Everyone was caught off-guard the next time the Sarmatians attacked.

It was the middle of the day. No mist was out to serve the riders as cover; they didn’t send scouts ahead nor orchestrate a distraction. They merely charged forwards, leading their horses over the shallower parts of the Danube and riding them across the plain the Romans had cleared to serve as their battleground, generations past.

There was hardly any time to get ready, to really mentally prepare for the battle and the horrors of it - and still they marched out, proud, solemn, disciplined, for the prowess of the Roman military was uncontested and no man that formed part of it would ever show fear in the face of their barbaric foes. The generals barked out orders that flew across the ranks, sending the infantry ahead, ovalled shields in one hand and their swords in the other, walking at a steady pace. Behind them settled the archers, already nooking their arrows, getting ready to aim.

A Sarmatian horn blowed. One of their women - armed to the very teeth, blonde-haired and wild-eyed - took the lead, almost breaking out of formation if not for the fact that there was no formation. The Sarmatians - usually meticulous adversaries - were throwing their all into a battle that felt sporadic; spontaneous. Jack swallowed, steadying his pulse as well as he could, steeling himself against the thunder of the horses’ hooves ramming down on the ground as they sped towards his cohort. More orders flew. He squared his jaw; lifted his shield to match everyone else.

The collision was always the most brutal moment. Those were the few seconds during which steeds crashed into iron shields, galloping into lethal points that dug past their fur and their rudimentary armour to drag shrieks of pain from them before they bucked their riders off into the fray of Roman soldiers. Or when they burst through successfully, mowing down the men that stood in their path, trampling them and tearing them apart as Sarmatian swords dove into the eye-holes of their helmets, felling disposable infantrymen in sprays of crimson blood glittering in the brilliant light--

And then the fight truly commenced. Arrows stopped raining down on them ceaselessly, rather coming down in meaningful showers that took out all the barbarians they could spot, barely missing their mark - and if they did, no one noticed - while Jack and his brothers fought for their lives under the pretext of defending a motherland that hadn’t treated them as well as it should have.

He took no joy in killing. There was nothing honourable about taking another’s life in his eyes; no pleasure to be had by slitting the throat of a stranger or wrenching pain from some rival fighter with the automatic plunge and twist of his blade. Still he did it, even if it filled him with nauseating displeasure, at first. After a minute he was able to detract himself from the situation and instead let his reflexes - honed to near-perfection over the years - and those violent impulses control his movements. It was always the same.

The actions were mechanic even now, even in the heart of the bellic conflict. He snarled, grim-faced, blood-stained, ploughing ever-forwards. An unstoppable force that could only be halted by the spilling of his own blood, when an arrow or an enemy gladius found its mark.

In spite of how deeply this mechanicity was etched into his veins, he was snapped out of it at the sight of familiar eyes widening in horror as he came face to face with the vicious blonde girl that had led the charge only minutes before. Sylvius swore loudly, shouted some blasphemy at the girl’s face as she hacked his sword right out of his hands; her horse was lost but she fought like she carried Mars himself beneath her skin. It was obvious, then, that Sylvius was going to die.

Such a realisation made Jack falter as relief and guilt crashed together to rob him of his footing, forcing him to crash into another horseless Sarmatian brandishing a blood-washed dagger. In two swift movements the man was dead; his neck snapped as he crumbled to the floor like a stringed toy. His eyes found Sylvius’ figure once more - and in his futile fighting he saw Hoshe’a, shoulders wracked with sobs, hurt by this sickening awful man.

The Sarmatian girl bared her teeth and made a lightning-fast jab for Sylvius’ head. The other soldier sidestepped the blow as well as he could, turning his face so that her strike merely scratched against his cheek, bringing a string of glistening blood to the surface. In that Jack saw Hoshe’a’s lovesick gaze - saw himself, hesitating to save the life of another simply out of the selfish longing to have Hoshe’a’s beautiful dimpled smile directed at him instead.

Jack knew, then, that he couldn’t let Sylvius die.

What happened next was all a blur of motion and colour as he charged forwards and took Sylvius’ place just as her blade came down; the searing pain of metal cutting through flesh and tearing through muscle as he pushed a startled Sylvius away; the girl’s fierce eyes when they tripped over one another and she drew a smaller blade, ready to cut his throat open. Only one thing was certain there: Jack was ready to die, to atone for the sins of the past; to see Olivia again, wherever their souls were to go. And he should  have died, perhaps. Only, he did not.

The girl was pulled from him by dark hands that couldn’t seem to hold onto a sword properly. Jack’s head hit the ground hard, knocked against the metal of a fellow soldier’s shield. He saw legs in a too-rigid stance, lighter armour protecting a fluttering chest. Black curls and black eyes above a mouth pressed into a line. He spoke but his words were indiscernible over the screech of white noise in his ears, sword held out in front of him in a promise of a fight should the girl not step down. Whether she chose to do so or not was beyond Jack’s understanding, but seconds later the boy’s familiar face was inches from his own, his lips moving as he spoke to him - and now Jack regretted not being able to really hear him - frantically, gesturing down at the sheer amount of blood that coated Jack’s leg, the girl’s larger blade still jutting out from his limb.

The din in his ears cleared long enough that Jack was able to hear his own name be called in a tight, desperate voice, and he smiled thinly: even if it was contorted by worry, he was glad Hoshe’a’s face would be the last thing he saw.

I love you.