The Leader

They rode back into the village by torchlight. It was dark and cold and they would have been frightened had it not been for the leader, whose torch was out in front of them, as it always was. Once the last rider passed through the gate the leader turned to face them. He motioned his hand for them stop and began to speak; his voice like that of a tire slowly treading a gravel road. With few words he told them to quietly return to their quarters, taking with them the dead men wrapped in cloth. 


The leader confined alone to a small chamber near where his men were resting. He sat at his table and by candlelight read aloud the list of the men’s names, marking in ink the ones who had fallen. He reminded himself of his responsibility; he prepared for daylight when he would have to go to the villagers and tell them that their sons were dead, and that they were dead because of him. For it was not by his hand that they fell, but by his word. For a moment he faltered, for a moment he buried his head in his palms and wept, but it was a moment of silence and it did not last long. He set aside his weapons, stained crimson from battle, and removed his armor, revealing the scars he carried on his dark skin. On his arms were their names, tattooed in white. Finally he allowed himself to sleep, collapsing with all his weight like an old oak on the room’s weathered bed. 


Just before dawn had broken over the eastern horizon, a young rider rose before the others and went out into the village. It was misty and still; a chilled cerulean quiet before the torrent of the new day. He looked toward the west and saw the leader with his torch perched on hill, a pair of binoculars in his hands and a thick, leather-bound book at his side. That is who he was.

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