The Archer

The Great Archer

Stood the archer upon the hilltop fort
Clad in colours likening those of his king
Stood he, upon the green hilltop fort,
Upon the stone castle walls,
Gazing around at the green plains below
Plains that stretched far unto the horizon
Stood he, with his bow and arrows,
With every sense activated,
Ready at a very instant, to send an arrow,
Flying flawlessly into the depths of a target,
Dressed in white, red, and gold,
Bore the archer the symbol of a horse and eagle,
Upon his chest, in colours just the same
And upon his head, a silver helmet,
Guarding all but his eagle sharp eyes
Stood this archer upon the fort walls,

His very stance showing the valour,
And aggression that dwelt in his mind
All of a sudden, the corner of his eye,
Did but grasp the sight of movement
The sight of an object moving with speed
No time did the archer waste, in tuning,
His eyes unto the sight of a horse,
Upon which was riding a man,
Who bore the colours of black and white,
With a gleaming sword hanging upon,
His broad shoulder, shining in the sun,
As did his hard armour, and helmet
Without a moment’s hesitation,
The archer’s arm swiftly pulled an arrow,
From the case hanging behind him,
And mounted it upon his heavy wooden bow,
His eyes following every movement of his target,
The white horse galloping forward,
And the enemy seated upon it,
Analyse he did, every small detail,
Until it was clear as crystal to him,
Every aspect of the moving target,
Head to toe, of both man and horse,
Within a few seconds, he picked his spot,
The weakest point, between the sieves of metal,
The region between the helmet and the armour,
The neck of the armed soldier,
With the focus of a master archer,
And the swift action of the arm,
Like a flawless movement,
Pulling the arrow back with utmost ease,
Upon the bow that he did wield,
His right foot three feet behind his left,
And his head trained at the target,
Without a single bodily movement,
Such aim and precision had he,
As the grip vanished from the arrow,
It shot free from the great height,
Swiftly through the sky,
Piercing the air as it shot straight,
The sharp head shimmering in the sun,
And before the horseman even noticed,
The blade of death moving towards him,
With flawless accuracy, that,
Could not be possibly be expressed in words,
The tip pierced but straight into his neck,
Like an unexpected force, knocking him,
But off the horse and unto the ground,
Sending him to his end upon this physical realm,
And delivering a swift blow of freedom,
Setting his soul free from his body,
And delivering yet another hit,
For the archer who stood upon the fort walls.

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