War

There was a time when War hungered for glory. When the cries of wounded men and the roar of the battlefield were a symphony to his ears. He thrived on the glint of sunlight on metal, the crimson of blood in the sand.

But that was long ago.

Once he thrilled at the valour of combat, the honour of the warriors who charged into the fray. When generals held counsel after midnight, surrounded by their closest advisors, War was there. When one champion challenged another to a duel, with the fate of two kingdoms at stake, War was there. And as clashing armies met in a cacophony of bronze, shouting exaltations to their gods...War was there.

But that was long ago.

Now War trails silently behind clouds of exhaust, choking on their pollution. He watches with weary eyes as drones strike, as bombs ignite, as bullets rip through targets a world away from the shooter. He stands in the ruins of market stalls and lairs, wishing he could close his eyes against the small, lifeless forms trapped beneath the debris.

There is no honour in this.

War lost his taste for battle long ago. Too dim are the memories of his glory days, of rules of engagement and respect for opponents. Now there are shadow strikes, and merciless killing machines which do not discriminate. There is no courage to be found in technology, no mercy in strings of code.

Weary beyond belief, War wishes for a world in which he does not exist.