From the treeline strode a man. Exhaustion is no thing to a furious man, and he was far from calm. A cascade of rain and lightning fell around him, as it always fell around him. The Great Storm is thought to be ceaseless, but the answer lies in the horizon. He marched toward the hill in the field, hefty walking stick in hand. The man on the hill stood bold and tall, as straight and smug as the spear he held.

From down at the bottom of the hill, the rain poured and poured and the sky showed no signs of stopping. The slope upward grew harsher and harsher as rainwater turned dirt into mud and sent it spilling downhill. Corpses littered the hill like flowers in the grass, blooming. From down at the bottom of the hill, the spearman’s sharp features were accented by shadows cast from the overcast sky.

There were no words between the two men, just a few looks. There was little to say, thought the man with the spear, but he spoke anyway.

“This is my hill,” stated the man upon the hill. “Those men there? All weak, all of them. They’d be around if they were.”

Silence came from the ascending man. No more needed to be said.

The conquerer lifted his spear and let the tip fall forward. “And it will be mine, as it always had been!”

A powerful war cry echoed across the land as the spearman charged down the hill at the man below. His quickness combined with gravity pulling him down made him move faster than he had ever ran before. With a gallant and jolly look on his face, the conquerer thrust his spear at the man with the stick.

The climbing man knocked aside the spear and tackled his opponent. The conquerer dropped his spear and fell to the ground, attempting to guard his face. For a few moments, the challenger pommeled the man’s head, but then he stopped and got off him, leaving behind his stick. Realizing his chance, the man from the hill snatched the stick and scrambled to his feet, but as he took a step, he was impaled on the spear he dropped.

The man from below pressed his foot against the conquered man and kicked him off his weapon. The corpse rolled down the hill with the stick rolling after it. Satisfied, the man from below began to trek to the top of the hill.

This hill, he began to think as the rain puttered away the blood on his person. He saw the faces of skulls in the dirt as he climbed. This hill is old, ancient even. People fought and died here for so long, I walk almost always on the bodies of dead men. As he stepped on the corpses of the fighter after fighter, he felt something resonate within him. Something strange, something strong…

Pride. He felt pride.

This hill was littered with people, people who shed blood, sweat, and tears, people who fought to their death over it, so that they may see the end of the Great Storm. Perhaps the sun is there, just in the horizon, ready to tear the cloudy sky asunder with sunlight in honor of their noble sacrifices.

The conquerer reached the top of the hill.

The sky was a dusty blue with rainclouds. From the highest point in all the land, there was no sign of daybreak to be seen. The Great Storm raged on. Surely, it required more sacrifice. The man at the top of the hill turned around and saw something in the distance.

From the treeline strode a man.