Hundreds of feet above the barren, overgrown path, sunlight passed through the thick canopy. Metal pieces of armor clinked against each other as the soldiers lumbered down the path. Even the privates, as young and spry as they were, could barely lift their packs.
"Hey, James!" One of the soldiers hurriedly ran up to James. The soldier in question was his good friend, Horace.
"Shouldn't you be with the other foot-soldiers?" The medic asked Horace. A sheepish look spread across Horace's face.
"I guess, but they're not much fun to talk to. They just want to get with the village girls in Stormfront. Besides, they can't stop a soldier from pestering a medic like you, James." His excuse was, admittedly, decent for half of the stuff that he came up with on a regular basis. James sighed, and gave up.
An arrow whizzed by James, embedding itself in an adjacent oak tree. All of a sudden, the overgrown trail was overrun by barbarians. Each of the brutes was brandishing an axe; ornate carvings ran down the axe head and onto the handle. A pelt was worn over their head, they looked like beasts covered in skulls and bones! The ribs of oxen decorated their leather breastplates, giving a skeletal effect.
Soldiers ran straight into the fray. Sparks flew as axes struck the heavy metal armor of Horace's comrades. Horace himself was in shock at the brutality by both sides. Barbarians tore off soldier's helmets, decapitated them. Corpses of barbarians lay in pools of blood, stabbed with their own axes. Horace couldn't handle the situation; so he did the only thing he saw fit.
He ran. He ran off into the woods, the battle still raging on behind him. He sprinted into the dense underbrush, and hid in the hollow of a tree. Tears streamed down his face; he patted himself down to make sure he wasn't hurt. He was fine, but his boots were covered in dried blood, mixed with dust and decomposing leaves. Scared, ashamed, and distraught, he sat there, crying for what felt like hours. Finally, he crawled out of his hideout, and looked out into the vast array of trees. Out in the distance, he saw what looked like the path. Carefully, he walked back to the site of the battle. No one had succeeded, as far as he could tell. The dusty ground of the path was red; different shades, as each man died the blood dried differently. Corpses littered the ground, the barbarian's furry helmets coated in blood and dirt. Horace was appalled, but continued. If he ever wanted to go back to the guard, he'd better do something, whether it be take a wounded man home, or kill a barbarian. Suddenly, he saw it.
James' battered helmet.
Horace rushed over to it. A huge gash along the visor no one could've lived through filled his heart with dread. It crossed over one of the horizontal bars that made up the 'T' shaped visor, as if it were a scar. A wave of emotions rushed over him, tears once again rolling down his face.
"I'm sorry, James. I'm so, so, sorry."
