The Nameless Sword Saga: The Protectors by Traveling East

Land of the Rising Sun

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Land of the Rising Sun

Dawn begins to break over the horizon. The valley is bathed in the woeful velvet of night, but already the heavy mists have burned away into the heavens above. There is hardly a sound upon the harmonious breeze. It is rifling the blades of grass, waving the land like a sea.

On the dark side of morning he inhales, long and deep. The potent tang of grass invades his nostrils until the smell of damp soil permeates and overrides. He can almost taste the stars, clean, bright, and hidden above. Rain is on the wind, far away and to the east.

When he shifts the metal and leather bindings creak and crack and there is a faint, fleeting ring, crystal clear and jubilant. He can hear the slide of his clothes as they flutter in the wind. The gravel beneath his toes grinds into rock when he breathes. Though he doesn't move, he is disturbing the grass, and the change sends a cacophony of rustling onto the breeze.

His eyes watch the sun rise.

And when it breaks over the black of his valley, his domain, illuminates him in brilliant hues, he is luminous.

He smiles and raises the hand that commands armies, has made men fall before his power, has built a kingdoms from blood. Behind him, rising out of the dipping sea of green, a thousand warriors bathed in gold.

And when he gestures, so faintly it almost goes unseen, the glinting warriors, painted with armor and honor move as silently as the day has risen, overtake the horizon.

He is left, watching the movement, the odyssey of war.

But he is not alone in his bright, commanding sin.

Flanked by two, he stands.

Together, stronger than his entire army, are the three.

They watch battle unfold and see the earth weep red.

In the aftermath of greatest destruction the white prince leads them to hell.

Crippled by duty, they are tied to fate.

Forgotten by history, they fade from memory.

And in the land of the rising sun they burn away for preservation's sake.