Chatterbox: Inkwell

The dying soldier draws his sword for possibly the last time. He looks out to the setting sun. It's weak flame paints his sad face in a flickering glow, bouncing in his golden eyes. The celestial phoenix tucks it's wings in and dives under the horizon as the soldier clambers with labored movement into a man-sized pit, six feet into the cold, hard ground. Before disappearing into the earth, he looks at a grave next to him. A sword, blade silver and hilt white with a silver diadem hanging from the handguards, sticks like a cross in the ground, marking the grave. Tears stream down the soldier's face and he takes his own golden diadem from his black hair.

"Good night, my love." Then, turning away from the silver sword, he raises his own sword and, with a motion as fast as fire coursing out of a dragon's mouth, strikes his golden sword into the ground and places his diadem carefully on the hilt. He looks at it for a second, then lays down on the bottom of the pit. Closing his eyes, he crosses his arms over his chest. The ground closes over him.

All is silent. On the horizon, the moon peeks over the deserted earth. It's pale light is faint and pulsing slowly, like a heart slowing into death. Suddenly, the ground in front of the silver sword opens with agonizing lack of speed. Out of it steps a woman, her long, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders like a river. She turns to the silver sword and takes the diadem from it, placing it on her head. Then she unsticks the sword from the ground and slides it easily into the sheath hanging at her side. Then, whirling around to face the moon, she begins to hum.