This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter “Final Command” at Cult of Ashmore →
The crows woke me.
My head hurt, and dried blood glued my hair to my skull.
A cool breeze made me shiver in the dark.
The heat of the battle turned to memory.
I got to my knees.
I stood.
Again.
Bodies lay around me.
Some had lost their limbs.
Some were pierced.
Some were cut open.
Their faces turned towards the sky.
Mouths open.
Not breathing.
I moved forward.
In my ears, a familiar beat returned.
Poch, poch.
I stumbled over the others more than once.
Fell.
Landed among splinters of bone
and torn bowel, in a pool of blood.
I found my friend.
His guts had spilt from his belly.
As much as I loved him,
I hated the smell of his body.
I could not reach for his ring.
It was buried beneath him.
I could not make myself turn him.
Poch.
Poch.
The clouds moved.
The moon unveiled
what we had done.
I found my way towards the camp.
On the hill, a head was impaled on a pike.
It was the commander.
His lips moved slightly, but I heard no sound.
Up close, I recognised his wrinkles.
Blood and mud had filled
the small cuts
left by the enemy’s blades.
A tired man.
Old.
“Look at you, Commander.”
The crows called in the distance.
“Everyone is dead, but I still walk. Did I win this battle?”
Wind blew hard.
Cold.
It carried the stench of the fallen to the villages.
Soon, they would come
picking pockets and taking
what belonged to the widows.
They would come to burn the warriors,
before the stink reached their children.
The head gave no answer.
“Farewell, Commander.”
I took a last look at what was left of him.
“Perhaps the victory is mine.”
I wanted to move on, but the head opened its eyes.
“You have lost because you did not die, Soldier.”
His voice cracked.
Still, I turned back.
Moonlight shone on his pale, waxy skin.
His eyes were open.
“More of my enemies’ blood covers me
than my own runs through my veins.
I may not make it home.
But if I do, I alone will bring home victory
while you will burn with my comrades.”
The commander laughed.
He spat out a tooth.
“You will never taste victory. Take me with you.”
The moon stood high.
The dead lay on the ground.
Brothers and sisters, arm in arm with the enemy.
Upon them sat the army of the crows, too many to count.
Then I knew who had the better commander.
A battle for us.
A feast for the crows.
I turned to mine.
Years before, he had sucked pus from my wound.
I had sworn I would die for him, if I had to.
My mother wept when she heard.
His broken teeth and ruined face brought back the warmth I remembered.
The commander inhaled.
Slow.
Heavy.
I raised my axe.
I split his head in two.
No more, poch, poch.
Not tonight.
Not in this life.
The commander could not follow.
He may return another day,
wearing another face,
to command another me
into battle.
Original photograph by Tasya Shmilo on Unsplash, modified by Ashmore.
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There's a restraint in this piece, and that is exactly what gives it its power. The darkness, combined with the relatively simple rhythm, feels earned: as if it isn't trying to reveal itself all at once, but moves like a cold current flowing through winter.
It reminds me of a meeting point between English literary traditions and German ones, with traces of mythological influence as well: the atmosphere of Norse mythology, but also the weight and inevitability of Greek tragedy.
Heroism is in defying the order to kill, not in wading in with enthusiasm, all guns blazing. This is a powerful, bitter poem, utterly black.