blades and suppressing shadows, loud noises and little respite. There were less fighting and more lying forever still. Others lie quivering, praying to last the night.
The only light on this new moon eve is the occasional flash of outrageous color, so out of place on a battlefield of gray and scarlet. It blinds more than it does anything else, and for some it is the last thing they see.
Eventually even those lights cease to shine, and the last clangs of metal on metal are but echoes on the wind, which soon dies down as well. For a moment, all is still and silent.
A solitary figure makes its way through the bleak atmosphere, pushing bloodied fog from his path. He seeks one other, which among the massacre should be impossible to find, but find he does.
He kneels beside one unmoving body, and even as he extends one hand to feel for life, he knows there is none.
How very cruel, he thinks, that after all this time, he doesn't even get to say goodbye. No last words, no begging to stay for a moment longer, no shared tears as they both remember what they're losing.
Selfishly he is glad that he is the only one here to see this, to see him. Others would tarnish the moment with words like "king" and "downfall."
He knows all this. He knows how this impacts the world, what it means in the long run. Everything he helped to build is falling into dust, has fallen into dust, before his very eyes. This body is the proof.
The shining city will be next to crumble, if it hasn't already. Surely someone has already felt the death of their protector? No doubt the foundation has shaken and cracked, and somewhere, a hole has been ripped open in existence.
Somehow, he can't bring himself to care.
He's kissing a lot of things goodbye. His destiny has disintegrated; it probably did years ago, the moment he relented to let his foe survive.
His future floats freely, not even tangible enough to hang anywhere, much less in the balance. He waves it away, unwilling to give it a spare thought.
The most important thing he kisses is his hand, which he then presses to the sweat-and-blood-and-dirt-stained forehead of the only thing left to prove that he ever had a destiny or a future. On the dirtied cheek, he draws a symbol of protection and courage.
It is now the time of day when everything has already been kissed. Husbands and wives and craftsmen are all safe in their beds, waiting to wake up once more and kiss each other hello in the morning. The sun has taken refuge, far from the troubles of the world.
He knows without question that it's not going to rise again. Why should it? There is no one who will greet it when it does, nor anyone expecting its return. It can stay in its nirvana and leave what's left of the world to grieve.
He's feeling so very bone-weary that he imagines he'll join it soon. He'll sink back, drift away, and perhaps see the sun again. If he's lucky, he won't reawaken to the cold, dark world.
But he has to make it home first.