It was quiet, the wind blew in the distance. The cavalry waited below the hillside as a black stain in the moonlight. The entire field was wet, and the air was humid. Each commander led small groups of archers to different areas while crouching. A commander gave a signal to his group, and those in the watchtower were immediately shot down.

The arrows flew almost completely silent; a whisk in the distant air, cutting away into the black of night. The victims fell to the floorboards of each tower, but not a single eye within the hold noticed.

Three men held a torch, each lighting an arrow. Those arrows were shot, each hitting the roof of a building: the scream of a horn was called. Like a roar of a dragon, it shook the men that took rest inside the fortress: quick to wake to it. They could hear the growls of soldiers outside; incoherent, yet loud and terrifying to them. Grabbing their nearest weapons; of spears, bows, and swords: they headed out the main gate.

The archers of the King encroached the enemy sprint down the hill, a bow pointing their way from every peering eye. The arrows were pulled back.

"Fire!" Zoran ordered, swinging his hand forward with a loud voice.

One after the other, the full moon painted black, for the scream of arrows fell upon them like rain!

More and more rushed out the gate, with arrow after arrow fair to meet them. One fell, then two, then a hundred more; the shroud of death rolling down the hillside.

A second horn was called, the tune of hell to the fallen men.

"To arms!" Theodren shouted with a raised hand, a grip to a lance.

"To arms!" Armand Malrick repeated, sending their cavalry army down the slope to the disarrayed men below.

It began as footsteps, then a trout, then a gallop; a rush down the hill, a flood of raging waters.

The fortress became a blaze of hellfire, and many more began to scurry out the gates; screaming, and others burning.

Arrow after arrow set their mark into the gaps in their armor. Like cattle arriving to the slaughter, blood came rushing down the hillside. Others stumbled, trampled by a stampede of stallions and the spears of their riders. It was over.
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The fires...calmed.... The winds of the smoke...calmed.... Ashes among blood, limbs over the bodies of different people. Their skin...burned.... All that remained was the flag the rebellion brought to the world. The power of something so profound was vacant. Those memories were forgotten. In a way, it's as if I felt sorrow for them, and that the whole world sobbed at their dying breath than to cheer it finally coming to an end.... One could say that it's all over, but what about those that died? What's it to them?....The dead shall remain consumed in dust and mud, a fate for all who dwell in this terrible world....

"Still writing that little journal?" Theodren smiled as he tore the leg meat of a pheasant.

Zoran became alert, staring up to his brother who was leaning against rubble.

"Now-now, don't arm yourself. I'm not going to steal it again. I know what it means to you." He tossed the cleaned bone towards the ash piles surrounding them.

It was hard to see that golden giant, for the sky was faded in falling ash and smoke. Even the walls of the wooden fort was nothing but a whitewashed abyss, but Zoran still remained silent.

"Thinking about mother, huh?" Theodren looked down towards him, who rested on the ashen ground.

"Can't​ you just shut up for once?" Zoran stood up and punched Theodren's backside; moving him...well...nowhere really. It was like punching a rock, yet Zoran tried hiding his pain.

"This whole scene we're in, at the end of every battle it's like this, like what happened that day." Zoran rubbed his tears with the ash coated on his face. Voices of other soldiers were around them, dragging the remains of the dead to a fuel a large bonfire, with its cracking and smoking wood, born by corpses, rising into the air.

"Don't you miss them?" Zoran turned to his brother, still teary eyed.

"Well, of course I do!" Theodren quickly rose. "Weeping about the dead won't change that. A bleeding fist is still a fist, but what you make of it; to let it decay along with the rest of you as you bleed, or to wrap up the wound and let it heal: that's up to you."

"You see everyone, don't you?" He stood up and walked to his side, sitting by him. "They all weep; not because it's over, but that nothing can change what became of those they loved. Those things happen because of war, but it doesn't mean there's not a chance in the world to move forward...and that it's impossible for it to come to an end."

"Everyone to their horses!" The high commander ordered.

The brothers looked towards him.

"Oh, well. Well. Well. The hog was not slaughtered by the bull...how unfortunate." His horse scoffed at them, like it was only being held back by its lead.

Theodren got up, eyes turned predatory, and hands gripped to strike.

"Back it off. You protect me too much." Zoran rubbed his eyes again and smiled.

