Wednesday, 22 August 2012

The Ghosts Of The Past



Part 1



The horse galloped across the lands.  Bridges, meadows and inns went by in a blur, disappearing as swiftly as they were appearing. The warrior, cladded in the deepest shade of black was mounted upon the stallion. His silver coat of armor was wrapped rigidly across his bare chest. The shine upon being confronted by the consistent sword slashes was tarnished at the ends. He smelled of horses, raw yet alluring. The scent was infused in the wind, leaving tales of sacrifices and sufferings wherever he went. His eyes were teary. “I’d be lost if I look back”, he told himself. Without giving a further ado, the rider rode on.


He lost track of time. The sky turned a bitter shade of grey. Resentment grew inside him as he forced his ride forwards. The pastures around him changed colors and swayed in winds as he rode past them. He could feel the exhausted heart of his horse, pumping thick blood against his thighs. “I’d be lost if I stop, I must go on”, he muttered to the surroundings. The green of grass, once comforting to his eyes back in homelands, felt repulsive. He had come eons away from his lands, yet the loathing burnt inside him, like a moth around a candle, slowly burning to its untimely death.


Tragedies have a tongue for speaking of themselves while the glories seldom express their worth. The warrior’s scent spoke of such dark and ominous past, one which no men should ever endure. A star crossed love affair, bloodshed and a betrayal so toxic that his scent carries traces of its poison. “I’d be doomed if I contemplate over bygones”, he whispered to his horse, his only mate left in the desolate kingdom. The warrior kicked his horse and he sprang back to life, as if he understood his master’s needs. He rode his stallion for what seemed like centuries.

The black rider galloped for eras at a stretch, muttering to himself, murmuring to surroundings. The battle that waged inside him knew no ending. It was eating him from within, consuming him from the insides. He forced his thoughts to the everlasting wind, tried to give them wings, but a man can never fly away from his own scent.


The night surrounded him. The cold started to creep up his spine. The night air slashed his face, numbing the surface. He wore his helm, protecting his fa├žade from the frost. Small flakes of white rested upon his shoulders, which already carried burdens of his destined fate. He rode over deserts of snow, lifeless, a dead walking in a carnival of nature.


The warrior came to a halt near a waterfall. Dew had been placed strategically over the grass beside the pond. The water droplets of the fall seemed like series of pearls from a necklace worn by a lady back from his homelands. He yearned to embrace his beloved sister, his Sun in the dark clouds. Hatred took over as the realism loomed in. He removed his helm, took off his clothes and entered the icy waters.


He went down and touched the bottoms of the shallow pond. He hung inside the water, an attempt to drown himself, to cease his sufferings. He took a deep breath as water came rushing inside his nostrils, satiating his lungs. A warrior, who was unimaginable to slain in battlefields, gave up the war of his being as darkness wrapped him. The mare neighed above as the ripples from the waters became violent at first, and then, died away into nothingness.

[To Be Continued..]

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