To Serve
He was a magnificent creature, 15 hands. Though short by today’s standards he was a prize in his. He had had the mud and blood cleaned from his mane and tail. His armor cleaned and polished, his best leathers put on.
His life up to this point had been short but great. Barely five years old he had seen more shores of distant lands than even the powers for whom he fought. It was with him that his master prayed in the calm before. And in him that his master entrusted his safe return after.
He walked up the hill on that overcast day, the drizzle forming droplets that ran down his polished plates. His lips curled around the bit as he shot puffs of steam from his nostrils. A knee gently rubbed his shoulder that flexed under the weight of his master’s steel, armor and corpse.
Though he was trained for war, he was a remarkably gentle creature. While at home on leave his caregivers found him drawn to children, even allowing them to tug on his tail and mane. His temperament and that of his master were often marveled.
The crowds of mourners that he pushed through, and the armed soldier he came to stand before, did not phase him. His years in close order battle had taught him to trust the reigns. He stood still and proud as his master’s body was taken off of him and sat upright in the corner of the oversized grave.
That morning had started off like so many before. His armor meticulously donned, his master taking the reigns. They walked to somewhere quiet and his master spoke softly to him as the sounds and gears of war stirred in the distance. When both were calm and ready, they joined the ranks and surged into being.
He tried to move, at the last second when he realized the blow was meant for him, but the reigns held. His rear legs buckled uncontrolled, he spread his front legs trying to steady. Another soldier cut his jugular and what consciousness he had kept slowly faded. As he fell a soldier gently pushed him toward the grave, to serve his master, one last time.
His life up to this point had been short but great. Barely five years old he had seen more shores of distant lands than even the powers for whom he fought. It was with him that his master prayed in the calm before. And in him that his master entrusted his safe return after.
He walked up the hill on that overcast day, the drizzle forming droplets that ran down his polished plates. His lips curled around the bit as he shot puffs of steam from his nostrils. A knee gently rubbed his shoulder that flexed under the weight of his master’s steel, armor and corpse.
Though he was trained for war, he was a remarkably gentle creature. While at home on leave his caregivers found him drawn to children, even allowing them to tug on his tail and mane. His temperament and that of his master were often marveled.
The crowds of mourners that he pushed through, and the armed soldier he came to stand before, did not phase him. His years in close order battle had taught him to trust the reigns. He stood still and proud as his master’s body was taken off of him and sat upright in the corner of the oversized grave.
That morning had started off like so many before. His armor meticulously donned, his master taking the reigns. They walked to somewhere quiet and his master spoke softly to him as the sounds and gears of war stirred in the distance. When both were calm and ready, they joined the ranks and surged into being.
He tried to move, at the last second when he realized the blow was meant for him, but the reigns held. His rear legs buckled uncontrolled, he spread his front legs trying to steady. Another soldier cut his jugular and what consciousness he had kept slowly faded. As he fell a soldier gently pushed him toward the grave, to serve his master, one last time.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home