The Battle of Fyndrill
Recorded by Kou Morleith
Bodies strewn everywhere, discarded puppets with cut strings. Few remained, weighted down by exhaustion, feet burdened and shoulders hunched. Night was falling around them like an envelope of shadow, wrapping them in cloth formed from starlight. With it came silence, so thick and deafening that it permeated the air and sent the world in a hush. It was a moonless sky, a starless sky, all the light came from the figures standing among the bodies of their fallen. No longer were they enemies. No longer did they rage over disputes. No longer could they lift a hand in anger.
So few kept their feet beneath them. Still, like statues they spurted from the ground, solid and bright. There was no separation between race, language, cause. Beneath the black sky, they were the same. Beacon’s of white light casting elegant dances into the souls awaiting their blessings. Free from their mortal skins, they lifted in streams of warm silver, bound for the skies. Joyous they were, to see their loved ones again as they passed from one realm to the next.
The flare from the beacons sent a widespread flutter of anticipation.
They were coming.
In white and gold clothing the consistency of light beams, they came, silent, slumbering, lashes resting against full cheekbones, ice frosting their skin.
The beacons fell dark once again, leaving the faint glow from the bodies as the only barrier from the shadows. Before the light was oppressed and the coldness set back in over the world, cased in silvery glass, they were, silent, slumbering, frozen in peace, hair the color of blood gliding over the pillow.
Behind thick glass they went, into the depths of the underground, suffocated by the dirt, crushed beneath the heavy stone far below the surface.
It was where no sound, no light, nothing escaped.
Beneath the black world, the strangers arrived in a glow of starlight and a blanket of sunlight.