Two Armies and a Trophy

The death of remorse accompanies a sun-struck ocean of spears and gleaming shields. Men with fists striking the clouds shout, “Forward, forward march we to victory!” A spectacle of a general rises among them on an altar bones. His resplendent armor radiates the star’s warmth, his helm glows like that of a saint’s halo, and an ornate cape billows in the northern gale like a scarlet cloud fumed from the fires of hell. No more a man more revered than he. His armor was handcrafted as a gift by the most brilliant smith in the country, and decorated by the most monumental men in the world. Saints, kings, and sages all lined up to pin medals of valor and of honor to his chest. No one, beast or man, has rent neither bone nor flesh from his body. He is second to God, this in the minds of every man in the vast many that lay their gaze upon him.



He unsheathes his sword and raises it against the sun. The shining general shouts, “Glory! Glory!” as he jolts the shimmering weapon in the air. Like a maestro conducting a mass choir, the general mobilizes his men; they follow his lead, also thrusting their weapons in the air, shouting for glory on the field of blood. But as they run their spirits to the sky, smoke and dust is rising over the horizon. Wheels of chariots and the feet of men by the millions scourge the earth, spreading like a black cloud. The men under the general shudder at the surreal sight of watching their enemies devour the very landscape that fills their childhood memory, but the general is as firm as the very mountain he stands on. The glory-seekers under him marvel at his peace.



Now the enemy has come. The mountain quakes in their guts, the vultures are scraping their beaks, and every bead of sweat sizzles into the livid rock. No heel kisses the ground. The breath of a god is in every man’s lungs. The dark sea of wretched souls flood the valley, and then the foot of the mountain. Their leader is biting blood in his teeth. He is glorified with medals of steel-torn flesh. The shining general appears as an angel compared to him, but after battle has been dealt, both will surely look like less of a man.



With a spirit of fire in the air, and an audience with the Maker himself, the men poise themselves and shout one more time. The general dips the tip of his sword in the sun’s radiance and lowers it at the enemy legion leader. Their eyes lock and the general gives the command to charge.



I heard one soldier recall of the event, “I wish I could have had the enemy’s perspective for that very moment when we spilled over the mountain side, as the hearts of every coward in their ranks sunk at the sight of our brilliant charge, to see the endless stream of spearheads emerging from above, locked firmly on every one of them; there was truly no moment like it, not before and most definitely not after…