Where am I? It's cold. A familiar feeling. There is nothing, my eyes are open, but I see nothing.
Wait! I hear thumping! I can't move my body! it's suffocating. I must move!
The thumping is getting closer! Come on you stupid body! MOVE!
A hand reaches out through the sea of bodies. Screams of war reach his ears. Battle cries ring out through the battlefield. His hands climb out of the mountain of bodies, pulling himself out of hell into another. Soldiers of both sides layered the hill of bodies. Men fighting for their loved ones to be food for crows. The knight holds his body up on all fours; he's trembling. With a swift motion, the knight grasped the visor of his helmet and forcefully pulled it off his head, revealing sweat-soaked hair and a red, flushed face. He hurled the helmet a distance, the metal clanging loudly as it bounced off the ground. Getting footing was a challenge on piles of corpses. He tips over and rolls down the hill of bodies hitting the withered dirt. His head softly bangs against the dirt. "Come on Hayes. Get up. One more time."
In one go he rolls to his feet, his legs wobbling against the weight of his armor. His chest heaved slowly against the cold steel. Sweat rolled down his eyelashes as he stared down the battlefield. Men still fought a battle that would amount to nothing, yet they still fought. "Why am I fighting to live? I have nothing to fight for, but I still fight."
Clopping towards him, a knight on a horse swings his sword down. Hayes rolls out of the way. Back on the ground, the knight on the horse circled; he began his charge at Hayes once more. Hayes looked around for anything to defend himself with. The knight swung at him again, slicing his face. Hayes fell to the ground, a deep wound across his left eye. The knight came around one last time. "I need something, anything!"
Hayes turned his head, a man lying face down in the mud, stuck through the back with a sword. The knight charged. Hayes reached for it, holding onto the handle. The clopping of hooves came closer. Hayes pulled himself to his knees using the sword as a crutch. He pulled on the sword, but it didn't budge. "Why do I fight?"
The knight is about to swing. Hayes uproots the sword and swings at the horse's legs, cleaving one off.
The horse flips over, sending the knight flying into the mud.
"I fight, because I have nothing."
Hayes lets out a weary groan as he pushes himself upright, feeling the weight of exhaustion in his bones. The bitter winds howl across the war-torn fields, stirring up memories of a once-thriving farm that had been ripped from its owner's grasp in an act of cruelty. The landscape, now scarred and desolate, is a haunting reminder of the lives disrupted and dreams shattered. Clumps of dried grass cling stubbornly to the parched earth, while remnants of broken fences lie scattered like forgotten memories. Hayes shivers, not just from the chill in the air, but from the injustice that still hangs heavy in his heart.
A sword that has taken a man's life has saved another, but at the cost of its own life. The sword was beyond repair; its blade snapped against the horse's leg. It outlived its usefulness.
Hayes still held the broken sword, its wooden grip imprinted with the hand of its previous owner. Its pommel resembled a cross of some sort, cept a spike sat at the end, dulled down from frequent use. Its crossguard curved slightly at the ends; the blade was irreparably damaged, but the hilt was salvageable.
"I'm taking you with me, your fight isn't done."
A horse's cry garners Hayes's attention. Hayes struggles to limp towards the horse. Upon closer inspection, the knight he battled lies pinned under the horse. His suit of armor had gold filigree around the visor and shoulders. Truly a knight of high rank, done in by a common soldier. He was unresponsive to Hayes's presence, dead. The horse, dying.
Hayes sheathes what's left of his sword, picking up another one to give peace to the dying horse.
"THE KING IS DEAD!!"
Cheers resonate across the battlefield, merging with the distant sounds of clanging armor and echoing footsteps. A commanding voice rises above the chaos, barking an order that sends the opposing side into retreat. The battle, brutal and unforgiving, has ended, yet the air feels heavy with an unsettling silence. Hayes, battered and weary, stands amongst the soldiers he fought alongside, his body trembling slightly from exhaustion.
He surveys the scene—a landscape marred by the remnants of conflict, smoke curling lazily into the sky, and the haunting, distant cries of the wounded. Despite the hard-fought victory, the moment feels devoid of triumph. There is no rousing speech to inspire his comrades, no jubilant cheers to celebrate their survival. Instead, a profound emptiness surrounds him, enveloping the soldiers like a thick fog.
A few weary soldiers approach Hayes, offering a gentle pat on the back, their expressions mirroring his own—a mix of relief and despair. Each face tells a story of loss and sacrifice, of camaraderie forged in the crucible of war, yet weighed down by the knowledge of what they have endured. The victory, though hard-won, feels hollow, a bittersweet reminder of the cost of war.
The soldiers move forward, leaning on each other for support. Silently, they press on towards their next battle, continuing the cycle demanded by their kings and queens. Even when certain death looms, they march onward. Battered but undeterred, they are prepared to meet their end, just like every other soldier serving their masters.