The bloodaxe hangs heavy upon the shoulder, with the fate of so many resting within it’s sovereign blade, still dripping with the cruor, the sap of the newly departed, the work is slowly edging off his brow, blessed by Boreas’s breath, frozen solid before it can reach the hollowed ground, a curious mist rolls in blanketing the ghosts, as the winter soldiers are drug out through the dirty snow, it was a good death, a silent laconic prayer is given, in recognition for the fires they will champion, carrying forth the weary travelers through this interminable frost, the caravan is made ready, stepping forward to make the decent, out from the dark wood and into the vast oceans of white, steady tracks are foraged through the dense tundra, as the great lake appears, the breath is wizened to a slow crawl, the mind is silenced, listening only for the faint whispers of the thin sheets that turn underfoot, sensing all fear and hesitation the frozen tarn patiently awaits the fatal step, safe passage is granted to those that hold respect , the smoke plums by nightfall as another day is claimed, many moons have passed over this perilous steppe, before the seasons have decided to exchange hands, the torch now rests upon high, a pilgrimage is made in homage for those that had fallen, new life is left-behind, to rise back up from the hallowed ground, as the travelers point south in search of summer.

– Josh Fleming


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s