[center][h2][i][sub]Θεόδωρος[/sub][/i][/h2][hr][i]Ο Πρίγκιπας των ουράνιων οικοδεσποτών,
από τη δύναμη του Θεού,
ώθησε στην κόλαση ο Σατανάς.[/i]
[sub]ᴏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴʟʏ ʜᴏsᴛs, ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴛʜʀᴜsᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟʟ sᴀᴛᴀɴ.[/sub][hr][/center]

[i]Manga's coloring still found courage to glisten in the shadows of the rubbish fields.  His spirit was brighter than the pale flame losing stamina in his owner's heart as his reigns were tied. A sigh pressed through his muscular snout in a large bout of warm breath against his owner's calloused hands.  One of those hands patted the horse in a thankful, melancholy manner. Knowledge of honor and devotion were prevalent in the foreboding gesture. None of the matter of what may happened, a soldier down or not, neither shall give up any hope on the battlefield. A kiss of peace was gently preserved on the snout of Manga, and the steed saw his owner off. Only his ears could see where his owner was now, amongst all of the other horses and their equites.[/i]

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Still prostrating in the fields, Theodore clenched his fists together. His knuckles were circled into the ground for an easy lift, and his pistol was stationed closely in his right fist. A prayer was beading through his mind, squeezing over his left wrist, having nervously twisted the black wool rope around his fingers and hand and wrist in heavy anticipation. The beating of the earth, the gentle ground that had been made for love and wonder, which provided such life and joy in unison like the Ever-Vrigin herself, was pulling his heart deeper and deeper into the graves of torment and fear. He could hear the heaviness of the men around him, especially the prayers. He was beginning to think, the pounding of his heart was the drumbeat of the soldiers' hearts all coming together. The feeling was strong and powerful.  Theodoros thought this to be the battlefield's semanterion. It came quicker and quicker, not heeding to the words of the Cornet, [i]"Steady... Steady..."[/i] Death was knocking at their door, and the horses knew before they did.

Theodoros' eyes were dry, staring through the brush. His breaths were barely moving against the sod in front of him. His teeth were trembling, against each other, and he was reminded, in sickness of the gnashing of teeth in Gehenna. Flexing his arm, he wanted to cross himself, but instead he held his breath, squeezing several knots of the Angelic Salutation through his self-induced apnea, hoping on the hem of the Theotokos she would interced with great mercy on the behalf of his comrades and him. 

A shot rung out, knocking a hussar from his saddle. The hussar collapsed limp and dead to the ground. Theodoros felt the breath that he had been holding press further into his lungs, tying his throat shut. His body bowed lower to the ground, clenching his grip. The shot rung not like the chime before the start of a service, and the hussar did not fall to the ground like a man reverencing an icon. The line of time was sharp and cut through Theodoros' thoughts.  Flurry of movement began charging in trumpets of commotion, and a blink suddenly separated all of the Godgiven colors into their very own categories, until there were only two versions of every color: black and white. This had happened to him several times during training from the harsh intensity during training. However, he could distinctly smell the difference between this and the child's play they had carefully learned back in Nikomedia.  If not the deepest desperation of vanities being hollered for life, it was the realization that he actually had no other option than to use his fallen mate as cover, blood slicking from several bullet holes. Never mind the loss. His struggle was for the Empire, and the sacrifice was necessary.

Guarding his position, the ground continued to rumble. His own wrist was stiff as he watched a bullet pass into the enemy  His spirit was shaken, and he had no time to decipher the metaphysical aspect. Either he had killed the man or wounded him. He was certain he wished it killed the man, and not knowing was a blessing and a curse. At least, if he rendered the man useless, his duty would be honored. [i]I pray Thee, O Merciful Lord![/i] Another shot was fired, and this time, he watched as the enemy collapsed in pain. A comrade finished the job, with no hesitation or breaking of tempo. It was meek and right to watch such a victorious slay. This was no time to fall into the pits of despair.

His body rolled over, finally, feeling the heat and heavy galloping of the horses. He must get himself Manga. His line was going to be broken soon. Orders were shouting through the chaos while he shrugged the corpse from him.  His large frame flexed through the stampede. He remained as low to the ground as possible, praying through a cold sweat that clung to his uniform. His mind raced faster than his body could move, and with every moment, so split in direction, he realized he was not with Manga, yet. Prayers still pressed in him, except for when he finally reached his noble steed. He slung himself onto Manga, whipping as fast as he could. Steadying himself, he knew he must steady his mind. The fighting had only just begun, and his first conquest – to his horse, had left him prayerless. Clenching his palms against his reigns, he could feel the heat from his prayer rope form into his palms. [i]Send, O Lord, Thy Archangel Michael to help Thy servant Theodoros,[/i] Heels clicked against the horses body,"And to deliver me from all my enemies, visible and invisible!" His voice grunted loudly as the horse took flight.