The darkness welcomed him like a blanket, enveloping him in silence and blackness, muffling all thoughts and sensations. There was no billowing fog to catapult him from one reality to another at the snap of Reimund's fingers, and for a moment, until Payton's sense of duty took over, there was no battlefield full of the dead. There was only nothingness, and Payton, tired of war, tired of responsibility, longed for it.

For a spell, as he begins to feel the tips of his fingers and toes, defiance seethes in his stomach. Has he not already endured enough? Could he not at least die in peace? But the thought fades as quickly as it arrives, driven away by the youths desperate yearning for life.
There was nothing particularly delightful about his life, not even a bright future to hope for, yet he was still profoundly fond of it.
Thus, Payton forced open his eyelids, that were as if glued together by a muddy liquid and by the smell of it he prefered not to think of its components.
With his eyes now open, he looked up at the grey sky and in the distance, on the horizon, dark clouds were brewing into a thunderstorm. His ribs hurt as Payton started laughing out loud.

That was just his luck.

The boy felt like a maniac, lying in a puddle of blood with broken bones and giggling. Nevertheless, it was liberating to let go of the tight lump of fear and anguish that had constricted his throat.

Hot tears ran down his filthy cheeks, leaving streaks on his sweaty and dirty skin, and the youth did not know whether they were from grief or laughter.

An eerie silence had settled over the field, indicating, that the battle was long over. It was inly as Payton closed his eyes that he thought he heard the sound of leisurely footsteps and occasional shouts in the distance. Surely, they were looking for survivors. And before they got to where Payton was, he had to get away, for one thing was certain: they could only be enemy soldiers.

He had long since lost his helmet and his sword, but should he need one, there were plenty of them from those who had fallen around him. Payton spared his eyes the sight of the deceased as he rolled onto his side, propping himself up with his forearms.

A sharp, glistening pain shot through him as he put weight on his right foot. Carefully, Payton loosened the greave and felt for his ankle. It felt swollen, the skin unnaturally hot. If it wasn't broken, it was at least sprained. Either way, Payton was in no condition to walk.
Groaning softly in agony, the boy crawled forward, dragging his injured leg behind him. If he could only make it to the edge of the burned forest, the dry undergrowth would at the very least hide him from prying eyes.
He could always just pretend to be dead, but the risk of being discovered was too great, and for his own sake he would not hide under a corpse.

Moving forward was tedious, especially when Payton had to keep climbing over pieces of armor on all fours. Every once in a while, they were still attached to what felt like a man's cold hand or someone's broken limb. When that was the case, the boy would squeeze his eyes shut desperately and hold his breath to keep from having to smell the stench of fresh blood and incipient decay. But the nausea that washed over him distracted him from the feeling of bone-chilling dread that would otherwise haunt him. There certainly wasn't much to keep him from the abyss of bottomless despair that loomed ever larger before him as he recognized more and more faces. Or perhaps it was his imagination toying with him, for he could barely see his own hand in front of his eyes. Tears blurred his vision, his horrified mind struggling to properly grasp the images he was taking in.

The human psyche was a strange thing. When it became too much for the boy, he began to forget what he had just seen. Admittedly, later the memories would catch up with him, but for the moment, any processing of the experience had ceased. All that remained was the single, suffocating thought that he had to get to those bushes, wherefore was irrelevant.

The men's shouts came closer, but Payton's shuffling was obscured by the low rumble of approaching clouds above him. The air was charged, anticipating the nearing storm.
As a fine rain poured down over the field, the parched ground greedily absorbed every drop. For the first time in months of drought, nature drew its first breath. And with that breath, the stench of decay was blown away, replaced by the faint scent of wet earth and hope.

The youth smiled blissfully as the first drops washed the sweat from his brow and cooled his overheated skin. Sandy dust and blood were washed away, along with the salty remains of his tears.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, nature was weeping for her forsaken sons who lay here, seemingly awaiting the earth to embrace them once again.

He was nowhere near the bushes when his eyes played tricks on him. It must be a perceptual disorder, for he could not have been so lucky. But the closer he drags himself, the clearer he sees the tousled brown hair, the short beard, the unmistakable pattern of that armor.
Over the past few months, Payton had grown fond of the rascal that was his pawn, but he had never felt so elated to see Lowell as he did at that moment.
Meanwhile, the rain pelted mercilessly, soaking Payton's undergarments until he shivered to the bones from cold and exertion. However he had to keep going, for he could hear the distant shouts of the search parties coming closer through the rush of the rain.
When he finally crawled to the motionless body of Lowell, he immediately examined it for injuries. There was a huge gush on his right arm, the wound so deep that the white of the bone could be seen behind the torn muscle. For sure, Lowell had lost a lot of blood, but that would not kill him. Could not kill him. Aside from that wound, a few bruises, broken fingers and a broken nose that was now humped and swollen red, Lowell seemed healthy. It must have been the blood loss and exhaustion that caused him to pass out.

Taking a closer look at his arm, the boy took a deep breath to keep the nausea at bay. The wound was dirty and so deep that tendons were torn and splinters of bone protruded into the flesh below. The chances of saving this arm if Lowell was not treated were vanishingly slim.

The youth mustered all the strength he had left, took a wide swing, and struck the prone man firmly across the face with the flat of his hand.
For a moment, the unconscious man doesn't stir and panic begins to set in Payton. Not being able to walk, how is he to carry a heavy man like Lowell out of harm's way?

Then, barely noticeable, Lowell's eyelid twitches and a pain-filled, pitiful moan escapes his lips.

„Oh gods, thank you", the boy mumbles a quick prayer toward the thick, prowling clouds darkening the sky.

„How the tables 'ave turned, eh?", a voice as raspy as sandpaper croaks. „Now it's me doin' the swooning." A crooked smile twists the corner of Lowell's mouth, making him look a bit more like he should. Alive, that is.
Looking up at him through hooded eyes, the man seems to search Payton for injuries. „Are you alright, lad?", ha asks, his rough voice soaked with worry.
Forcing himself to stretch his lips into what should look like a reassuring smile, the boy shrugs dismissively. „Broken ankle. I can't walk", he confesses and Lowell mutters profanities under his beard as his gaze lingers on the tip of Payton's boot clearly pointing in a wrong direction.
"I'll carry yah", the pawn announces immediatly, clenching his jaw hard in determination. A wave of gratitude and affection for the loyal knight washes over Payton as Lowell, despite his injury, picks himself up with clenched teeth and afterwards pulls the boy to his feet. The broken ankle immediately buckles under the strain, leaving Payton to fall against the older man's chest with a pained yelp. Before the youth can cling to the armor, a strong arm wraps around him and presses him tightly against Lowell's side. Wrapping one arm around the pawns shoulder, he shifts his weight to the man every second step, relieving his ankle.

Payton's heart hammered so loud in his chest, he feared the enemy would hear it. They were advancing faster now than the boy had before, but still much too slow according to the sounds growing louder with every step the search troops took in their direction.
"Lowell", Payton whispered, trembling like the few leaves hanging from the bare shrubs and trees, tossed back and forth from the storm. He was beeing pushed forward, Lowells iron grip squeezing Paytons arm painfully.
He dared not to look back, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure, seemingly looking straight at them, in the distance, blurred by the rain.
The boy's breath hitched a little in horror as the shouts grew more agitated and he could make out the first words of a language that was called the devil's tongue in the northern provinces.

The roaring storm let him understand only fragments, but it was enough to know, that they were spotted and were going to be hunted down in an instant.