Tears From Me

It’s over. It’s done.

My sight crawled across the dimly lit marketplace, flickering shadows obscuring the signs of bloodshed. As I continued to draw my gaze across broken stands and torn property, my eyes finally rested upon a body writing in the dirt. Triumph hummed through me, but the waves of fatigue wore me down as weak legs gave way to this blasted armor. Guttural, spurting gasps came from my company which marred otherwise perfect silence. I firmly pressed my hand into the sand beneath me, each little grain giving way to my unreliable strength. Once I met the solidarity of land, I can’t help but hold the visage of my enemy’s defeat. My first hard fought battle, and in the end, I lived.
Every fiber of my being protested, almost screaming as pain spikes throughout my rattled body. Yet, I realize that I am not done. Quickly, I grounded my forearm in the dirt, my spirit soaring with every inch I cover to secure my prize. I needed validation. I needed proof. What I needed was his head.
Only heads collected and presented to the general can claim pay. In order to keep protecting my borders, I must eat. his crumpled body, pierced by the blade of my forefathers, called out to my pride: You did this. Collect your reward and eat well. I have to keep going!

My arm’s structure blinked away for an instant and the ground slammed my mouth shut , but I used that pain to plant my other. A tooth fell from my mouth, and blood from my gums, yet all I could do was smile as I scooted beside the body. After all this trouble, I had to collect–it was my right. I could still hear his sputtering breaths as his agonized movements grew smaller. It almost felt intimate–a sick play meant just for me; a pathetic performance to showcase the alternative of victory. ‘The one who stands in the end is righteous’ echoed through my bones, giving me strength enough to keep moving.

My blade. My instrument of glory lay embedded in the chest of my enemy. As I stared at them, thoughts of intrigue plagued me: he could have been anywhere in the world. Where could he have been instead of here? ‘Not dying in the dirt for a treacherous rebellion plot’, I thought for sure. Watching his haggard breathing become more difficult, I realize that I’m the last person he have seen. I shudder internally at the thought of dying here, alone. . .

Why did it matter? Why did I need to show them this mercy? They opposed the law of the land–he opposed me! Would this mercy have been paid to me had I fallen instead? I winced as I remembered every near miss of his blade. Both times I had thought I had been cut, I had only been nicked. I stared at the blade ending his life. I did this. I snuffed out life itself. The memory turned my stomach, a familiar burning flooded my chest and throat until acrid innocence poured freely from my mouth. 

Muffled sounds of battle thrummed throughout the square, but it grew faint as the seconds dragged by. I took glances from left to right, sure I was about to be cut down by the fallen’s allies, yet no one lived by me in this market. Only fire danced happily through wooden structures, gnawing hungrily through cloth and straw goods. The breathing of my adversary grew quieter. Any trace of fight left in them had long since perished. Even my pain seemed to fade into the background as I tried to suss out any small movements that could spell my last. As I gathered my composure, instinct told me to reach for my blade, but something else guided my gaze to the face shield of my enemy.

The steel was cold to the touch. I finally pressed my fingers upon my tool of destruction. My body tensed as shouts of our decisive battle pierced my mind, and a disgusting pulse radiated through the blade. The fatigue of war excited my imagination into believing, for a brief moment, my blade drank of the fallen foe. Snapping my head to and fro, reality seeped back into my mind, and I recognized the trembling as the final breaths of my victim, so small and withered but still palpable on my steel. I couldn’t believe it. How much life burns through this warrior for them to still have embers left amongst this devastation. A morbid curiosity took hold of my better judgment: I had to respect this warrior as a person in his last moments. Know his face, or know a mark. Give them a name, to remember the foe who almost did it. With stalwart determination, I palm the helm of my foe.

I took off his helm to reveal fading pools of amber. I sat there, still, my mind unable to understand the image that lay before me: Her lips parted, listlessly dragging breath into her tattered lungs. Her armor and breeches, splattered in macabre crimson, wrapped around curated curves in her armor. Her body, now noticeably smaller than the rest, held tightly packed muscle more defined than any back at home.

The opponent I cut down in the prime of their life–who almost ended my own–was a woman. For a long, silent moment, I took in the curvature of her face and tried to see a villain, but there was only a person there. I studied the way her dark hair matted to her forehead, and tried to imagine what it might have looked like on her best day. I had tried to imagine what she may have thought of me in her last moments–what villain she imagined I was behind my own healm. Then, suddenly, a focus came over her eyes as they took me in.

Water fell on her face. Rain. Makes sense. We brought cannons, after all. The gods weep when we bring the cannons. Alas, a cold thumb brushed across my cheek, bringing me back to somber reality: those drops were not the tears of gods, but the tears of a man–tears from me. I reflexively grabbed at my face only to meet her hand cradling my head. I looked at her for the first time as a human being, and all I could see in her eyes was rage and fear. Yet, despite the intensity her eyes held, she no longer held the strength to put malice behind her touch. Her hand lost all traces of strength and her eyes seemed to stare right through me before they closed for the last time. You did this. I felt cold. Numb. Triumph? Victory? I stared at the person lying dead beside me. I took in the carnage around me, and for the first time, I noticed bodies strewn across the square. Soldiers and peasants. Warriors and children. My hand covered my mouth only to take in the smell of death. I went to retch, but nothing came out of me, my innocence gone. It was too much to see; too much to think about. All at once, my injuries and exhaustion caught up to me. As my consciousness slipped away, all I could see were unfocused pools of amber, half closed as everything faded to black.