"Well look what we have here: a king and his future wife are finally making their engagement...how sweet.... I shall escort you immediately." Armand's horse came closer, it's spit lightly staining their faces.

"What now?" He got impatient, speaking in a condescending manner; his horse huffing their way. "Would you prefer dancers and bards for added company? Scurry about already...."
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The way to Lorlyn's capital was...trivial.... The man would give his all to each moment spent in eye contact. It's no wonder the man was in his forties and still unable to be wed.

They entered the gates, crossing the swamp surrounding the city, reaching beyond the smelly bridge to the fortified walls that spread out in both directions.

Crowds gathered as they entered, full of curiosity to discover the outcome of the battle that took place. Children ran about the tight passageways of the large city and its many homes, blacksmiths banging metal into sparks, butcher shops chopping the meat of a freshly cut cow with the stench of salted raw meat and blood, as well as the fresh bread from bakeries. There were smelly fishermen and peasants bringing their goods from their villages, walking about the streets. There was the steam of bath houses rising from below them, and later the smell of manure in the iron reinforced manholes. There were the shouts of merchants advertising their goods with wooden signs swaying in the wind above them, with shops open to the air outside. You could smell the smoke rising from the chimneys all over, and the cobbled stone brick base of each home. Staring up, you'd see the white washed walls made with wooden frames, and cheap glass windows, with wooden tile roofs mixed with tar.

"Out of the way, peasants, this couple has a wedding to meet for!" Armand announced.

"Did he just...." Zoran whispered.

"Yes, yes. His pride is as frail as reeds in autumn, but there's still wit between those sleeves." Theodren replied in a much louder whisper to make sure Armand would hear. "Though I'd wager, it's not very much."

Armand immediately stopped his horse, his eyes wide open with an aggravated grunt.
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They made it up the steps to the keep, the citadel itself; the home of their king.

It was truly a palace to behold. Even the sheer length of a Mykur drake could never surpass its height and width. Fine polished stone bricks were built upon each other from base to head, with fine square pillars holding up the roof. There were many rooms scattered about with thick and reinforced wooden and steel doorways, glass windows on the outer rooms as well as arrow slits in the fortifications on the outside walls. There was a courtyard able to hold two hundred. It was often used in trials and executions, or to announce to the King's vassals. Many gardens were grown in that courtyard, both exotic and local flowers and old trees. It was a beautiful sight despite its grim use.

It would take at least an hour to see it all; both its dark halls and sunlit rooms, and five minutes just to meet the King's throne room. They arrived inside, a large doorway banged against the walls as it was fully opened; an echo following it, and another upon its closure. They were in the throne room, with windows at the top edges of each side of the walls, letting in an evening's sunlight. There were lit chandeliers well maintained above them, and candles on the sides of the walls. There were well armed guards at the gate's entry and by the throne, for he did not care for many guards to keep him occupied, just enough to keep his council from being nervous.

"My King! My King! It is over, the war, it's finally over!" Theodren cheered, almost lost of words, for they rushed so fast it was like they were being chased. "What is your next bidding?"

"I have great respect for your success. You've brought back the peace once fallen for nearly two decades. I am grateful, truly." Derek sighed, his deep and often menacing voice was as sure as it always was, yet at its core a heart that truly cared for them.

Unnoticed by Theodren, he seemed more intimidating than usual. Something about him was surely off, but he quickly caught on after seeing the nervous look from his brother.

From the King's seat of power was a stern look; eyes and brow stoic, wavered by not a sight to behold. It was a face of experience, of pain well known to them. He wore his jewels in moderation, with no more than a small jagged tooth crown of silver laminated with gold to symbolize his title. Entangled in those jewels was his long, aged, dark, and wavy grayish hair groomed only as exquisite as any other noble: certainly cleaner than Theodren's. His skin was covered with scars: from his forehead with a cut, to his cheeks, neck, arms, and lip. He would likely have more visible ones had he not covered himself entirely in a mildly colored robe of dark gray and brown leather and cloth, only basic colors you'd see on any common man, as well as his well trimmed beard and mustache. He was a man of strength, an intimidating sight, with his right hand gripped against the edge of the throne; like it could conquer the world in a blink of an eye, and the other against his upper lip in thought.

The two of them glanced at each other with a confused look.

