Zanith
January 14th, 2004, 12:13 PM
Hey folks!
Here is a short I was inspired to write over a year ago. Thanks to 30 seconds of a piece of music. :lol: :lol:
In the tides of the winds they swayed . . . The blades of grass of the open field. Above a bird danced the gusts that rolled across the earth. Calmly the bird glanced the earth, watching its’ shadow dance across the swaying golden grass. It was dusk and another day was falling. Just like all of those that have passed before it and all of those that are sure to follow.
Quietly the bird followed the air slowly. Surrounding the sea of grass, which rested in the ancient soil, trees stood firm against the wind, their leaves swaying on their stems in the wind like those blades of grass below them. A leaf snapped free of its’ limb, taking to the air, tumbling end over end until the air could catch its’ surface, carrying it off in the distance. Darkness was creeping over the east. Mountains, hills, and plains slowly were being crept upon by shadow.
The bird tipped its’ wing, diving through the air. Suddenly rearing its’ head back, shoving its’ belly forward, the talons of the bird stretched outwards and clasped onto a branch. The branch swayed momentarily under the birds’ weight, sending more leaves to the wind. Under the bird, a man watched; a smile drawn upon his features. The figure, aged with lines and featuring a gray beard, gray hair, and a long deep match mustache, was ordained in purple robs with gold trim and white under-garments. His bright and youthful blue eyes watched of the simplicity of life above him. For the beast resting on the branch knew of no troubles in which he, the man ordained in purple and gold, had been enslaved. A small cough leapt from his lips and a weary hand attempted to catch it . . . But could not. He was old and weary from conflict from the years before. For too long had he seen terror, blood spilt, and those before him die. Life here, life for that small creature which stood above him, was simple.
Recovering from his sudden sign of age, the man turned his eyes to the falling sun. The clouds of the west glowed a radiant orange, gold, and crimson. “Oh so little of the troubles of my life you know my friend,” the voice uttered deeply. He turned and looked to the bird who now skipped throughout the tree, “But little do I know of yours. We are simple, you and I, but yet oh so far apart.”
A sigh heaved from his chest and gust of wind swept strongly across the land, sending some of his long gray hair about. His hands, resting upon his robe shook lightly. It was late. Slowly he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of nature. Breathing deeply, he could smell the earth, the dust, the scents carried upon the winds, and the wood in which he leaned against. It was foreign, almost forgotten compared to the scents in which he had taken in before. The scent of blood, decaying mass, and the smoke of flaming weapons. Far too long had he been in hand of conflict. Soon, he needed peace. Peace of which he would be needing for survival.
While his eyes remained closed he thought of home . . . A home in which he had not seen in over a decade. His life had been known so far only as one of conflict in the eyes of the public. He was famed for it. He wondered . . . Would there be legends of it? Was he, worthy of remembrance? His wife was lost and his children . . . A son and daughter, were never in his company for there to be memories. Only letters . . . Letters of which he loosely kept in his mind.
Slowly, a tear trailed down his cheek, slipping along the crevices that wore into his face over the years of strain, work, and hardship. But was it a hardship self-inflicted upon himself or did the Gods place this mortal under a cruel fate. Too many years had past for him to wonder. He was obligated to follow his path, to step slowly before those following him and to insure their safety and survival.
The whiney of a horse sprang into the air. The bird and the man both turned towards the sound. A pair of mounted riders sat at the edge of the trees adjacent to the one at which the man sat. The curving tree line kept the men mostly in shadow aside that of the vibrant manes atop their golden-colored helmets; their faces hidden in shadow. Like the grass below and the leaves above, the hairs of the manes rolled under the tides of the wind. Resting upon their shoulders was plating of metal, slightly tarnished. Hung over their chests and torsos, dark plating reflected what little light shown on them. Hands, tightly gripping reigns of their beasts, similar plated decorations tightly hugged the wrists to which they were attached. Between bent joints were rings of gold and stone. Rings earned from conflict and victory.
Slowly the man under the tree rose to his feet, the wind taking into his robes, sending them sweeping behind him. His hand, gripping the tree, and the other in the wind, shook slightly under age and tire. The bird, still resting above him, its’ large dark eye moving quickly, tipped its’ head sideways, watching the one below slowly move away into the light. The man stepped slowly and quietly. He was one man, aging and tired. His steps were made for and taken by him, yet they lead a mass into a new tomorrow. Each step revealed yet another part to a greater tale; a greater legend in which the man was uncertain he would be delivered. Slowly the sun crept further beneath the horizon and yet the winds continued to blow. Looking towards the sky as he approached, the clouds shown deeper shades of red, orange, and gold. Change was near; yet another tide of uncertainty that would be creeping on him with the completed goals of today and the plans for the greater tomorrows.
Slowly he reached for the reigns of his horse. It was a white beast with a long mane and socks fading from black to white. The beast was strong and proud. It served the man well and would continue to serve him still. It, like he, had seen many conflicts and the tides of fate sway for and against him. It too knew of the uncertainty of tomorrow. Firmly the beast stood as the robed figure threw himself into the saddle. Quietly he sat, looking over the land at the bottom of the hill in which the field that he rested was placed. Tents, white and waving long banners, filled the field below in columns. Men moved about the corridors between them, rushing from place to place. Fires, glowing brightly, littered the field. Around them, men hustled in packs. In the distance yet another field lay empty. However, tomorrow he knew . . . . It would not be so.
