Screams of the Dying
As a warrior, your thoughts are different from those you serve. Yes, even as my King’s top commander I serve many. The people of the land are my charges, I owe them my greatest debt, my life.
I’ve mixed steel with sinew a dozen times. I was wounded over and over and saw the sky fade above my paralyzed body once. I returned to Earth that day to fight on. Years have passed, age besets my body and my time in the melee is over.
I disrobe in the dwindling candlelight of my tent. I stand naked, looking over my scars. Running a calloused fingertip over them, I cannot feel the touch, as so much of my life is numb. The long slash on my chest, the arrow hole in my thigh and more, healed on the surface.
I take the great helm from the stand and put it over my head. What a sight I must be. The helmet covers my ears and I can hear the battles within my head. The clanging of steel, thunder of cavalry hooves and more. The unique sound of a man screaming from a mortal wound.
There is no honor in war.