It's far too quiet. It's misleading, deceptive, and very unnerving. Chaos reigned here but a few short hours ago and this place was filled with the cataclysmic clash of life and death, and the dying. The sun shone in the sky as if this truly was the end of our days, and for many, alas, it proved be just so. It illuminated all the shadows, gave the blood a false warmth in its hue, as it ran in its silent streams away from its wrecked host. The rivers ran red for so many stood and gave away each drop of their precious cargo to this earth, soaking up the life and restoring to it some stability of nature.
My sword is by my side, cast wildly into the grass with an unforeseen abandon. The grass though trodden conceals it partially from my untrusting and disbelieving gaze. I have not yet cleaned it for I can hardly bear to touch it, to look upon it. Every time I spare it a quick glance I see someone else behind the point, an expression of rage, fear and startled realisation, and then the glazed-over eyes once they too have fallen dead upon the blade. I see them, and then I hear my own muffled, tormented breath as it hitches in fear and disgust. It's red, blood red, I can see in it no other colour, though I know it is as silver as the moonlight that now bathes us, that the red is my imagination, but this half-light dotes upon it such a cold and unforgiving disguise.
I cannot bear to see it or to breathe in its toxic fumes of death, and death and blood.
It's far too quiet; chaos reigned here but a short while ago. So many like the hours have now passed.
