A tired King looked across the blackened, smoking field of burning embers and mangled men.
The battle was over and his domain was still in tact.
The Great Ruler winced at the truth of his cowardice in the hours just before. In the toe-to-toe war of men, he had hidden in a safety bunker built into the ground beneath him. It was shameful, but none of the men who witnessed him retreating had survived. The king’s secret was safe- his people would never know what a cowardly leader they had.
How quickly the graceful turns to bitter, damp and dark in the face of uncertainty.
How easily the brave turn into frightened, empty remnants in the face of insecurity.
What I cry for and what I force to the back of my mind is of minuscule importance when my clan cannot see me from their death beds.
What food do I consume that can feed this hungry soul? This starved heart? I am damned by my survival but had I acted differently I would have been damned to death.
I do not know if I would choose living over the glorious death of battle if faced with the decision again.
There is a sharpness in surviving, more sickening than any wound, more deeply entangled than the limbs of men fallen at the hands of godless war.
The tired king kneeled to the ground and cried, with his head hung low. Sobbing loudly his voice, a broken sound both alarming and pitiful.
His kingdom was intact and so was he, at least in his physical form. The spirit of the king, however, had been demolished.