The sun sets on a field of green and red. Bent metal and cleaved flesh clutter the ground, bodies dressed in all colours and creeds. Once sworn enemies share an open grave.
Trudging heavy boots hunt the moans of the wounded through a sea of mud and death.
A knight stops to rest on his kill, distracting himself from his chest. He wheezes lightly, removing his helm to take his first free breaths in over an hour, allowing it to clatter to the ground.
A long sword rests against his leg, pulling a rag from beneath his breastplate he wipes it clean. It had been a messy day.
In the distance the victorious roar of his countrymen begins to fade.
Suddenly silence.
The Knight pauses, closing heavy eyes to appreciate the world around him. He takes a second to relish in his triumph, anyone watching might even say they saw him smile, though ever so brief.
His eyes flash open.
Silence.
An unsettling chill creeps up under the Knights heavy plate armour. True silence. Despite being so close to a thicket of woodland not a sound. No birds or critters. Not even the wind billowing between branches.
He resists a shudder, rising quickly to his feet and sheathing the heavy blade. Few things have ever disheartened the Knight, so what had stirred him so?
He turns and begins to flee, leaving his helm in the mud.
The sun sets on a field of green and red. Bent metal and cleaved flesh clutter the ground, bodies dressed in all colours and creeds. Once sword enemies share an open grave.
A hand twitches.
* * *
The cabin door swings open, through it strides a large heavyset man. Brushing hair from his face back over his head, he sweeps away a mess of leaves and mud and slams the door behind him. A crackle of light illuminates the room from the fireplace, assisted with an assortment of candles.
A large table sits empty, aside from a small bowl of lukewarm liquid, chairs tucked neatly away underneath. The man smiles, scooping the bowl with one hand and setting his axe down against the stone work.
He had made this place himself and pridefully makes sure it's as well kept as possible. Through the dim light he could tell his wife had cleaned up before shuffling off to bed.
How late was it? It took him far longer than usual to find usable firewood, King Aeling's army had sought to that.
He could hear the clatter of battle a mere few hours after they had swept past his home. But he didn't allow politics of the squabbling of petty royals to affect him.
He chuckled to himself sinking into his favourite chair with his bowl of vegetable soup. It creaks, ready to buckle under the mans weight. He knew he could never voice such a thought to people, unless he wished his head to be struck from his shoulders. It was nice to have private thoughts like this.
The man did allow his mind to wander to the battle, more accurately, to the victor. Who would his honourable pledge lord be now?
Shaking the thought, he decides to simply enjoy some time by himself, unclouded by the idea of death and war. A man would be here in the morning to announce themselves.
