A/N: A quick little drabble I wrote today. I've been doing a lot of writing (and cosplaying as of late! Lots of fun!), but not for any of my current series, so sorry for the lack of updates. I'll probably have an awesome two-shot for you all here in a week or so, but until then, happy reading!
Marching. The sounds of thousands of boots hitting the muddy earth below our feet. The din is accompanied by the clack and snort of the generals' horses.
The crest of the hill is within sight. From there we will see the enemy's army. On horseback the white haired man and the king led the troops to the battlefield. No one knows who this white haired man is, but people say he is like a god in battle; with red eyes that blaze with some strange madness in the midst of the war.
Not one person speaks. We are all anxious to truly begin the charge. The hill crest is nearing now. The first line of soldiers is almost upon the trampled grass.
March, march, march, halt.
We look down to see a sea of men below. The king and the white haired man speak in rushed words. The latter shaking his head before letting loose an evil cackle. They say he doesn't even wear a helmet into battle; that warriors merely turn and flee at his sight.
The troops are given a quick break as the speckled white stallion leaps forward with his white haired rider. In the distance, another, chestnut horse gallops toward the advancing warrior. The two meet in the middle where they stop. A wind picks up, blowing the white haired man's red cape and teasing his opponent's coat-tails. They are too far off for anything to be truly made out about the second rider.
It is not long before they back away and return to their respective ranks of men. The white haired man's steed kicks up dirt as he stops fast in front of the quiet line of soldiers.
The word is given, and we march forward.
March, march, march...
The downhill terrain soon increases our speed, and both the king and the white haired man are out in front of the troops.
March march march march...
The opposing line of soldiers is nearing, and the white haired man lets out a war cry as he practically stands in the stirrups to swing his sword above his head. The warriors join in the cry and gain speed until we are running in a true charge at the enemy.
Marchmarchmarchmarch—
Clang!
Both sides meet, and the white haired man is still galloping forward into the mass. Soon he runs into the chestnut warhorse from before, and both riders are locked in a duel. The opponent is now in plain sight, and is wearing the long coat of an army general. He sits high in his saddle, striking out at the white haired man with an elegant poise while the other slashes and laughs.
This is the time of war. Of slaughter and pain. Of marching feet and brilliant steel.
Can't you hear the war drums calling?