"Theodren!" The voice of a young boy was heard in the short distance of the marbled floors. A big smile was shown on his young face while his long brown hair swung back and forth over his pale skin when approaching.

"Darius!" Theodren smiled, lifting the boy in his arms while chuckling happily. "Ah. You've grown to be just as handsome as your father. I see a great young warrior in you." He messed with his smooth hair, the boy giggled.

"Son." Derek gleamed towards the boy in slight disappointment. The boy turned and looked at him.

"Yes, father?" His eyes glimmered grey, beyond the reality that they were hazel.

"Off to your sisters and eldest brother. Your mother and servants prepared a wondrous meal for you." Derek returned to his feet, walking down the steps while looking towards him.

"Alright...but you'll let me see them again, won't you, father?"

"I can't make any promises, but I'll try to.... Just...hurry off now...." He looked impatient, lightly pushing the boy to the direction he wished he'd turn.

The boy agreed, running towards the dining room that angled towards the left of the throne, but only after greeting both the brothers.

"You were saying." Zoran said gently.

"That was the last of the enemy. There's really no need for the two of you anymore."

Their faces lit up with alertness.

"You are free to do whatever pleases you, but you will no longer get sympathy from me. Your titles as a tactician and cavalry general have become null and void."

"What? You can't be serious-" Theodren was cut off, for Zoran grabbed his right arm.

"Come, our journey leads us elsewhere. If our fate does not intertwine with luxury that most war leaders garner, then I'm sure somewhere else will."

"Don't act like mother! Follow her path and you'll be next in the death bed!" He released his arm from him while turning his head in disgust, though only in a whisper did he reveal his true reaction.

"How can you say that? After all we discussed prior to this!" Zoran raged, but only in a whisper. He looked directly at Theodren's face for a few seconds as though to hint for him to stop.

"Is something wrong, you two?"

"No-no! Nothing at all...just a harmless discussion, don't worry!" Zoran was so incredibly nervous that sweat was already dripping down his forehead.

Zoran looked to the King and bowed his head, closing his eyes while tucking his right arm aimed at his left shoulder in reverence.

"We apologize. We will take our leave."

He almost had to drag Theodren out, for his brother's intolerance grew to a ravenous rage of a hungry bear, tugging against his arms with great strength. Of course, however; to say that Zoran was not as infuriated as his brother would be a grand understatement, but what more was there to do? He knew if they said anything else, they would surely be hanged for it. To him, there was no choice.
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With the two brothers beyond the King's view from his throne, a woman, his wife, approached his backside. Her gentle and warm hands were placed on his firm and cold shoulders and chest, carrying a weight on his heart.

"Not even willing to say goodbye." She looked emotionless, but her voice held little strength, like someone who lost any hope for themselves in the world.

"What other choices did I have? You know I loved them. It pains me dearly to continue sitting in this blasted chair as they depart believing I don't care!" Derek took a pause, trying to calm himself to prevent the guards from stirring curiosity among themselves. "The lords, the people, the commanders. They could never allow me to take favor of two peasants that struck it rich. This whole rebellion was started by a desire for power, but will that power not grow in those who support me? Will they not regret fighting beside me against their own people, all for the sake of two men?"

King Derek held his chest, for the pain hurt him dearly, and his breathing grew in each word he spoke. He wrinkled day by day from all the pressure, but he feared that his last contribution would weaken him more than everything prior to it.

"No.... I am only a king by my honor...and that honor will be for naught if I never depart from them. It would be a kingdom divided once more, and I'm certain my life won't be spared the second time." Derek held his fist, gripping it to his throne arm rest.

She continued to listen closely, saying nothing but trying her hardest to be supportive. With a sigh, she rubbed his back, hugging him from behind. She could feel his weight, and too wished they could stay; though, more for the sake of his happiness. The only thing left for her to do was to find a way to replace it: his broken heart.

"You aren't busy now.... Please...try and enjoy the presence of your own children. I'll be there if you need me." She sounded tired and annoyed, though not from him, but the war in itself, and all things to follow it. The war, after all, like a cruel spirit, haunted him for years.

She slowly walked away while her footsteps echoed in the silence.

There was a long pause with his head held down. A wooden door to the back left of him was slowly shut. Only him and his continuous concerns and regrets remained.