“FORWARD!” his voice towered above any other sound and commanded all attention around him with a clinking of metal and the sound of dust rising beneath feet. 

“JETZT!” The army marched forwards and in very little time Musikant found himself near Water street.  Just ahead of him, roughly 10 feet, lay his brilliant soldier in a mess of feathers and blood. 

“No…This…” he whispered and slipped from his horse to kneel at the bloodied man’s side. “Mein 279…” 

It hurt more than  he imagined he had ever hurt… more than when his wife and children were taken from him so prematurely, more than feeling betrayed by the very country you sought to preserve. It even hurt more than the feeling of his sudden drop off that old wooden chair and the tightening of coarse rope around his throat. An image of perfection had been boldly and thoughtlessly destroyed. There was no excuse for this, no reasoning behind it. 

“SHOW YOURSELF. COWARDS.” he screamed, losing all trace of pride and dignity in trade for blind revenge. Love made you do funny things, more especially when you didn’t know it was love. 

“I VILL DESTROY ALL OF YOU.” He shook, eyes watering and his vision blurred. Everything around him trembled at his might and the soldiers stood in their places, fearing the worst. No one had ever seen him like that, they had never watched his face change in an instant from a steely coldness to indescribable rage.

 There was no greater ire inside of him and no greater power he could have exhibited than in those moments.  He slid his arms under the battered and beaten corpse of 279 and embraced him for a moment. Dirt and grit scratched against his cheek and he stood to mount his horse.  And there he was, atop his great black steed, the god of war and pain and suffering, his heart broken and his arms raised to the world in defiance of all things greater than he.