Blood of Kings ✔️

O N E

  Flies buzzed along the corpse-ridden river. The armored bodies sank to the bottom whereas the lighter ones filled with gas stayed afloat, amassing the flies and the stench of rot. The day became hot and humid, and the village visitors continued to pass through the murky waters.

Aleksander sat by the river and saw as the sun rose high in the sky. His eyes lingered on some of the village children playing with sticks nearby the muddy bay. Even as their faces became splotched with dirt, it did not matter to them. Their clothes were in tatters and, still, they smiled and continued to play their game of swords. It reminded him much of when he was younger. When he was the naive, innocent child of a man who brought war to this land.

They say everything looked more beautiful onto death. Sometimes, Aleksander thought that was the only way to escape from the reality of their world. His dim gray eyes lingered on the bodies before he rose. He wondered what beauty they had last seen before they met their end. Was it the faces of their loved ones, or maybe a city full of gold?

"Aleksander," a man's voice brought him out of his morbid thoughts.

As he turned to face the man, he knew him to be Reginul. He would never let go of the past which Aleksander had so much wished to do. However, old men were notorious for being bull-headed, unyielding to change.

"There has been an increase of men in the river. Your orders?"

"Go round up the men. Let us collect the bodies," Aleksander said. "We do not want them to reach into the towns."

Aleksander dusted off his pants and ran a calloused hand through his black hair. The same sounds of children's laughter were mixed with the cries and shrieks of village women seeing the leftovers of war for the first time.

Sweat slid down from his forehead as he made his way down to the river. The boys chased one another up the bank with their sticks in hand. His eyes lowered as he thought of the times he spent in the palace but the they were soon replaced with how he would dispose of the dead in the water. 

He grabbed onto a dead man's arm and yanked him from the water. He did not bother to study his waterlogged face. Instead, he rolled the body over and continued to tug out the next soldier he could find. More and more of his men came and helped him with a much heavier armored one. Bits of arrows and debris lodged in the dead man's throat. Leeches pulsed on his marred skin, causing everyone to step back except himself. He covered his mouth and nose as the man's rotting stench grew to be almost unbearable. 

"Do not fret. He is dead. The sun is smoldering today. Load him in the cart with the rest," Aleksander barked. 

"Commander, he is an Artisian soldier," a soldier said. 

"Would you like to separate foe from friend in this heat, Marcellus?"

His dark brown eyes looked into Aleksander's before shaking his head no.

"Then hurry with the cart. The flies are swarming."

As Aleksander pulled another body out of the water, he noticed his skin was still fairly healthy. He was not as waterlogged as the rest. The man had not been dead for long he concluded.He laid the body down, looking him over. The man's hand twitched. He went on one knee and pressed an ear to his chest. It was faint, but Aleksander felt it, a heartbeat. He whipped out his blade and cut away the straps tying the leather armor to the man. Once he finished, he pumped the man's chest, waiting for the gurgle of water to spew from his chest.

The man coughed spitting out the water that swelled in his lungs. His eyelids fluttered open and met with Aleksander's. He was still heaving before Aleksander could call his men, but he thought better of it. There were no colors signifying which side he belonged to, so once he was well rested and warmed, he would have him leave.

"Get up. Come on, rise, before someone sees you here," Aleksander hissed.

Aleksander pulled on the man's arm until he was slouching over. Soon he propped him up onto his shoulders and took him down the river before any of his men could come back and notice.

Water was seeping into his shirt, however, it was warm. When he looked down, he noticed it was not water, but blood from the man gushing from his side. He did not know what perversion provoked him into doing something as reckless as this. Was it pity? Was it remorse?

Aleksander continued to trudge through the muddied ground. The pigs and chickens made a ruckus as they passed through. The sounds grew worse as the younger children roused them for their eggs and morning feed. The sound alarmed the man. Aleksander put his hand over th man's mouth before words could come out.

"Stay silent. We are almost there," Aleksander warned. 

As soon as they arrived at his tent, Aleksander laid him down on his furs and was quick to grab a bottle of mead as well as a shirt. He brought a stick and honey soon after. 

"Why? Why are you doing this?" the man croaked.

"Quiet."

He ripped open his shirt with a dagger and continued to take off the rest of it. Just as the man was about to speak again, Aleksander shoved the stick in his mouth.

"This will hurt, and no one can know you are here. Do you understand?"

The man's green eyes widened before he nodded. They closed before long, heartbeat rampant. He was afraid, Aleksander realized. He could be no soldier.

He looked to be about his age, no older than three and twenty. Clean-shaven and lightly armored, were telltale signs of coming from a noble house of some sort. The man may never have seen a day of battle until the one he had faced.

Aleksander poured some of the mead into the man's open wound causing a muffled cry to tear from his throat.

"Silence, you fool. The pain will fade."

He poured more and the man writhed, turning away from him, but Aleksander held him firmly in place. He wiped the area clean of blood and applied some honey to stifle the infection. It was not a life-threatening wound, but he had been in those murky waters.

"I should sear your wound."

The man shook his head in a fervor causing Aleksander's lips to twitch.

"Would you much rather prefer to die then?"

He took the stick from the man's mouth, causing him to regain some lost breath.

"If you prefer that, I can kill you here. Make it quick and clean, so you will not have felt a thing."

The man shook his head.

"No, I do not want to die. I cannot die. Not yet, not now," he breathed.

"Tell me, who are you? Just how much are you worth?" Aleksander did not care for gold nor did he care for the man's life. Yet, his actions proved otherwise.

Aleksander fiddled with his blade noticing the man's fixation on it. He saw as he shook and held his arms close to his chest while he stayed upright. He laid back down before he could let out another cry and muffled it into his furs.

Despite his reluctance, Aleksander brought the man forward and wrapped the torn fabrics of his shirt around the man's torso. The man's eyes were lingering on him, but he ignored them.

"... I am Rowan."

Aleksander's eyes widened.

He looked at the man studying his features. It had been over ten years, however. He could not remember how he looked then or how he would look now. As uncommon as the name was, he knew of only one person who had it.

"You ask how much I am worth?" Rowan laughed, voice laced with pain. "I am worth a country."