The mockery

He waited, for his body to return to his command again. It felt like an eternity. The motion of the blades of grass, the seemingly giant drops of sweat and blood pricking his right eye, the harsh grating of his breath which felt like that of a machine outside of him, the escalating weight of the chain-mail. Infinitesimally, it returned. He was able to look up, slowly. The sounds of what felt like a thousand people hushed, waiting for him. Another harsh breath. In that time, they realized, in unision, that he had moved, just a little. He was still on his knees, but the sun glinting off his armour must have shifted, alerting them. His parched lips opened, as they started to chant a prayer in soft, ancient words. Then, and only then, did the realisation hit him, in sickening wave after wave. He had won. And desolation mingled freely with his sweat, and the blood that was now dripping onto the grass.

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