home.

He folds down to the floor to the pain in his chest.
It throbs and pulses against his entire existence, causing him to grit his teeth and digs his hands into the good black soil of his homeland.
His hands scrabble around his chest plate and finds the violent arrow that had chosen him out of so many.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the view in front of him, the beautiful green plains of his people being stained by the sight of long ugly lines of shields with burning stones trailing across the blue morning sky. His men marched on, scared souls gathered together to defend their towns and villages against the foreigners. Their lines bled men to the arrows and boulders, screaming kids yearning for their mothers and old men for their lovers.

The pain was growing now. Yet he still stood up and readied his shield and blade. With a deep breath he broke off the shaft of the arrow and rejoined his men, the blood slowly pulsing out of his body onto his armor. His friends of the lines acknowledged his return to their presence with grim nods and quickened their pace to the sound of the horns blowing.

It would be over soon, it will be over soon, he told himself over and over again as he started running slowly along with the rest. The enemy shield lines bristled with axes and swords and broke into a run to meet their charge. It was the sound of thunder as the lines met and the stabbing and hacking began. He punched a leering face with his shield and slid his blade into another's guts whilst screaming wordlessly, flecks of blood splattering his victims. Punch, stab and slash he did over and over again against the enemy till the enemy line lost it's cohesion and started drawing back.

He felt glorious as he hacked his way into the enemy, feeling like the beserkers of old. None could stand before him, none would stand before him as he fought like a demon along with the rest of the men. The spirit of victory was in the air, the enemy was already fleeing in ones and twos from the back of the line and yet the horns started sounding urgently for a retreat.

He ignored the horns. he was too deep to withdraw anyway, being surrounded by a ring of dead enemies and with no way back with the men pushing forward. He pulled a frightened young face onto his blade, hearing him scream for his mother before he heard the thunder of hooves to the left. Men screamed as the churning mass of lance and horse slammed into them, many dying with the last sight of a lance piercing their chests before being trodden down into the mud and dying by the big stallions of the heavy calvary.

He turned with the rest of his men and wearily faced the incoming rush of horses and men. None of them would survived the onslaught. They know that much. He grunted as the horses closed upon them and hammered the nearest horse in the face with his shield, causing to rider to fall off his mount. He was still screaming as he raised the blade to finish off his victim as a chevalier's sword came swinging towards him.

It sliced his head clean off.