Excerpt: Praying For Eden

The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug. It was a fact that was well known by the troops that marched down the small curve of land, feet digging against the cold earth –the dirt moist after the recent rain, the rain clawing at tough leather boots, mud squeaking with each step. The sky overhead was dark, the wind that caressed them whispering approaching dangers into their ears. Their faces were set, eyes cold and lacking in any human emotions that they may have shown earlier in life. But everything had changed with the battle for Ireland, everything had changed that day and there had been no going back. Indeed, the only thing worse than reaching the end of the world had been surviving it. They were now simply intent on raging their revenge across the earth –pawns of a larger master that had no care for their survival. Not a single whisper emerged from their mouths, not a single wince of disgust appeared on their facial features at the putrid smell that hung like clouds in the atmosphere. They walked with simple determination, need rushing through their veins –a need so deep, so carnal, that it could not be denied. The need for the rush of battle, for the feeling of bodies rushing against their own, for the empowerment of driving their swords through the breathing bodies of their opponent, the need to feel the warmth of blood across what little skin was left bare from the protection of their amours. War was their drug, and their addiction to it had indeed become potent and lethal.

A single man still stood at the top of the small mount, his cold silver eyes looking with a fierce coldness at his troop below. Standing over them, he almost felt like a God –fuck, he was reminded of his great power often enough-, watching them like puppets that hung from strings which he himself moved around. A puppeteer would have been the correct word to call him –only; he never stepped away from the danger of battle, instead lunging in just as his troop did. He sat on a tall white horse, a strong figure against the darkness of the horizon, not even flinching as thunder rolled in the distance and the platinum clouds glowed golden for an instant. There was the smallest of smirks on his face, a scar trailing down the left side of his throat –bulging from his flesh almost like a vein, yet indeed different from a blood vessel, a mark on his skin that was almost offending, always reminding him of things past.

“They will win,” Spoke a voice from behind –the words not trembling, showing the determination that the man on the white horse had came to expect, even demand, from his warriors: they fought for a new dawn; they fought for liberty and fresh beginnings, for revenge on all blasphemy that had been tossed upon them. But they also fought to show that they could, and they would, rule. A second horse stepped up besides his own, the brown animal staring ahead with dark eyes. The man sitting on it, instead, twisted his head –blue eyes shinning in the preternatural darkness, lips twisted into a smile of little doubt, his blonde hair dancing a soft Egyptian dance in the wind. “There is no doubt.”

The man on the white horse sighed, silver eyes still glued for an instant on his troops, before twisting to stare at the man besides him –his one companion, the one true friend he had, the only person who had supported him through this entire ordeal, the man who had stood by his side as they witnessed the end of the world and the only one that had jumped up at the suggestion that they do something to gain revenge. Only as he stared at his friend did the fear finally show in his eyes –though it was there only for an instant, shown in a soft glint of blue that flashed in his gaze, the man on the brown horse caught it with a quick nod. “It will not be that easy, mate, it is the first battle they will truly fight,” The man on the white horse sighed deeply, shaking his head slowly.

“Perhaps, but they will still find victory,” Spoke the blonde man, the tip of a rose tongue appearing to map out his lips. He was attempting to reassure his friend, to make him feel more secure, and the man on the white horse could not have appreciated it more. It was loyalty without doubt, a loyalty so deep that it ran through the other man’s veins, a loyalty so great that assured the man on the white horse that the man beside him would be willing to sacrifice his life to save his leader. The man on the white horse enjoyed knowing that he had such patriotic followers. The blonde man licked his lips again, attempting to gain moisture that would simply never return to lips that had long ago dried. The man on the white horse nodded slowly, head bobbing almost too enthusiastically against the dark horizon –thunder again rolling in the distance, a loud roar that seemed to make the earth tremble. It took an instant to realize that it had not been the thunder that had caused the shaking; it took an instant to realize that the earth below the horses’ hoofs was indeed palpitating, as if finding new life.

And as the ground exploded around him, the battle for a new dawn begun.