At last the battle had come, built up by brandished weapons and insulting screams. Words of conflict into violence, lines on a map into strategic objectives, dreams of glory into broken bodies.
Through the chaos of clashing irons I emerged mostly intact, a nasty gash to my elbow my only hindrance.
I was among the last of my legion, our commander slain by arrows and most of the others slaughtered in the confusion of voided leadership. The air smelled of blood and heat, lingering sour on even the driest spots of my exposed skin.
A hundred metres up the valley was a visible gang of reinforcements, their reinforcements. Our cause was now surely lost, our kingdom undefended and soon at the unkind mercy of these brutal attackers. I thought to flee, escape into the thin trees and hide, or maybe even surrender, hope for the good fortune that unexpected mercy would signify.
My thoughts demanded flight from conflict, but my feet and hands, my heart, could not be removed from this spot of ground. Behind me I saw the few remaining shredded members of my legion also fixed in position. I howled in delight, for in this defeat I found victory: not for the cause or for our kingdom, but for the sword.
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