Ein Ritter

The silence was deafening on the battlefield. There were no sharp clashing of metal, and no hissing of foreign tongues in the freezing air; no birds' wings broke the spell either, no slushing of mud. 

He stood alone. Bodies surrounded him.

With his mighty head bowed in utmost exhaustion, as if all the rough threads had been cut up, he stood still, unchanging in the moment. His chest rose and fell, and rose. 

No sword was clenched in a death grip of his hands, for it lay beside his feet, half-sunk in the mud, and drown in blood. It sang no more.

The memories found him sudden, striking down his mind with alike a hammer. The knight swayed, inhaling the sharp air through his nose, his chest filling in with ice the next instant. The calloused hand found his face soon, hiding it. 

The children were screaming no more. No cries filled the smoky air as small feet rushed to carry them away from the giant, armoured men, whose faces were stale and weapons — raised. No more did the mothers', fathers' foreheads, knees, kissed the ground as their prayers were ignored. No more did the fiery beast devoured the huts, with the wood moaning under its strength. 

No comrades of his were alive - singing songs, with their smiles turning the day gold. The settlement was not protected by the God Himself, but guarded by men of another ruler — swelled in fat and adorned with riches, King he was. And akin to feral wolves were those men, anticipating to bite back, given the chance. 

No sound came from the lone man as he crumpled to the soaking wet, ashen ground, except for the heaving of the chest. The coil kept burning and unravelling on, breaking out of his ribs, as the knight - covered in dried, fresh blood, in one of his enemies or not - bent lower, his forehead touching the ground. 

It was cold. 

A hoarse wail broke the silent spell. A furious, desperate serpent escaped his throat, and soon vanished from sight, never to be seen again.

It pained to blink, thus he kept his eyes shut. It pained to swallow, thus he kept screaming until there was no air left to spend, until nothing more than a whisper came out of mouth. 

His thoughts were a mess that were not needed to be tidied up, for the hollowness of his eyes and the bite of his blade were weapons loved by the King; for the King, golden crown heavy, would sit upon his throne of dead and sip his bitter wine and praise him as the victory that would be brought to him. For He would laugh merrily, turning to His lords with mad eyes, and whisper: "I had won!".

The man didn't stand up, keeping himself close to the freezing ground. His thin, weather-worn lips moved in a short prayer for forgiveness he knew would be left unanswered. 

He kneeled alone.