[COMPLETED]
❝ 𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑. ❞
Freedom.
It was such a small word but held the world in its letters. It meant anything and everything that they've never...
(Warning: battle scenes and descriptions of gore.)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I won't deny that death is at our doorstep," Timothée shouted to the hundreds of men lined up around him. They were on a field, just across from Islegold. The Kingsmen saw them approaching and got into defensive positions.
"I won't deny the fact that many of you will die. You have a right to know that. You also have a right to freedom! Freedom that your so-called King doesn't give!" The men watching Timothée hooted in agreement. The sounds waving across the open field.
"This is our land! The cowards that fight for the King won't let you be free! They will deny you that! Will you sit and let this happen? Let them raid your villages, rape your women and kill your children! Will you sit there and watch them burn everything you once stood for?" His army started to get restless. They craved to fight for their rights and loved ones.
"Fight with me! We stand for our land and our once great country. We will fight back and we will win! Fuck the cowards who destroy our country. Most importantly, fuck the King!" Timothée ended his speech. The army of men started to bang their swords against shields. Everyone was in an uproar. The Royal guard that was at the other end shivered in fear at the sound. They could see that the revolutionists were ready to fight. Timothée moved down the line, getting ready to start the battle.
"Fuck the King!" All of them shouted back. Timothée felt a burst of courage. He was ready to fight.
"All men, follow me!" Timothée unsheathed his sword and started to charge, the hundreds of men following behind. And thus, the battle began.
______________
Blood.
Blood, mud, and screams of pain moved through the field like paint on a canvas. The artist goes by death and there was no stopping its creations. Timothée drove from man to man, hacking and slashing his way towards Islegold. His armour was dented, his energy even more so. A large man, about twice his size, charged towards him, letting out a war cry. Timothée raised his sword in time to block the initial blow.
His muscles ached and his wounds burned. The mud was everywhere. There was so much death it was hard to see. He pushed the man's sword away from him. Using his opponent's temporary stun, he slashed at the side of his throat. There was a small gap between the man's chest plate and helmet. Timothée saw the blood spray out onto the ground. The large man used one hand to hold his neck.
The giant man seemed to fuel more with anger. He charged at Timothée and they fought back and forth. The clashing of their swords and others around them make high pitch noises, a stark contrast to the deep and bellowing shouts of pain. Timothée lost track of himself for a split second. That's all it took. A small moment of hesitation and he was kicked to the ground. The man loomed over him, raising his large broadsword over his shoulders. Just as he was going to kill Timothée, a sword pierced through his stomach. The blood fell on Timothée. The larger man tumbled down and Timothée rolled away just in time.
