the aftermath

He lays his sword down in the grass.  Drops of blood on the leaves around the steel blade glisten like crimson jewels in the heavy, golden afternoon sun.

He has had his fill of killing.  Had it long before the battle was over.  Now he was cut up too much to keep up with his retreating comrades.  Across a sparsely wooded field he can see the enemy coming, moving slowly through the archers left behind to cover the retreat with their lives.   He looks over his shoulder, out the way they had run when they realized they were outnumbered a thousand to one. .  .  he has a slight hope he will see someone coming back to help him... then lets it die as he realizes he would tell them to keep running if he was in command.  He was already dead.

He looks up to the sun he has worshiped all his life and is comforted by the thought that he will meet God fresh from battle, a fallen soldier due his honors in the Mighty Court... For once he can stare into the blinding light and not give a damn if he went blind.  He even begins to hope he will go blind, miss the soldier who will come up on him first...  miss the terrible anticipation of the blow, let it be just another pain added to the agony  in his body and then waking up with God.  He barely even notices the sword that severs his head...