Post by Daemon [Naryae] on Mar 3, 2007 0:24:46 GMT -5
Just a random short story thingy I wrote tonight. So, enjoy and all.
It was a whisper in the dark, and shadow in the darkness, a sunset with no light. The vibrant colors were missing, the dying shades of daylight void in his eyes. This was how life existed for him, complete darkness in all things. In his actions, his thoughts, his feelings. There was no way to alter it, no way to redeem his soul, it just was and had to be accepted as that.
He was like a beacon of light, the sun at its peek, a slope of crisp, pure snow. Every thought and action revealed his true heart. His loyal eyes filled with a life unmatched by any, able to lift the hearts of even the most down trodden. Hero among men, he was revered as perfect.
So how was it that they reached this place now, with the roles reversed and the guardian of light standing among the shadows? How had the pure knight fallen so far? How could he have betrayed his heart?
Because there had never been any truth in him, nothing more then lies which festered in his soul. The dark eyes now focused on the shaded assassin, the sword held in the hands, a heavy burden. This is what had become of the hero of man, of the one that had been worshipped almost as a god. He had fallen short of their expectations, and now stood as the villain.
What about the one of darkness? What words could rely what had happened within him, what soul had realized in the dead of night, with a silent moon above to listen to the confession of his heart. Had he found redemption, had he not risen above what was expected of his character?
So, how did it all end? Who stood above the other, their eyes clear, and their heart full? How does a story like this end? I tell you, it ends with the hero as the winner, and the villain lying empty and broken on the earth. But then, who is the hero?
The blade struck, a crimson pool forming on the earth, staining the dirt a color it shouldn’t be. The victor stood over the body, eyes dark as he looked at the body. What had he become? What had his life been? What would his life be now? Lies, it had all been lies.
The victor turned, walking down the street with a crimson sword. The dead remained where he fell, shamed and forever known as one who could no longer rise to man’s expectations.
The shadows faded, the sun rose, and the deed was promptly forgotten, along with the thousands of others whose souls left their bodies that night, who woke in a place which was not known to them. Men didn’t tell legends of the fallen, they didn’t sing of the glory of the fight. The only one who remembered the slain victim was the one who was the slayer, who cared little of the deed done long ago in another world.
And so, life continued.
It was a whisper in the dark, and shadow in the darkness, a sunset with no light. The vibrant colors were missing, the dying shades of daylight void in his eyes. This was how life existed for him, complete darkness in all things. In his actions, his thoughts, his feelings. There was no way to alter it, no way to redeem his soul, it just was and had to be accepted as that.
He was like a beacon of light, the sun at its peek, a slope of crisp, pure snow. Every thought and action revealed his true heart. His loyal eyes filled with a life unmatched by any, able to lift the hearts of even the most down trodden. Hero among men, he was revered as perfect.
So how was it that they reached this place now, with the roles reversed and the guardian of light standing among the shadows? How had the pure knight fallen so far? How could he have betrayed his heart?
Because there had never been any truth in him, nothing more then lies which festered in his soul. The dark eyes now focused on the shaded assassin, the sword held in the hands, a heavy burden. This is what had become of the hero of man, of the one that had been worshipped almost as a god. He had fallen short of their expectations, and now stood as the villain.
What about the one of darkness? What words could rely what had happened within him, what soul had realized in the dead of night, with a silent moon above to listen to the confession of his heart. Had he found redemption, had he not risen above what was expected of his character?
So, how did it all end? Who stood above the other, their eyes clear, and their heart full? How does a story like this end? I tell you, it ends with the hero as the winner, and the villain lying empty and broken on the earth. But then, who is the hero?
The blade struck, a crimson pool forming on the earth, staining the dirt a color it shouldn’t be. The victor stood over the body, eyes dark as he looked at the body. What had he become? What had his life been? What would his life be now? Lies, it had all been lies.
The victor turned, walking down the street with a crimson sword. The dead remained where he fell, shamed and forever known as one who could no longer rise to man’s expectations.
The shadows faded, the sun rose, and the deed was promptly forgotten, along with the thousands of others whose souls left their bodies that night, who woke in a place which was not known to them. Men didn’t tell legends of the fallen, they didn’t sing of the glory of the fight. The only one who remembered the slain victim was the one who was the slayer, who cared little of the deed done long ago in another world.
And so, life continued.