The field, aflame with blazing uniforms, but the orange: flaming, it was supposed to be, but it was dusty, hopeless, broken, defeated— the things an army shouldn’t show.
“Is this how the life of a great hero, a great soldier ends?’ mocked the king, “Faceless, nameless, alone in the dirt?’
“That,” the general replied, “Is how we end, all of us, wether king, peasant, soldier, thief, hero, villain— alone and faceless, a memory to those who knew them, and only those, to the rest? Nothing.”
“But I?” gasped the monarch, “I, the king?”
“A memory still,” the general pressed, “dead for a king is dead to a peasant also.”
Oh, a king? A king, though in life a ruler, a king is equal to the lowliest of thieves in death. A theif, who became a soldier, who died by another man, to rise, then fall, only to be mocked by a king, a king no more then his equal in death.
For in death, all are faceless.
All are peasants.
In death, all are king.

So…I think I might go into poetry, or writing, or…word-ing? Did you guys like it?

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