After the Battle II

Silence had descended over Emain Macha.

It was near dusk, and the setting sun threw long shadows of trees
over the field of battle. Many bodies lay still on the green
grass; the survivors of all three armies had pulled back, forced
to leave their dead behind.

A lone figure moved among the fallen.

She was dressed in long, flowing wisps of pale gauze; her blonde
tresses tumbled down her back, looking like burnished gold in
the failing sunlight. Her movements were slow, otherworldly;
she almost glided over the bloodstained and trampled turf.

She paused; and then, hearing music that only she could hear,
she began to dance.

~~~~~

The Shadowblade, stealthed near a tree at the edge of the field,
stared at the dancing figure. 'She is beautiful', he thought.
'She must be looking for a fallen lover, and has been overcome
by madness in her grief'.

He sadly watched her dance among the dead, and shook his head;
just one more casualty of this endless war, no less than those
laying still forever all around her.

He finished reapplying his poisons to his axes, and waited for
the enemy to come by. They always came by.

~~~~~

The Warden watched the eerie figure in white move among the dead.
He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck; he shuddered,
and turned to his friend.

"Can this be more trickery from Midgard? Rune magic perhaps, to
lure us out and slay us?"

The Mentalist nodded, and spoke.

"I have heard of such trickery...SpiritMasters can conjure many
such things."

The Warden made a Sign of Protection upon his Firbolg chest.
"War is evil, my friend, but more evil still are our foes..."

~~~~~

"What in the name of Arthur is she doing?" yelled the Armsman. His
plate armor was sullied with dirt and blood; his eyes smoldered in
anger.

The Theurgist shook her head.

They were in the forefront of the Albion line, looking out onto the
field where the small white figure danced.

The Armsman, in a fury, convulsively grabbed his crossbow. "I've
lost good friends this day, and she dances! What mockery is this?"
With a shaking hand, he attempted to put a quarrel in the slot of
his bow.

The Theurgist placed a soft hand of restraint on his shoulder. He
flinched, then looked at her. After a moment, he dropped the
crossbow with a thud into the dirt at his feet, and sat down,
miserable. He clutched his head in his gauntleted hands.

The Theurgist sat down next to him, and softly stroked his hair.
She sat gazing at the lone figure, a thoughtful look upon her
face.

"I do not know what she does...but I do not think she is mocking
them."

Her words calmed the Armsman down as he sat looking at the ground;
his voice breaking, he said "The slaughter...my friends..."

She hugged him from behind as he sat there, isolated in his
sadness.

~~~~~

She danced.

She moved gracefully among the dead, her movements light and easy,
the gauze of her dress fluttering about her. She twisted and
turned, and then she curtseyed to them all.

The young Warrior there, lying still forever- he had had no liking
for war, but had fought to make his father proud, he who had
adopted him and raised him with kindness within the martial society
of Midgard.

She bent low and caressed his cheek.

And this beautiful Champion, her brave heart beating no more; she
had hidden love poems under her armor, poems wrote to the Hero
that she secretly admired but had never shared, the Hero for whom
she had perished while trying to defend him in battle.

She knelt next to her and straightened her bloody hair out upon
her shoulders.

And this Scout- he once had let an enemy live, an old man who he
came upon, crying for a dying boy. Compassion had made him put
up his bow and bow to his enemy.

She bent low and softly kissed his cold brow.

She found the good in all of them, for there was good to find in
each and every soul, no matter how sullied or angry or afraid they
had been- there was always something to admire, and to hold dear.

As the sun set, she danced for them all.