Five Gods one Grave.
They were all destined for death to reach down at them
Accursed were those who joined this slaughter, for the gods had turned their faces away. They shunned both sides, celebrating neither; on this field, the divine had no purchase. Only men remained, and the war had taken the best of them, leaving only the dregs and the rot.
He had once ridden south with his royal cousin, his head filled with the hollow resonance of epic poems. He had thought this a tale of glory, a saga he would recount to sons and grandsons by a warm hearth. But if he ever lived to see another fire that wasn't a funeral pyre, there would be no kind words to share. There was no poetry in the sound of a man drowning in his own lungs.
"I think you'd make a fine lord."
The words haunted him now, drifting through his mind like a persistent ghost. He should have been on that stone with him. He should have been fighting at his shoulder, dying in his shadow.
