The wind whipped the snow off the frozen soil, flinging it across Ithran's bare face. He stood, silent. Moonlight shone upon the harsh mountain pass, illuminating the walls of Himmelsberg Monastery. All was quiet, save for the howling of the wind. Never had he felt so conflicted in his life, so drawn between one path and another; he had made so many memories here, so many friends.
Brothers, he thought to himself.
Not friends, but brothers. He shifted unwarily, adjusting his sword that hung from his hip and fingering the leather reigns of his horse. Sighing, he placed his conical helmet upon his head, and drew in his reigns, bringing the horse down the mountain path.
He had made so many brothers, bled beside them, fought beside them, and even watched them die before him. All in the name of integrity, honor, and courage. For protecting the downtrodden, the helpless, the needy. For defending brothers of the faith. Those things would never leave him.
He let the snow stab at him. He couldn't determine which was hurting more, the icy weather or his broken spirit. A tear, or perhaps it was the melted snow, fell down his face. The second tear he had shed since joining the Order, and the last.
But beyond this, Ithran was at peace. He was a brother at heart, at mind, and at soul. He would always be, and never cease to be a Holy Guard.
He stopped short of descending down the mountain, and turned in his saddle to gaze upon the fortress once more. The walls stood high, dominating the pass. Braziers upon the walls sparkled, casting shadows among the ramparts. And, at the top of the keep, sailed the Archangel, brightly shining against the black field of the banner. It waved proudly, rippling through the wind, seeming to wave a goodbye.
Ithran knew not what the future held, only that God was directing him. Perhaps, he would return to the Order, God willing. But for now, he had a duty. A duty to marshal the sons of Normandy, to return them to the glory that they once held. Nodding, he unraveled the crimson banner from one of his saddlebags. The blood-red field was darkened by the night, but the golden cross stood out strong. The banner of the Normans.
He fastened the pennant to his lance, and, gathering his reigns, the Norman knight descended down the icy mountain.
The time of the Normans has arrived thus, and the time for the horse to be saddled for war. Let the glory of the Northmen rise again upon the winds of battle.
