War

He woke in the cold hour before the dawn, knowing that the moment was close to hand and thus he began to prepare. His mind must be clear his purpose crystal in it's clarity. He is a warrior one of the many, all of the same cut same purpose.

The pipers in the heights begin their sullen wail to sing the sun to the sky and fear to the hearts of the enemy. Light broke night into day and the lines were drawn. Eyes did meet across the field, insults, gestures and posturings made, personal challenges filed. Fear, hate, blood and urine tangible taste in the dawn air.

Battle scarred veterans, fuzzy cheeked youths forming the lines together, each finding their own way to come to terms with what is soon to be the possibility of their own death, the deaths of friends and comrades in arms. Archers forming ranks to the rear behind a shield wall, stringing their bows, setting shafts to the ready, praying for winds favorable, or if not favorable at least not in favor of the other side.

Here and there amongst the ranks are men on their knees, seeking absolution from priest wandering the lines preparing men to meet their maker. No whimpering, hide behind the scriptures priest are these, each with a weapon or weapons of choice, either in hand or belted. Before the blast of the final horn the priest take places of their own in the ranks, ready to actively send a few souls to meet their maker, with a blessing or send the godless to hell, which in their minds is a blessing of another sort. Dealing out blessings with one hand, death with the other. Making converts with clubs, emphasizing with war hammers and swords.

Drums join the pipes building the tempo, the pulse of the moment racing faster. A timeless moment racing to its end, entrancing all present, both sides feeling the tension, pulses racing. A single spear shaft begins pounding the ground, many more from both sides join in, the flats of swords beating on the shields of their owners, war cries voiced and perhaps a few cries of terror from bloodless lips, all adding to the deafening din and clamor. Coats of Arms displayed, standards raised, banners, pennants and flags unfurled, brightly colored window dressing to help distract from the savagery about to unfold.

Local farmer folk, and town's folk gather as if to watch an amusement put on for their pleasure. Sight seekers treat the coming battle as an event meant to entertain them, a thing for their amusement. The hawkers treat it as an unexpected windfall, a chance for some quick profit.

Are we content in our ignorance? We must be. Are we that willing to not to face our fears? It must be so.

The horns are blown as each side takes the signal and charge forward to meet and deal death and slaughter. The archers pick points the enemy's charge must pass before reaching the on coming charge from their side and send forth a hail storm of arrows to greet them. Screams of pain and personal victories fill the air, only to be followed my more of the same. The once clean ground is churned to mud with the trampling of men's feet and their blood. An eye pierced by an arrow, a broken sword buried in another mans side, heads, hands and arms shorn and sundered from once strong bodies. Sweat, blood, gore and body fluids covering all and all not knowing if it is theirs or someone else's till they fall. The stench the terror the agony of the battle, mixed with cheers from the watching crowd as they sit in safety watching with lunches and cold ale. Bookies taking bets on both individuals and the final outcome, two separate worlds each acting the parts as if the other didn't truly exist.

No one knows the real reason for the battle though no one seems to really care. Is it conquest, religion, did one trespass against the other in some form or another, it matters not for the side that is victorious will decide how the history is told. Is one side right the other wrong, it all depends on where you stand and makes no matter in the reality of war, good men die on both sides an each has their own reason to fight that may or may not be the same as the men that lead them. Though one side will eventually claim the victory the only true victors will be the carrion birds, insects and worms that will feed on those that have fallen, whether they fall today or at a time yet to come.

The battle finally ends both sides collect thier fallen, the priest give prayer, comfort and blessings to the wounded. To the wounded beyond any hope of survival, they give blessings, comfort, prayer and the final mercy. To the dead they give prayer, blessing, and occasionally pack the personal items for return to the family. The bodies bundled and tied in their own blankets and stacked like so much cordwood in carts for the journey home and the funeral pyres. The surgeons attempt to save those that can be saved but in most cases end up supplying more bodies for the fires, or helplessly crippled men that only have their memories and skins of wine to sustain them till they eventually die. The local folk return to their homes the day of entertainment finished, a few do search the field of battle for souvenirs and mementos to take home to decorate their drab homes and lives.

This is the wonder and glory of war. This is the honor and valor. This is the foolishness the futility and horror of war, the indifference the uncaring pride of war.