The general led the victorious soldiers onto the chaotic battle field. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of death drifted through the air, strong and putrid. Each step was bloodier than the last as they entered, corpses rotting at their feet. Many of the men flinched as swarms of writhing bodies came grasping at their ankles, begging them for the reclamation of life or at least a quick and painless death.
What happened? The general thought, disgusted by their pathetic pleas. What happened to your hope and morality? Your truth and justice? It was only weeks ago that they had stood, in pride and blatant ignorance, preaching of rebellion of the Atrox. Now they lay upon the muddy ground, their fingernails torn raw with dirt and blood, grasping for his mercy. He chuckled at their persistence.
"Then you have seen the error of your ways?"
Many of them nodded rapidly, obviously unable to speak from the tears of agony flowing from their stained, blood- stricken countenances.
"And you have abandoned your foolish dreams of hope and liberty?"
They all nodded, now crying impatiently, unearthly moans reverberating from their throats.
He sighed, exhaustedly, before smiling down upon them in pity. In their eyes he saw the souls of ancient friends. Well companions to be exact, for he did not have any "friends". They only brought turmoil and shone light upon the silly ideals that these fools had preached so confidently about. But as always, in the end, the Atrox prevailed. A thousand times had an idiotic rebellion rose to triumph their master, and a thousand times had they been silenced. He continued to stare down at the men, if you could call them that, for the battle had left them broken. He parted his lips to speak, and for a moment he could almost feel a flash of sympathy flickering through his eyes. Hastily blinking it away, the usual ruthless manner returned.
"Then you have all died in vain". And before their agonized eyes could widen in cowardice, they all fell limp to the ground. The general grimaced as the final grasp loosened on his ankle. He looked over his shoulder to see each of his men gawking at him in bewilderment and utter terror. This was nothing new. His power was questionable, but not by many. For he had risen from the frightened boy that he had been only centuries ago. That child was dead to him now, just as any warm recollection of his childhood, a faint whisper in the wind.
"Stanton", called a soldier from the back of the troop.
"Excuse me?"
"General". He redeemed himself, his voice wavering in fear.
Stanton nodded, giving the weaker man permission to speak.
The man only motioned behind him, and having spun around just in time, he forced the sword from his attacker's hand and flung them both to the ground. Retrieving the sword, he pointed it towards the man's throat.
"Are you so foolish to believe that you could defeat me with such a humanly weapon?"
"No", the man choked, loathing clear in his eyes. "But if nothing else, I could at least have the pleasure of running the blade through your heart".
"Show your face", Stanton demanded, annoyed by the silver helmet, covering the man's head. "Are you ashamed of your beliefs? Of your cause?"
"Not me", the man whispered, directing his hatred at the mass of corpses at his feet, each of which who had been so willing to give in.
"Surrender". Stanton stated, simply, sure that the man would succumb. "The others certainly had no problem-"
"I'm not like the others". The young man roared, shoving the sword point from his throat. "They fight for a petty cause. For an easy way out. They deserved their fate".
Stanton laughed at the boy's feeble attempt to redeem himself. To make himself out to be more than what he really was. "And I suppose that you don't?"
He did not respond. He only rose from his place on the ground and continued to scowl. Unlike his predecessors, his fight did not seem to be with the Atrox, but with Stanton alone. "I cannot predict what fate has in store for me", he finally spoke, a dark aura radiating from his silhouette. "But whatever may come, I know that I will not give up without a fight". And with that he lunged at Stanton, to be immediately attacked with a blow of the mind. Staggering back, he fell to the ground, his eyes blank and empty.
Stanton sighed and shook his head. Walking over to the corpse, now settling in the mass of blood and earth, he reached for the muddy, helmet, now as dark as the tarnished hope of their rivals. With a tug, he pulled it from the man's head, his eyes widening at what he saw there. He ignored the fit of gasps and gossip behind him as he unsuccessfully struggled to wake the man. But it was no use. Death, as life, was unpredictable and random. It was unfathomable of who would do the deed and who would be the one to fall. Stanton stared on for a while longer, brushing a few lonely strands of blonde from the man's emotionless eyes. Then, swallowing his sentiment, he continued on, unwilling to give his men any reason to believe that he was a kind and gentle leader. The event had only advocated the purpose for his being there in the first place. Rising from his spot on the ground, he continued on through the bloody graveyard, the stare of his only son's void, empty eyes etched deep into the realms of his soul forever.