Whimsical Tales of Woe

To See a Hero

Part four: To see a Hero 

(Serious WARNING: this story contains detailed descriptions of war and battle related gore.)

 I am mindful that this may be distressing to read. It is quite full on, so please do not read if you are not ready for descriptions of death. Thank you.

Prompt: A man sees his hero on the battlefield.

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The mud seeped through his broken fingers; the mangled gauntlet discarded. The soil was a deep red and the smell of it plagued his abused senses. A bloodied hand dug into the slippery earth as he dragged himself up the steep incline.

Pained cries of desperation left his lips only to be lost to the sounds of metal and thundering boots. His other arm was trapped beneath him in the mud; he was not able to find perches and slid further into the shallow ditch. There was a wet sound when he fell back and coldness soaked into the Queen's colours beneath his damaged armour.

"Ahh!" his scream dissolved into choked sobs that racked his body with agony. They had left him to die here slowly as his listened to the sounds of misery. As a boy he had thought death was a quiet, peaceful process. His father passing in his bed overnight after too many at the tavern or the young girl on the farm across the road who had died because there was nothing left to sustain her. There had been pained groans but nothing like this. Not this chaos of dread and fear. Not the hacking sounds of men drowning as their own blood filled their lungs.

The soldier twisted onto his back, he did not want to die with his face in the mud and blood on his lips. Above him the sky was a brilliant blue. It seemed to stretch on its hue never wavering; nothing like grey clouds of his country. There was not a cloud in the pristine sky and the sun's heat pelted down on him, yet he lay in a ditch of mud.

"Die you heathens!" the battle cry was proceeded by more clashes of metal and the solider listened, seeing nothing but blue. More of his fellow men joined the call to fight and soon men were tumbling in on top of him.

One soldier pressed on his stomach, using his crumpled body to prevent him from slipping. He screamed in protest but his peer did not hear him through the haze of adrenalin. Instead the other solider scrambled up out of the pile of death and dove into battle once more. Gasping and trembling he could tell the fighting was getting closer, the initial enthusiasm weaning as men fell. Blissfully a shadow protected him from the rays of the sun and he lifted his head to see the source of movement.

It was like Death himself had descended upon the battle field to finish the war. The man flowed with a grace unknown to the soldier; his curved sword an extension of his arm, sweeping in fluid motion and felling those that got too close. Death spun, a sash of yellow material extending from his hips, and his blade cut through another two soldiers. He straightened and stared down his attackers, just one man against the remaining four, who wore the same royal purple.

They attacked him. A flurry of parries, steel scraping and clashing. Death shoved aside a well placed slash and kicked at the man, dropping him to his knees and then finishing him. He had not a moment before he was back to defensive blocks and the solider thought for sure he would at least get to see another one of them die before he went. It was not the case. His fellow soldiers hacked and slipped, they thrust and tumbled, while the man knocked them off their feet and speared them with his blade like they were toy puppets tangled in their own strings.

"You creatures!" The captain spat, red droplets dusting the man's ebony skin. He glared hatred at the enemy no longer surrounded by the small force he'd managed to invigorate. "Our Queen will slaughter you. Ya hear that? All of you!" He lifted his long sword and charged the man who stood like a looming statue, poised to bring judgement on those before him.