Archangel

      For a moment, there is naught but silence. Nary the song of a bird floats upon the air. Total silence. It is as if time itself, has come to an abrupt halt, so complete is the silence and the stillness it carries with it. Then comes a faint tinkling of armor, the sort of rustling sound that an armor-clad warrior makes when he moves slowly. Then a moan, and the silence has fled to allow the sounds of chaos and carnage to rule the air.

      Screams of agony now fill the air. Battle hardened warriors cry out in pain and thrash about on the blood-soaked ground. The field of battle now resembles a mass of writhing worms. There is so much movement, in so many different directions and planes, that it seems the ground itself is moving.

      A carpet of wounded beasts and men litters the ground. Not the still figures of the dead that most people envision, but the thrashing and cursing bodies of wounded men in their death throes. No pretty sight, the after-effects of battle. Most people think it would be serene and respectful, that there would be dead bodies lying scattered about. They imagine brave men lying respectably sprawled out on the ground, arranged as if by a decorator.

      Most people wouldn’t be able to handle the reality of a real battlefield. Oh, there are men lying about and some of them are dead, mercifully. But most lie in twisted heaps. They scream out in pain and the flop on the ground as if they can escape their pain and suffering if they can just hide away somewhere safe. A hand lies here, and over there a whole arm. A bodiless head rocks gently back and forth on the ground. Severed limbs lie scattered about in such random confusion that it would be impossible to ascertain whom belongs to what.

      The sight of it is horrifying enough, but the sounds, OH, my lord, but the sounds. Crying, screaming, cursing men. Some call out for help, others are crying out seeking death to come fetch them away. Armor makes horrendous sounds, as the men flop on the ground like fish out of water. Horses scream so shrilly that it takes your breath away.

      No quiet place, a battlefield. From the cursing and grunting of men as they clash with a roar of armor and weaponry, to the terrifying sounds of the dead and dying, it only takes the blink of an eye.

      Colors all blend together, making the world seem a basic black and white. Death takes the shine out of even the prettiest of armor. What isn’t black or white, is gray or colorless at all. There is one exception. Red. It seems as if everything is splattered with red. Gaping wounds in bodies show several different shades of red. Fresh flowing blood is a color all it’s own. Blood splattered on faces, clothing or armor, dries to make a reddish brown that is so dark it just seems black.

      Above this inextricable field of death, there is but one form standing. He looks over the scene with sad reluctance and you can see a mixture of pity and spite shading his face. He seems so out of place that you would never imagine he had been a participant until you saw him closer. He is in such pure contrast to every color around him, he seems to glow. He is pure white.

      White armor covers his body from head to toe. Knee high boots of white leather are adorned layered pieces of armor to protect his feet and lower legs. White mail armor protects his legs. A brilliant white chest piece has golden designs finely crafted into it. Mail sleeves and gloves that match the leggings complete his body armor. The chest piece is of solid plate, the rest of it is some type of mail made from scales of some unknown beast. His helm is superb. It is glistening white and has a pearl appearance, it is iridescent and shimmers with brilliance. Atop the helm is a plume of feathers. The plume runs down the middle of the helm, the feathers stand upright and are tipped in gold.

      He wears an ornate and flowing cloak with a fur-lined collar. Decorations in golden thread stand out subtly to match the ornate designs on his breastplate. The cloak is large and billowing, when you look at it, there is a curious feeling that arises in the pit of your stomach. When he stands just so, when he moves this way or that, it seems as if the cloak hides a pair of pure white wings.

      You would have had to of seen him a few moments ago, to believe he had been a participant in the battle. He is in such shocking contrast the rest of the stomach-wrenching scenery, you would scarce believe he had been in the middle of it’s fury.

      Not is spot of blood on him, not a single splash or splatter. Shoulder length golden locks tumble from under his helm and it too is as pure as alabaster. No blood or soot, not even a smudge of dirt be smudges him or his armor. His great shield is made of white and has a golden crest upon it’s face, it too, is flawless and unbloodied. In his other hand he grips a mighty sword. The sword gleams with a golden hilt wrapped in white leather with tiny gold braids. The sword drips with blood. The sword is encrusted with the post battle gore you would expect from a victor in the midst of such a spectacle. Only the sword, all else is pristine and pure.