Rattling along into the evening, a simple carriage, its lone wide eyed occupant peeped through the curtains once more.
Safely out of the castle’s grounds and into the city square, past the lone monument of a war hero long gone at its centre and onto the familiar roadway out of the city, the flighty travellers went.
For one, he swore that shadows pursued them. Long and reaching.
However, a bright and busy city life was all around. Eventually, the scene did change to the sparse glow of country abodes and inns.
No boisterous and raucous conversations and laughter was found here.
Only the barking of a wild dog or two in the streets, and soon that turned into the known eerie quiet and stillness found along a forested path.
During the daytime, the beauteous flora would certainly fill one with life but at night..
He shivered.
The chill of the evening’s air whipped his face. In shutting the curtain, he then embraced himself.
It shouldn't be long now.
Soon, Henri would feel the familiar swing of the carriage, the bumps along the way.
But it had been too long now.
Many minutes passed by and Henri failed to notice any of these.
Peering out the window once again confirmed his suspicions. They were on the other route. On Banko and not-
Henri: This isn't the route we were supposed to take.
He at first said aloud to himself and next to the coachman
Henri: Aren’t we to follow M’lady?
-- We are. The carriages are ahead of ours
Henri: Why would m’lady take this road, when master said that we must- Aa!!
-Thud!
The carriage came to an unexpected stop.
Watery eyed, Henri rubbed his forehead
Henri: Wha- What’s happened?!
-- Go now! See if they require any assistance.
-- Right!
Henri: What’s happened?
Henri asked again
-- I’m not sure. They’ve suddenly stopped in the middle of the path
Henri: …
-- Ah! What’s gone wrong?
-- We lost a wheel!
-- Curses!
-- Have you a spare?!
But before any reply was given, Henri heard a shrill scream. A woman’s. It punctuated the night and his heart went cold.
The woman screamed for help again, then came yelling and foul exclamations from the coachman.
His carriage lurched and Henri fell onto the floor.
To and fro and up and down he bounced. Unable to right himself, he remained low and dug his fingers in, clutching at the floor.
Before long, the carriage abruptly stopped once more.
He froze.
The piercing sounds of a screaming woman filled the evening air; though farther away now it seemed.
He heard his own heart beating. Racing. And the frantic whinnying of the horses nearby.
Outside, the clanging of swords and the-
-- Aah!
With both arms, Henri covered his head.
Flaming arrows swooped into the cabin, swiftly setting the interior ablaze.
**
**
On hands and knees Henri scrambled out the door, the heat of the flames reaching for his back.
Ungraciously he fell.
Hitting his forehead on the rocky ground before scurrying away on all fours into chaos.
With naught a moment to catch his breath or wipe at the warmth trickling down his face and into his eye, by the scruff of his cloak he was yanked upright.
-- Is this him?
-- No.
Henri, recognising the voice, slowed in his struggles to be free.
He saw him. It was the southern messenger.
No longer did his hood conceal his face.
-- Where is your master?
Henri: …I- I dont- I don’t know! Please- please dont kill me!
-- …Where is he?
Henri: …I- I dont- Please- please…
-- …
-- What to do with this then?
The man’s face distorted in disgust. And as if he were a sack of rubbish, toward the messenger, Henri swung.
-- He’s useless. Be rid of it.
With a large forearm pressed across his boney pale neck, pinned up against a tree; its rough bark dug into his flesh. Though limbs flailed, and clawed, easily his captor kept him in place.
No hesitation was given.
Cold at first, the southerner’s blade easily pierced him. Twisting sharply in the soft belly of the kindly servant.
No longer beating about. An unfortunate end was met.
His body squirmed while his gurgled screams failed to fall on sympathetic ears. And to his knees he fell and slowly died.
Only a few fine words of encouragement sent them on their way.
And into death, alongside his kin, Alex rode.
From afar, the enemy fell into the hands of Roman’s army. From afar, his brother’s banner flew high and well above his adversaries.
Or so it appeared.
For as Alex neared and found himself in the midst of battle, reality proved.
Spears, bloodied and dreadful greeted him. Jabbing against his horse, threatened to unseat him.
Swords, rageful and fierce, sought his life. In defense, he fought like a madman punishing those against him.
Death, feathered and flighty, flew over his head. Arrows, swift and wicked, stung his helmet, eager to pierce his flesh or poison his bones. For all sides deemed the men rushing in as enemies.
Crashing in on his senses, indistinguishable in its feverish clamour.
Dizzying. The din of war and abhorrent scenes before and all around him threatened to overwhelm.
Were it not for Cyrus fighting beside him, inspiring focus, rousing courage, Alex would’ve found himself lost within.
Against the northern enemies, against his own countrymen, he did not wish or held any desire to fight.
He only desired to near where Roman fought.
Yet found only the points of spears and bloodied swords with wicked intentions.
Finding his attention, another black banner fluttering against the grey sky.
And soon too, he also found himself desperately alone. Where the fighting was most vicious, heavy with blood and mud and many were on foot.
Still, Alex intently sought him.
Light at first it fell.
Then, with sweeping winds the rains began. Pouring relentlessly from the swollen belly of heavy clouds.
As swiftly as the rains did appear, so too did Cyrus.
Against northern men the general did protect the young prince. But to his steed they pierced its sides. And then him. Soon thereafter, he fell.
To draw his cousin away, Alex stretched forth his hand. Yet, he too next found himself unhorsed. Covered in mud, struggling to make himself upright.
Immediately he clutched at it. The shaft protruding from his thigh.
Tears stung his eyes.
His entire being cried. It cried to remain where he fell. To fight no more.
Dripping blood and mud and water, on bended knee Alex keenly observed all.
Unsteady in breath, his sword-hand remaining firm, he fought.
He fought against himself.
He fought to not lose heart. Upon the battlefield that was his mind, he fought to not slip and fall into the waiting clutches of despair.
➵
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