Rivers of Blood - The Warmonger Twins

Another war, another senseless conflict in the name of frivolous mundane things.

As the young are sent to their meaningless death, the old feast and rejoice, gorging themselves on fattening meat and wine—like pigs.

The land can be considered more of a bloodmarsh than the verdant pasture it once was. The small farmhouses are scattered and far in between, the cattle aswell as the horses are still safely guarded by solid wooden fences. Their heads are almost flat to the ground, their tiny minds' only concern being the lush grass in front of them, while they eat to their heart's content the war cries of dying soldiers slowly begin to disappear.

Amid the carnage of bloody broken weapons and damaged armor, that belonged more in a junk yard than protecting the bodies of the soldiers in the battlefield, two silhouettes stand tall and proud, Helmos and Hulda. Unlike the rusty and ill-fitted pieces of plated armor practically sliding off from the fallen bodies', their full-bodied armors are seemingly polished to perfection with ancient words of power etched into certain parts of them, like the breastplate and helmet—no doubt to grant divine protection to the wearers.

The warmonger twins hide most of their forever youthful faces behind golden helmets, red crests rising from the crown of the helmets like a bloody arc following a particular brutal slash. Equally red in color is the billowing capes strapped to their armored shoulders. It poses a striking resemblance with the crimson streams of blood dodging their way through dismembered bodies, and the grass blades tainted with the essence of life.

"It is odd, is it not?" Helmos, the god of war, whispers, "that this soldiers would gladly kill the innocent if it meant they could earn the praises of old fat men."

Hulda, the goddess of war and the god's twin sister, shifts her crimson eyes from the carnage before them to her brother, eyeing him almost reproachfully. "Such is the way of war, brother. But I guess you always prefered blood to be spilled for a 'just' cause, so think of it like this: what is war, but the slaughter of the weakest at our command? How can mortals evolve if we don't reap the weed from the fine cultivated plants of our precious garden?"

Cries of pain drown Hulda's last words, as do the screeching of dozens of crows. She eyes the latter hatefully, a scornful expression distorting her face at the sight of the black mass of feathers nestled on the trees nearby.

Helmos pretends to not hear or see anything out of the ordinary, the scene unfolding before them is one he grows tired of seeing, the same cannot be said of his sister. Her scornful expression gives away to a smirk as the god looks at her. "I'm not you, Hulda. Someone that always loved the senseless killing, the thrill of the sharp blade meeting soft flesh in a crimson dance no living being could possibly escape from. Each conquest is nothing more than a prized trophy for you to proudly display on your wall of achievements."

Although Helmos' words might have seemed harsh to anyone else it only served to accentuate the sharp glint on his sister's crimson eyes. "You got me all figured out, beloved brother, but don't tell me you are finally growing soft for them, after all this years. There's no innocence left in this world, not after what we did. I know you, just like I know myself. You cannot help but love this, can't you? It's in our nature after all."

A golden halo shines through the god's blond curls as he removes his golden helmet, the sunset is approaching and the battlefield is cast in red. The crimson hue it's more than a simply consequence of the darkening Sun, as rivers worth of blood flow through deep grooves in the soft mud, they do a splendid job at reflecting the Sun's reddish beams.

"I didn't say I grew soft for them, on the contrary, I despise them even more after witnessing their cruel ways."

"Cruel!? Are you even listening to what you are saying?" The incredulous expression on her face and her tone just serves to fuel the screeching of the crows nearby. "If they are 'cruel' is because we made them that way, don't fool yourself in some kind of divine superiority, brother; we are just as flawed as them. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you will learn to embrace it."

Helmos doesn't bother looking at his sister, even though she towers over him. While Hulda glares daggers at his back the god's crimson eyes are set on the the flock of crows nearby. Even though their master is long gone they still chant the song of the dead. "Is like you have forgotten all of your sins."

Hulda scoffs, "My sins!? Who will judge me, Helmos? You? The Creator? They are gone, if they were ever present in the first place." The goddess places her helmet back on her head, feeling rather exposed without it. "I distinctly remember the sinful glint of pleasure in your eyes when you pierced Death's heart with the cursed rod, you are being incredibly egoistical."

"They will come back, and when they do—"

"If they do come back, we will be ready for them. Your second-guessing is just getting in the way of our duty, so stop thinking about the past, we have a job to do." At that the goddess takes the helmet from Helmos, placing on his head she gives it a solid slap for good measure and walk towards the ending battle. For everyone else the two are nothing more than two ordinary soldiers.

Helmos watches his sister as she unsheathes her blade and marches across the battlefield, the crows screech as she passes them. He can't help but feel dread gripping his essence, cold fingers squeezing the hope out. He wants to trust Hulda, that they will just deal with them when the time comes, and yet he can't stop thinking that his sister is also worried of the eminent danger.

"Creator, please watch over both of us."