Soldier

"Oh god that hurts", Leaath thought as the fog in his brain began to allow thought. But the only one that seemed to be there was about the pain. No recollection of where he was or why he was there, no memories of the past days or years, just the pain. Desperately fumbling in blackness and fog for a clue as to why or where, all he could find was the pain. No sound could he hear, no sight familiar or otherwise to help remember where he was. Not even remembering what sight or sound is. Only the pain…
The first sense to come back to him was smell. Burning flesh, blood and death. All smells he was intimately aware of having lived his life with them all around. Slowly, memories began to creep into his grey shrouded mind. Vague faceless memories that hold no meaning. A pair of heavy leather boots, a stout staff, the flash of sunlight off steel, and the pain. Always the pain.

Sounds now, began seeping into his consciousness as more of the fog lifted. “Bells,” he thought, “no… not bells…” Ringing steel, deadly steel and the grunts of animals, the cries of men, punctuated by the silence of death. More memories began to return to Leaath. Memories of hours in the sun practicing movements until they were perfect. Memories of steel and leather, blades and axes. Skills of the art of war repeated until they surpassed habit and became instinct, blind unflinching instinct. So automatic no thought was necessary, like flinching from a hot iron.
The dance of death.

The dance of the soldier.

All in a flood, that nearly made him sick, his memories came pounding back unmercifully. Uncaring of the spinning in his mind, the screaming, and the pain. He remembers now. He is a soldier. Born of war, steeled by combat and trained to kill. Trained to defend the country of his father and the ideals of his king. Train to battle until the shell of his existence could no longer draw breath. Was he still breathing? He couldn't tell.

He concentrated for a moment to search for his breathing, for his body. He found the pounding of a stout warrior heart in his ears and the hands that had wielded blades all these years. He found his breathing, this slow rhythmic intake of air, his preferred sign of life. He was still alive. He was still required to fight in battle. He had no choice. The instincts of years of service would not allow inaction. He had found his body, now he found his will, but not his sight

Pulling his left hand free of the mud and something very heavy laying upon it, he groped for his face. “Yes”, he thought, “I still have eyes and they are open”. But blackness, blackness and stars like the mid summer night’s sky. Twinkling points of what was not really light dancing across what was not really vision. “I'm blind”, he said to himself with un-soldier like despair washing through him. The despair of knowing the struggles of one's life were over with no fruit to harvest. The despair of knowing there is no future for the blind soldier. A soldier who is not, has no glory, no purpose. Certainly, he will be cared for. The king will provide for his daily needs and even some vices. But the life that is the soldier will be his no more.

Sounds now were much more immediate, holding more importance with the realization that sight was lost. The sounds of battle both distant and close. The sounds of death and dying all around. He could make out a struggle just to his left. He could see in his mind the movements of the combatants just as if he were watching on the practice field. Another two to his right, and a few in front as well. There was space behind, space where no battle raged. “Was that where we came from?” He thought. It wasn't clear, but he knew he needed to get there. Carefully, slowly testing each limb for the ability to move, he started at his toes and worked his way up, finding only minor obstructions but no reason to remain motionless. “Okay… first”, he thought, “I need to get out from under this, whatever it is”. Reaching over to grasp the item laying across his hips his hand landed on something cold, hard, wet and sticky. The feeling of it was vaguely familiar but it just didn't seem heavy enough. Exploring the item a little further he found fingers, not enough fingers, but fingers nonetheless. He knew what it was but not who it was. He was separated from his company just after the battle began and found himself amidst allies from another town that he did not know.

Cleared now, of the bits of former comrades that hampered his movements, he rolled over to try to stand. The nausea came so fast he couldn’t even gasp. He had no time to realize he would vomit until it was already in his throat. Over and over again, up came dinners forgotten and with every heave, a new wave of nausea and the pain starting the cycle all over again. He didn't know how he got to his hands and knees but knew he was falling over. His stomach now empty, continued to heave with no effect as he rolled to his back in the muck. The nausea and pain calmed a bit as he gave up any notion of getting to his feet.

A large part of his training was treating wounds, as a soldier must do. He knew from this training and from the effects of trying to stand that a concussion was likely. He knew it would be futile to try anything but lay and rest until the effects of the concussion had passed. But how long? How long had he been there? How long will it last? Lying in the blood-soaked dust of the battleground pondering these questions, he made his last mistake. He didn't hear the sounds of armour covered scales and the ragged breathing of a tortured, twisted creature harnessed and chained by magic for this battle alone. He didn't hear the snarl of hatred and glee, and the all-too-familiar whistle of an iron blade swung with purpose. He was thinking about his family and when he would see them again when the crushing blade entered his chest.