Journal #4

With that William wondered about fear. Fear, the small scrawny man who lives just under the ground. He lives quietly, just under the toes of men. He fears no one, for none can see him when he hides himself with a cloak of dirt and grass. He looks though the cracks in the earth and waits for the moment to grab the legs of brave men and keep them from moving. He is still with a mythotical patience, waiting for a man to move forward. He has lodged there many a year pressing pressing his ear to the surface and his eye to the openings to pear at us. William was bound to see one of his holes on a the hill top where they all stood. The poor bastards! they should have hope by their side rather than emptiness. He sent his second in command up and down the ranks but they refused to get up. His priests knew how to cure most fears but they appeared useless to stop coldness that engulfed his men. They would be when they were forced to fight, when they had to choose between bravery or death. They would not cringe at the sight of the enemy. That was what he told himself. But his secound in command said different, so he was ready with a white flag at the ready. And if he hadn't know then he would know by noon the next day, for when the that dark slinking line of men found them on the hill and roped around through the forest like a noose around a condemned man. The army of the country that had once feared them now stood on the opposite side of the fence post. Vengeance, the vulture that circles over the victorious, waiting to strike.