There was a lull around the battleground, flashes of steel embedded the earth and the noises that surrounded had muted. The soil was cracked, burnt to black and soaked with blood and tears, none ventured so willingly as the memories attacked their very sight.
All except one.
Alone, he treads in calm solidarity, his long dark cloak brushing the ground gently, the deep hood shadowing his features. Gloved fingers brushed distraught trees, their barks breaking like sand, falling gently onto the ground joining others on the bed.
The footfalls soft, silent, undisturbed in their journey, not even as they tread on wet substances, slick and slimy, sticking on the sole of his boots.
It was a disaster.
Their opponents strong and vigilant, the confidence never lacking in their actions. Maniacal laughter surrounded them, the cacophony of cries an added instrument.
There was a yell, a figure was harshly pushed to the ground and turned slightly to face the person, his body froze in shock, the face looking down at him gave a smile and croaked sound.
The red dripped earnestly onto him, bathing them, an inner glow to the substance. He watched numbly, the body ripped from him, blurred figures above him yelling, shouting jostling him. He stumbled to a stand, in time to watch the body ripped to shreds, the red splattering the painting on the ground. His hand reached out, knowing it was too late and just stood frozen.
Why?
The paint was made of red, of black, of brown, of colours not supposed to be with the painting. More red, more black, more brown, more screams, but the painting cannot record their voices. Passing by the figure were teams mixed with young, old, experienced and beginners, captains destroyed, newbies were employed and the colours painted it once again.
There was a blue and silver silk ribbon stuck in the red mud, a twinkle of trinkets attached to it.
There was a sound he never wanted to hear on the field. Loud, shrill, untamed and most importantly innocent. The figure ran as fast he could, passed battles, of torture, of anger and deeper into the forest. Left, right, under, higher, diagonal, he crashed into the clearing. The sight that greeted him arrested his body of movement.
It was small, wrapped in a stained blanket of white, the drip of life falling into a puddle below it. The cries had slowed, the strain showing as it struggled to breathe. He could see seven blades protruding, embedded intently in the trunk. Two, one in each side of the palm, three trailing down and two branching out onto the feet. The victim cried, croaked and diminishing.
The figure stood slowly, his hand gripped the blade as he moved closer to the tree, his eyes finding large, innocent eyes boring into him, dark blue, a round chubby face stained, red-cheeked and pale. The figure choked in his throat, he was too late, he brought the blade up. The red paint splattered in the painting, the blue-silver silk ribbon fluttering in the wind.
Why?
An enormous roar blew him off his feet, his gaze landing on a gigantic figure of a flower.
Weapons upon weapons decorated the base of the painting, its colours varying, a constant red upon them. Gloved hands brought his gaze, it was black leather, the red staining it blending easily with his surroundings.
Above the figure the sun hid behind the clouds, the shadows on his person long, consuming and wide. There was no justification for his actions, or anyone else because there was none reasoning enough for the destruction of each and every one of them.
He turned his gaze to the horizon.
Tomorrow, the battle would start. Tomorrow the painting had more colour on it. Tomorrow, the dull of the day would be filled with cries of weapons, of people, of animals and of the nations. Tomorrow, the shadows behind them will grow larger and there was no turning back.
Tomorrow, death would judge, death would watch and death would take.
The figure turned his shadows long.