Hands and Teeth
Leonidas
This was the end of him, but never the end of Sparta.
Red pounced on the clouds in his vision, darkening the sky like a creeping stain, the crimson reflection of a battlefield that lived too much up to its name. The quietness was of gore, of ended screams and silenced howls of pain, of a defeat that crunched and pounded its opponent into brittle dusts of bone. A grisly, metallic tang forced its way into his nostrils, rattling his senses, clouding his mind with an overwhelming stench.
He could still feel his arms, his fingers, his muscles and tendons flexing under punctured, oozing skin. He could feel his weight upon his aching feet; feel the burden of his stone slab shield and the deadly arch waiting to be flown by his spear. But he didn’t hurt, no, not anymore; there were too many wounds, too much blood already spilled and impossible to be regained, too much life leaking out of his hardened frame that his brain simply shut down, believing that pointing out where the damages were no longer mattered. He was going to die anyway, even his subconscious was certain of that.
He stood, in that godforsaken land, proud and strong on enemy soil, with victory merely a dream that once graced his hopes and tainted his faith. He stood, among the corpses which were once his men, now reduced to gaping mouths and eyes and flesh that once covered those mangled torsos. He stood, in the presence ghastly masked faces of his killers, their killers, knowing that he would not awaken to another sunrise. He stood, weakened and beaten, but with no trace of condemnation or regret. Their leader was as good as dead, yes, and their bodies were overpowered, yes, but no, they themselves had stopped their hearts from beating even before they could be conquered.
A skip in time, a halt in the breath of fate, and even the ominous dimming sun was shadowed by an eclipse of descending black rain; of course, the storm of darts that he had heard fables about. He inhaled, letting his lids shut tight, and exhaled, allowing his arms to relax and his stance to loosen. They were coming, only moments now… he nearly smiled. Her three hundred children would not have perished in vain.
Long live King Leonidas! shouted a chorus of bygone voices as the arrows mercilessly plunged into their only target.
This was the end of him, but never the end of Sparta.
Red pounced on the clouds in his vision, darkening the sky like a creeping stain, the crimson reflection of a battlefield that lived too much up to its name. The quietness was of gore, of ended screams and silenced howls of pain, of a defeat that crunched and pounded its opponent into brittle dusts of bone. A grisly, metallic tang forced its way into his nostrils, rattling his senses, clouding his mind with an overwhelming stench.
He could still feel his arms, his fingers, his muscles and tendons flexing under punctured, oozing skin. He could feel his weight upon his aching feet; feel the burden of his stone slab shield and the deadly arch waiting to be flown by his spear. But he didn’t hurt, no, not anymore; there were too many wounds, too much blood already spilled and impossible to be regained, too much life leaking out of his hardened frame that his brain simply shut down, believing that pointing out where the damages were no longer mattered. He was going to die anyway, even his subconscious was certain of that.
He stood, in that godforsaken land, proud and strong on enemy soil, with victory merely a dream that once graced his hopes and tainted his faith. He stood, among the corpses which were once his men, now reduced to gaping mouths and eyes and flesh that once covered those mangled torsos. He stood, in the presence ghastly masked faces of his killers, their killers, knowing that he would not awaken to another sunrise. He stood, weakened and beaten, but with no trace of condemnation or regret. Their leader was as good as dead, yes, and their bodies were overpowered, yes, but no, they themselves had stopped their hearts from beating even before they could be conquered.
A skip in time, a halt in the breath of fate, and even the ominous dimming sun was shadowed by an eclipse of descending black rain; of course, the storm of darts that he had heard fables about. He inhaled, letting his lids shut tight, and exhaled, allowing his arms to relax and his stance to loosen. They were coming, only moments now… he nearly smiled. Her three hundred children would not have perished in vain.
Long live King Leonidas! shouted a chorus of bygone voices as the arrows mercilessly plunged into their only target.
This was the end of him, but never the end of Sparta.
♠ ♠ ♠
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