regnavitque iter rex, yamiojo

1.

He did not know where to go. A lost boy, some would call him. Apt, he would say but never aloud. Nobody needed to know his mental condition or the thoughts that plagued him day and night. He let out a shaky breath.

His hands were coated with blood and dirt. His face was streaked with tears. Some part of him rushed to find a way to wash away these traces of weakness while his eyes sought a path out of the depths of the ever-growing boscage. It seemed to be a morbid joke, his mind caged by his thoughts and his physical being bounded by his decisions.

The war had taken a toll on the once handsome boy. Although he still carried the grace and the beauty gifted by his family, his stature had somehow crumbled. He who once never brought his chin down was slumping in a way no man of his upbringing could ever dream of.

He hated love. He abhorred it with a fiery passion.

All his problems appeared to stem from it. But no, he was assigning blame to yet another thing that was not entirely him.Whether his actions were governed by love or hatred, it did not matter. He should have had the sense to be rational in his choices. Nothing was to be blamed but him and him alone.

He was a fool.

He had besmirched his family's name; he had changed loyalties and turned into one of the traitorous bastards he so vehemently hated. He had not only been caught in the crossfire but also ignited the spark from both sides.

Now, he lay there in a damp and dark cottage, bleeding and wasting away to reflect his surroundings. He was all alone.

He choked on a derisive laugh blood spluttering out of his mouth. Looking down, he saw his crumpled body. It did not feel like his. He felt as though he was only existing in some less than corporeal form, witnessing the death of a teenage boy who was vaguely familiar.

The thought jarred him. He was dying. Like all things in his life, he was plagued by conflict in the notion of death. He wanted to die but desperately wanted another chance at life, too. Perhaps he was looking for a clean slate.

He wanted death to wash away his blood, and the blood of the countless strangers staining his body and soul. He wanted that stench of loss brought on by war to be gone. He wanted relief.

Maybe he would get it. He hoped.