#FridayFlash - Death On The Moor

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It is early November. The trees huddle in copses, their leaves ablaze in hues of copper and gold for a final fanfare. Creeping mist crawls across the moor, reaching to the heavens to meet the leaden sky in an endless sea of grey. The harsh call of a solitary crow pierces the silence but I need no formal announcement. There are none here to hear it. Indeed, the men who lie at my feet have long since departed their earthly shells - I have already partaken of their ruin.

I walk among the fallen men, and wonder at their folly. The survivors have abandoned them, taking what dignity and pride they had left. No pennants snap and flutter in the breeze. No monuments will be built, the tears of their families the only sign of mourning. I lift my head and breathe deeply of the cold air; snow is coming, and soon the final traces of the battle will be buried until spring. The autumn has died along with these men.

The beginnings of winter stir in my soul and I shiver. Even I am not immune to the season. I think of the victorious duke, and the roaring fire in his great hall. His castle is well guarded, but I find that no fortifications can withstand me. I think I shall pay the duke a visit, and cut short his celebrations as his warmongering has cut short these wasted lives.

The crow utters a farewell as I slip through time and space.