Dying

Marc rode towards his hometown of Arneria, where his parents were still living, and where Marc had unwittingly sent two armies to beat against each other. When his king had asked him about his home, he had told him what a small town it had been, and how few people were there, and how most of those people had been older couples who were living off the gifts of their children and grandchildren. His own parents had been the youngest pair in town, having been given a great gift of wealth for rescuing the son of a nobleman, and using that wealth to somewhat retire.

It had been a few days since Marc had realized his mistake, so he knew that he had set out in the rear. But he had ridden as hard as his horse could handle, and as hard as he himself could handle, in order to catch up. He feared that he would arrive late, but he hoped to be able to warn at least his own family of the impending danger, if not the entire town. He knew all of the members, and though he had elected to move away from them in order to experience more of the world and its royalties and dangers, he still loved all of them, and did not wish to see any harm befall them. It had been an honest mistake that had sent war to them. He could not have known.

As he approached the town, there was an eerie silence in the air. It had always been a quiet town, but this level of quiet was... unsettling. The road was well worn, though that had always been true. But the dirt was freshly turned, as though a great many people had been through recently. It was not a good sign. But the trees were still standing, and there was no sign of fire. Perhaps, if they had come through, they had not caused as much damage as Marc had feared.

But that was when he noticed the man on the side of the road, sitting beneath a tree and hidden partially by its shade. Marc dismounted and approached, holding onto the reigns of his horse, not quite sure what to expect. But as he got a better look at the man, he felt his stomach sink.

The man was bleeding heavily, his blood soaking into the dirt beneath him, from a hole in his stomach that he was holding with his hands. His skin was pale, and he had clearly been laying beneath the tree for some time. His eyes were empty, the life having drained from them some time before. A bloody sword was impaled into the ground beside him. It was difficult to say whether or not it was the blade which had killed him.

Marc felt as though he might vomit, but he moved forward and pulled the sword from the ground, shaking the mud caked onto it loose, trying not to think of what had wetted the dirt to make it stick. Under his breath, he made a quick prayer, and swung the blade, severing the man's head from his body. It was not a clean cut, but the head fell loose, and there was not enough blood left in the body to spurt forth.

The act made Marc feel dirty. But this would fall more in line with the rite of honor in death than a slow, and painful bleeding out. And if there were any fighters left on the field, a sword may come in handy. So he took it with him as he mounted up, and made the last push to Arneria.