Flash Fiction

The disillusioned soldier picked his way through the hinterland, betwixt the long gone and the hereafter that had been the grandest of cities. In an army of any other times he would have been a sergeant or centurion. He was in reality he was not a strategist, but he was a leader of men. He led them, his men, yet again and again to his survival. And his survival meant their demise. One by one they fell to what may be called the soldiers disease, death. Sometimes they died the classical death of embattled, wounded and wounded again until they had no more wounds to commit. Sometimes they died of the miserable, unwanted life, they simply left it for what they thought would be a so much better altogether. Whatever their death, they always died for him, because he was who he was.