I suppose they could have been described in more detail - as something more than monks, but at that moment in time I could not think of another single word that suits these warriors. In fact, I don`t even know if I could call them warriors because the word implies war and fighting and introduces constructs of aggression into a mind that is within. Only by having such semantic structures a mentality is affected and bent into a seeming control. These were warriors who did not fight. They were the truth embodied that exists within the juxtaposition of the opposites; in an organic harmony in which truth is caressed by both hands and not pulled by each. Light flew in their wake as they swept into the battlefield with nobody setting up their entrance with a blowing horn or orders from above a horse. Unassuming as earth and heaven they seemed to perform swift and disciplined strikes on any warrior standing in their path - one by one they stood in melee on the field and taking no particular attention to any side of the conflict, left its fighters on their knees or laying on the ground. They did not seem to carry any weapons and fought with their bare hands only, nor did any steel seemed to cut or bludgeon them as they moved through the ranks of men blinded by rage and fear and pain of war. I could not understand their motions, even though I have seen many battles and seen many ways in which a man can achieve great agility in a fight, but this was not a kind of speed that seemed to come from a strenuous force or tension; I can only describe it as a kind of speed that one understands by abandoning the words 'quick' and 'slow'. They moved effortlessly, with grace and confidence which would befit an old servant of a hill-temple who has swept its floors for sixty years and has smiled to everyone he has ever met. It was not them who were the force, they only seemed to bend the violence of the battle around them to their own will; like the invisible force that calms a storm that we never think about. To my left, I saw my general adamant in his resolve that this is just another enemy and nobody sounded the retreat nor did we have any reinforcements left. The battle seemed to have been won by tooth and nail before the monks swept it away. There was an air of stupefied daze, because nobody had experienced such an outcome on a battlefield before. There was no enemy left, yet there were also no men to take home, the fighting was over, but there was no victor. The monks disappeared into the west like wind in the same unheeding manner they had come. It did not smell like after any battle that I had been to before. Usually there was a heavy smell of blood and despair that came from the field, but for a moment I felt like there was a fragrance in the air that comes from your skin when you have been laying in the Sun for the day. I dismissed it as my own shock at first, but it must have provoked me unknowingly. I realized that I was not afraid, that I had not been afraid from the battlefield like I usually am. I can't stand the thick iron smell of blood; it makes me nauseous and the furious fighting is the same in every battlefield of war - men are sent into them to become animals and usually I want nothing to do with them, but I had started galloping my horse towards the battlefield. As I reached its edge I heard all of the usual sounds that come from dying men and I instantly turned back disappointed, but listening, I realized that the crying and sobbing I heard was not filled with the usual horrors of war that my mind assumed. The trumpets in the camps on both sides had started proclaiming sounds of victory as I turned back again and neared some of the closest men on the ground to inspect them. Some were sitting on their knees still, like weird scarecrow puppets with all the fury and in some cases - life gone from them. The armaments of men had been different for different regiments - some had plate, some mail, some unfortunate had also just the leather. I kneeled near a man of our own, in plate, on the ground who was sobbing and I asked him if he was here and if he could explain what happened. He answered nothing and I assumed he was in shock as is customary after a battle. I further tried to determine whether this man had been wounded and found no visible slashes or piercing elements in his flesh or armour, but when I moved away a rag of some garb from his chest I noticed there was a hole about the size of a palm with no fingers in his chestpiece right about where his heart should be. There was no weaponry to my knowledge capable of inflicting such damage on plate armour in melee that would leave the man in it alive also. I felt that scent of skin that has been caressed by the Sun again and now that I think of it, it held in the air above that battlefield like the smell of rain after a thunderstorm. The hole in the armor was almost as if melted through, but with no signs of anything burnt. The man suddenly started speaking and I realized that the sobs I had been hearing all around were different from usual because they had been filled not with fear or pain, but with remorse and humility and what can only be described as love. "Did you see the light?", the man asked me through tears that were flowing in a constant stream down his cheeks onto the battlefield. And it dawned upon me like the Sun dawns upon every living thing on this Earth - I was not made sad or happy at that moment, nor was I thinking of some event or consequence; my mind was not thinking of anything at all and I did not feel any emotion in the associative sense, but I did see. I saw in the sense that I felt it as real as seeing something - I felt the truth that is inbetween happiness and sadness and has nothing to do with either of these things yet still being both of these things at the same time and I could not help myself but to weep. I lifted my head and saw that the man kneeling was also in fact alive and crying and he was not of our men, but he was kneeling over one of our men and he was not just sobbing anymore, he was wailing and shaking without control over his own body, rocking to and fro, repeating to the man on the ground: "I`m sorry!" and hugging him again and again. He had the same kind of a hole on the back of his armour - his heart had been reached from the back. A single monk had stood against every individual man on this battlefield, looked at the man without judgement, accepted his fury and let it slip off through themselves, and with immeasurable force put his hand through any armour only to stop it before it touched the flesh with another palm that is not made of force, but bears the presence of strength that begets no questions. The man on the ground near me asked again if I had seen the light and now with tears in my eyes I knew that I had. I answered with a nod and our eyes met and held strong and there was no madness or delusion or lies or fear in this man`s eyes, I looked about and a bit further away there were men getting up and helping each other get up, no matter which side they were on before, and putting all their weapons in just-formed piles and around the edges of the battlefield I could see that men were simply walking away with the same air of confidence as the fleeting monks, albeit slower, while the trumpets of victory were fading away towards one kingdom or another with the generals still standing there at each side shouting new orders, also fading...