The Call of the Chorus of Gore

Shadows became form, and echoes of history bubbled to life. Spectral at the precipice, William B. Mackay followed Michael down the embankment, returned to flesh by the time his feet met the lane, the Bloody Lane. Neither quite sure of anything, the two men eyed one another.

“You shouldn’t be here,” William ventured.

Michael shrugged, “True to tell, I don’t much want to be here.”

“Me neithah,” the tired soldier drawled. Their eyes together wandered up the lane, drawn to the din of battle, the chorus of gore and destruction.

“You…” Michael started, but faltered mid-question.

William answered nonetheless, “I ran.” He pointed a shaky finger away from the sounds of conflict, “Thata way.”

“But then…”

“Stray musket ball, in mah back…like tha coward I am.”

Some deep understanding of fate, life, and what it means to be a man stirred within Michael, causing his jaw to set squarely. He took a deep, bracing breath and faced the weary warrior.

“Then we go.”

“Where?” William asked faintly.

“To war.”

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