1 Mythos the Red

Embers darkened, drifting among the sky. Mortals lie along the field, among the rubble. Red washed into the soil, among the earth. Yet one stands tall. One stands grasping what little they could hold. Breath rushed to escape his aching lungs, and the cold metal he wore on his chest clung to his skin, suffocating him more. No light reflects upon the eyes that wander through his surroundings. No being catches his gaze. The dim fire burns still, creating embers and ash, and destroying once what was known. The fire taunts him. It embraces the mortals that lie, like a blanket, and engulfs them whole. It licks up into the sky and draws ever closer to he who stands still. The fire reached a halt and flickered before dissipating into mere ashes.

The smoke flew high. Dark, heavy smoke. It combines in the sky, and creates a barrier to the light. Soft streaks of light slithered in, yet the entire sun could be seen but mere days ago. The loneliness that peace gave to Trasio, a city now of history, reduced to mere ash and debris. The realisation hit. Trasio exists no longer. An entire empire had fallen. Those that were once known, once could see light, now exist only with darkened eyes and bodies dyed in red.

The soldier had recalled the light. The times of light, of which when Trasio was graced by hope even through endless battles. He recalls those of whom shared nights, fights and life. The aged wooden planks he walked to his own land of comfort, shared with his own brethren. Those that lived in the city called him Mythos the red, yet his closest called him their saviour, their eldest brother. Mythos recalls the post of wood vividly, with engraving on it standing tall in his own backyard. Through the rubble of the current, and the roads that are scorched, he finds his way through lonesome familiarity, to the wreckage of his home.

His hand, weakly and desperate, stroked the post. It stood tall, surrounded by sneering flames threatening to kiss the post into obliteration. His knees plunged into the ground and his face trembled as tears gushed out. The hand of Mythos traversed over the post, over an engraving on it, cursive words on old wood that read out 'Straio'. The battered sword that clung to Mythos' waist, painted and scarred in the life it reflects, is being made to be stood tall in the ground. Soth.. Triosa… I'm glad you each found your own ending with valour. It was an honour to stand in battle with you all. You too, Straio. Mythos struggled to find his breath, drowning in an onslaught of salt.

He then involuntarily layered the ash coloured dirt in red, and made unwilling acquaintance with the tip of a blade poking out the bottom of his chestplate. It had a steel tip hidden below red and greeted Mythos before it retracted, swiftly serrating several organs. A being amongst all those who have been lost stood hunched over Mythos' figure. Again, the steel blade forced its intrusion and was left there to stagnate, as the figure came around front. His squint silver eyes, shining with the reflection of fire's tainted light, stared deep into Mythos as a basilisk would. Mythos hunched, petrified. Confusion. ..Straio…?

The blade was cold. Where it wasn't blanketed by Mythos' body, or wearing red, it reflected the tauntful flickering light of flame. It laughed at Mythos. In a cold, despicably warm, worthless pride. As if it foresaw everything. Flame abandoned it's absentee observing, and flew onto Mythos the Red's, red clothing. Clothing that symbolised conquest and victory. Clothing that symbolised Trasio. Straio is nowhere to be seen. The fire grasps onto Mythos' body, and surrounds him with, like a predator with it's prey. His chest of steel clung to and merged with the very being of Mythos, and his clothing approached it's very end, to the last bit of ash and ember. Mythos the Red, the mortal, lie at the grave of his brother Straio, as Trasio's last trace of heredity.

Mine life was lived with lack of sight,

The person most dear couldn't grasp the light,

and with pain, I break my solemn vow,

for I wish eternal hell; falls upon Straio.

A tattered book held in a weakly, desperate grip. Soft streaks of sunlight showered down through the cracks of aged wood. The only land of comfort had gone up in blazes, and pillars of ember and ashes, and now only survives within one's own mind. The light vanished. A looming figure of darkness had replaced it. The grip had tightened, and they cowered into a ball. The chains amongst the child's limbs clattered and frantic movement entailed. A tear escaped, to the land of comfort, in an attempt to quell the flames of tragedy.