The wailing of wounded soldiers traversed through his ears and jolted him back to his senses. With great effort, he opened his swollen eyelids and peered around. The sky was cauldron black; the earth was slippery, sodden with blood oozing from gaping wounds and splayed innards. Sounds of sizzling fire arrows, swords clanging and tearing through metal shields, and spears shrilling in the air numbed his ears.
He was attacked from behind. A young boy of 13, clad in a loose riveted armour almost twice the size of his lanky frame, took him by surprise. However, his long experience at the battlefield and swift sword maneuvering came handy. He turned around and butchered the boy before his own vision blurred and he fell from his horse and lost consciousness.
Now lying under the rayless sky, amid the gore, nauseating waft and agony-filled cries, he suddenly remembered the young attacker’s peaceful face moments before dying; he was smiling, as if a load had been lifted off of his chest. What prompted him to come to the battlefield and fight against enemies at such a tender age, he wondered.
Far into the distance, he heard the bugle calls. “Victory! One more battle won. One more battle survived” he sighed.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction – November 11, 2018
Photo credit: JS Brand