He was Marcus Aurelius . . .
Here is a short I was inspired to write over a year ago. Thanks to 30 seconds of a piece of music. :lol: :lol:
In the tides of the winds they swayed . . . The blades of grass of the open field. Above a bird danced the gusts that rolled across the earth. Calmly the bird glanced the earth, watching its’ shadow dance across the swaying golden grass. It was dusk and another day was falling. Just like all of those that have passed before it and all of those that are sure to follow.
Quietly the bird followed the air slowly. Surrounding the sea of grass, which rested in the ancient soil, trees stood firm against the wind, their leaves swaying on their stems in the wind like those blades of grass below them. A leaf snapped free of its’ limb, taking to the air, tumbling end over end until the air could catch its’ surface, carrying it off in the distance. Darkness was creeping over the east. Mountains, hills, and plains slowly were being crept upon by shadow.
The bird tipped its’ wing, diving through the air. Suddenly rearing its’ head back, shoving its’ belly forward, the talons of the bird stretched outwards and clasped onto a branch. The branch swayed momentarily under the birds’ weight, sending more leaves to the wind. Under the bird, a man watched; a smile drawn upon his features. The figure, aged with lines and featuring a gray beard, gray hair, and a long deep match mustache, was ordained in purple robs with gold trim and white under-garments. His bright and youthful blue eyes watched of the simplicity of life above him. For the beast resting on the branch knew of no troubles in which he, the man ordained in purple and gold, had been enslaved. A small cough leapt from his lips and a weary hand attempted to catch it . . . But could not. He was old and weary from conflict from the years before. For too long had he seen terror, blood spilt, and those before him die. Life here, life for that small creature which stood above him, was simple.
Recovering from his sudden sign of age, the man turned his eyes to the falling sun. The clouds of the west glowed a radiant orange, gold, and crimson. “Oh so little of the troubles of my life you know my friend,” the voice uttered deeply. He turned and looked to the bird who now skipped throughout the tree, “But little do I know of yours. We are simple, you and I, but yet oh so far apart.”
A sigh heaved from his chest and gust of wind swept strongly across the land, sending some of his long gray hair about. His hands, resting upon his robe shook lightly. It was late. Slowly he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of nature. Breathing deeply, he could smell the earth, the dust, the scents carried upon the winds, and the wood in which he leaned against. It was foreign, almost forgotten compared to the scents in which he had taken in before. The scent of blood, decaying mass, and the smoke of flaming weapons. Far too long had he been in hand of conflict. Soon, he needed peace. Peace of which he would be needing for survival.
While his eyes remained closed he thought of home . . . A home in which he had not seen in over a decade. His life had been known so far only as one of conflict in the eyes of the public. He was famed for it. He wondered . . . Would there be legends of it? Was he, worthy of remembrance? His wife was lost and his children . . . A son and daughter, were never in his company for there to be memories. Only letters . . . Letters of which he loosely kept in his mind.
Slowly, a tear trailed down his cheek, slipping along the crevices that wore into his face over the years of strain, work, and hardship. But was it a hardship self-inflicted upon himself or did the Gods place this mortal under a cruel fate. Too many years had past for him to wonder. He was obligated to follow his path, to step slowly before those following him and to insure their safety and survival.
The whiney of a horse sprang into the air. The bird and the man both turned towards the sound. A pair of mounted riders sat at the edge of the trees adjacent to the one at which the man sat. The curving tree line kept the men mostly in shadow aside that of the vibrant manes atop their golden-colored helmets; their faces hidden in shadow. Like the grass below and the leaves above, the hairs of the manes rolled under the tides of the wind. Resting upon their shoulders was plating of metal, slightly tarnished. Hung over their chests and torsos, dark plating reflected what little light shown on them. Hands, tightly gripping reigns of their beasts, similar plated decorations tightly hugged the wrists to which they were attached. Between bent joints were rings of gold and stone. Rings earned from conflict and victory.
Slowly the man under the tree rose to his feet, the wind taking into his robes, sending them sweeping behind him. His hand, gripping the tree, and the other in the wind, shook slightly under age and tire. The bird, still resting above him, its’ large dark eye moving quickly, tipped its’ head sideways, watching the one below slowly move away into the light. The man stepped slowly and quietly. He was one man, aging and tired. His steps were made for and taken by him, yet they lead a mass into a new tomorrow. Each step revealed yet another part to a greater tale; a greater legend in which the man was uncertain he would be delivered. Slowly the sun crept further beneath the horizon and yet the winds continued to blow. Looking towards the sky as he approached, the clouds shown deeper shades of red, orange, and gold. Change was near; yet another tide of uncertainty that would be creeping on him with the completed goals of today and the plans for the greater tomorrows.
Slowly he reached for the reigns of his horse. It was a white beast with a long mane and socks fading from black to white. The beast was strong and proud. It served the man well and would continue to serve him still. It, like he, had seen many conflicts and the tides of fate sway for and against him. It too knew of the uncertainty of tomorrow. Firmly the beast stood as the robed figure threw himself into the saddle. Quietly he sat, looking over the land at the bottom of the hill in which the field that he rested was placed. Tents, white and waving long banners, filled the field below in columns. Men moved about the corridors between them, rushing from place to place. Fires, glowing brightly, littered the field. Around them, men hustled in packs. In the distance yet another field lay empty. However, tomorrow he knew . . . . It would not be so.
He was Marcus Aurelius . . .