A Handmade World

She was standing at the top of a hill, looking over the usually beautiful grounds. Only left was the remains of the war which had just ended as quick as it had started, months of planing and discussing stomped to the dirty ground in a couple of seconds. It had started raining, maybe it was the tears of the fallen or from the so called gods above. For her, it didn't matter. The cold rain extinguished all the fires painting the grass a tinted black, the smell of rain mixing with the stench of burned flesh poisoning the cool evening air. Soldiers laying dead on the ground, arrows and swords sticking up from their lifeless bodies. A dignified struggle they had put up, however that was not enough.

The one’s with their soul still in them, kneeling in the muddy grass with their heads down, blood, sweat and water running down their dirty faces. Never had they seen something like this before, or the ways of war they’ve seen, the stank of death and the ache in the stomach felt. However, they had never seen a woman do as the one right before them, with her army standing right behind her, unharmed however. Not a tint of dust, nor any wounds, the manpower they had wasn't needed. Not when they had a woman like her standing right before them, although no dust and no wounds could be found on her either, her face unchanged. She stood there, clean as ever, like she was the wall between the filthy and the pure, the good or the bad. Although, she didn't she herself as good or bad, a savior or a fool, she didn't care about any of it.

The trumpets could be heard, played by her henchmen, victory, that was all they saw. The men down the hill was all she saw, both the dead and the alive, sometimes she couldn’t see the difference. In all their minds she knew that they hoped that it was them playing the trumpets, hollering with the joy of victory. Not kneeling to the one they hoped to kill, and hear the men of the castle they hoped to destroy. Their eyes closed not wanting to see the soulless faces of their own men lost in the temptation from their leaders, from everything they got told that they could gain. They didn't know who the woman before them were, they had never seen her nor had they heard of her. Some thought she was some kind of goddess sent from heavens above, others, that she was some kind of witch who'd been crawling out of a filthy swamp, even so, none of them knew for certain, nor did they have the courage to ask.

Nevertheless to her they were only humans, not weak, nor strong, just humans, who couldn’t tell the difference between good or bad, necessary or unnecessary. A mortal, who were too driven by their emotions and intentions, who had a bigger ego then the highest mountains, however, more fragile than the tiniest of glass. For her they were all lost, didn’t matter if it was on this earth or in heaven, they were lost souls, all of them. Did she feel the need of guiding them, not really. It was not her duty, she couldn’t care less of where they ended up, how disoriented they could get or how easily temptation could sway them. All that mattered for her was her little handmade world, the one she ruled in and where everyone bowed down to her, simply what they were made to.