Aetheria Falling

When Everything Falls

Clouds passed loftily overhead, indifferent to the foul deeds that had just occurred far below.

I can't get it tight enough. I'm going to die...

That was Marcus's pervading, terrified thought as he lay dying on the scarred woodland battlefield miles away from his home—the city-state of Arcadia near the border of the Faelands—slowly bleeding out from the spear wound in his right leg despite the tourniquet he'd just fastened.

I don't want to die alone...

Marcus had hoped to pass out from blood loss and slip away unaware, but fate hadn't allowed him the reprieve. The agony of his wound kept him alert and provided ever-increasing levels of nausea and fear. Short of falling unconscious, he wished he could puke.

He'd tried calling out when the screams died and the front moved farther afield. The effort had been in vain. Everyone was dead, and the living world, it seemed, cared little for the dying.

I don't want to die alone...

Poised on the edge of consciousness—between life and death—he almost didn't notice the sound of approaching footfalls. After spending so long crying out, alone amongst the dead, he'd almost given up on the idea of someone coming along.

Whoever it was, they were coming closer.

Seeing a living person stumble through a field of mutilated corpses after all had remained still for so long was a curiously odd sight. Marcus did his best to slow his labored, pain-stricken breathing as he watched the man limp past.

The stranger was also wounded, ankle twisted at an unnatural angle as he dragged it behind him while he held himself up with a quarterstaff. A mix of dry and wet blood matted the dark hair on the left side of the man's face, coupled with a long gash as seen through shorn cloth and armor along the length of his upper left arm.

The man was clearly not an Arcadian regular. That meant he was a rebel—the enemy.

All Marcus could do was wait for the inevitable as the man drew closer. He steeled himself, ready to cast a spell.

By the time the rebel came within a few paces, Marcus spotted another of the man's wounds—a dagger, caught fast in the right side of his gut.

The rebel stopped, his head turned, and their eyes met.

They held an uneasy gaze for only a few seconds, though the exchange seemed to last a fear-laden eternity. The renegade was a decade older and had a likeness to Marcus himself, reminding him of how much life he had yet to live and wouldn't.

All the while, Marcus braced for the worst—strangulation, impalement, or perhaps incineration if the rebel had magic at his disposal. None of these things came. Instead, the rebel did something he did not expect.

The traitor, still watching Marcus, shuffled nearer and braced himself against a nearby tree. Slowly, he seated himself to Marcus's right at twice an arm's length away. Between them was a dead man lying face-first in the soil. Despite the pain caused by having to crane his neck, Marcus still tried to keep the man in his field of view.

He'd seen it before many times during the battle: men fallen, hacked, and cut to ribbons, clearly unable to fight as they pleaded for their doomed lives while their enemies mercilessly destroyed their bodies. He didn't want to be brutalized, but had already decided that even grievously injured and faced with torture, he wouldn't be able to take his own life. Current circumstances had demanded he consider it. He could only wish the man would leave him in peace.

The rebel turned his head to the sky and spoke, voice hoarse and stricken with pain. "Lovely day...isn't it?"

Marcus swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He'd almost forgotten he still had a voice of his own. Before he could think of a reply, however, the rebel continued. "My daughter should be playing by the river... She loves days like this."