Move Along
Original



Warning: Bloody themes

Great anguished cries filled the air. Blood showered the grass like crimson blossoms, stealing away its childish innocence. The goddesses mourned the deaths with great raindrops that hailed from the heavens like tears. Amidst all the disarray and chaos was the snow-blonde Priest Everard. His once flourishing white robes were stained with the blood of those he attempted to heal. His pale, slender hands were soaked with the lifeblood of other men.

Everard tossed back his tangled blond hair fiercely and dived forward—narrowly missing being impaled by a spear. The monk scrambled on his hands and knees ignoring the pain coursing through his bruised limbs, blocking out the horrible sounds of the battle.

His azure eyes stared forward intently—focusing on one lone man clawing futilely at the sky as he lay soaked in his own blood, as if begging the goddesses to release him from his torment.

The monk finally reached the man. For a moment, but only a moment, the monk almost moved on. The man could probably not be helped. His wound was terrible indeed. It ran from just below his throat diagonally down to his hip. Great gushes of blood spurted from the wound as each faint heartbeat fought for its life.

Each heartbeat that seemed it may be its last.

It didn’t matter who this soldier fought for. Everard was not a man of judgment. Everyone fought for their own reasons; be it for their family, or for their own personal greed—Everard cared not. His belief was there was a little good in every heart and not two men of any race deserved any less of his healing arts.

Everard strengthened his will, enlaced his fingers, and pressed his pointer fingers to his forehead and his thumbs to his lips. His head bowed as he went into a series of chants, amplified by each thunderous bolts of lightening above. His voice rose with each syllable as his voice grew stronger. A heavenly light descended upon the bleeding man, slowly, ever so slowly knitting the man back together.

The light suddenly rose sharply into the air, hissing and sputtering until fading away into a fine gold mist. Everard opened his eyes and stared down at the man who sat up with a look of bewilderment. Everard offered a fatigued smile, but his smile was not returned. Before the monk could utter a word the man reached up towards Everard throat—a wickedly carved blade leading—and promptly slit the monks throat.

Everard’s smile melted away into one of disbelief, staring blankly as he fell backwards into the grass. He reached up to touch his own throat—feeling the warmth of his own blood flowing over his hands and he gave a great shudder of horror. He had exhausted his healing powers by saving this man—the man that had killed him.

The fading image of a silhouetted figure unsheathing a long broadsword played on the end of the monks conscience. A subtle, bitter, almost ironic smile touched his lips even as he closed his eyes.

/Perhaps I should of moved on./ He thought.

And then he died.

[Ramirez]



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