FIRE! Fire raged all around him, he could feel his knees weak and heavy, as he carried the load of a man much greater than him in both stature and weight. He struggled to drag him along as his feet kept constantly sinking into the dirt: He wheezed, trying to ignore the pain of his own wound. The Isldar, no older than sixteen, carried the body of a comrade through the depths of hell itself, through mud and blood. The maimed bodies of men and horses, the smell of gunpowder and fire, and the distant sound of deathly screams grew trivial in his mind, as all he focused on was the task ahead. He was young, too young to partake in such a conflict; despite this, he persisted on. He was too weak and too unfocused though, and quickly found himself faced with a foe.
The man he was faced against swung out his blade without even looking at the Isldar. Had he been a centimetre closer, he would have gouged the young boy's eye out. The boy plonked back on the bum, dropping his comrade into the dirt. The attacker raised his blade for a final blow, though stopped. The grown man stared down at this terrified boy, sitting prone in the dirt for but a moment too long; shocked and appalled at the sight of such a blatant theft of youth and innocence. This moment was all the Isdar needed to swing his own blade out. The boy didn't look, he shut his eyes and screamed as he swung, but he hit; the grown man collapsed, clutching his slashed throat in agonizing pain during his final moments. The Isldar dared to, for only one moment, look. The dead man lay before him, his blood was all over the Isldar's face and clothes.
Words could not describe the horror he felt. His hands shook, as everything around him seemed to spin. It didn't take long before he ended up emptying the contents of his stomach out onto the dirt. He raised his gaze, wheezing for a moment as the adrenaline subsided, and the pain of the slash across his eye kicked in. He could feel it, so real, so powerful. He gripped one hand over his eye, before looking to his dying companion. With stumbling steps, he moved to pick the man back up, to no avail. The time it had taken the Isldar to defend himself had been enough, and the corpse of the Isldar's comrade and companion lay still in the mud. The blood around his half-opened gut beginning to dry off. No matter how hard he shook, he wouldn't wake; no matter how hard he screamed, his dry and hoarse voice couldn't manage to provide a sound that could wake the dead. He clutched the corpse, pressing his head against his chest, as he weeped. The Isldar remained like this, as the war raged on around him, bawling his eyes out. The previously starry-eyed and ambitious fighter had been faced with death, and had at last become a man.
Darius shot his eyes open, sitting up. He wheezed panted, as he clutched his knees. His gaze drifted about swiftly, as if he still felt it, the pain, the blood, the mud. It was all so real, even after fifty-two years it still felt real. He curled his arms around his knees, pressing his face down into them as he bawled. He shook, shivered as he sat there. No matter how hard he tried, they still remained; the nightmares. The daily routine of fear, the fear of going back. He was never rid of them. The Isldar turned to the side of his bed, staring at the now dead candle. He blindly reached out for his flask, taking a swig of the strong liquid. The sweetness of apples mixed with the bitter taste of pure rum helped put him at ease enough to make a second attempt at sleeping. If he was lucky, he would make it through the night, and awaken; that was what he hoped. He set another candle up onto the table, lighting it, and laying his head back onto the pillow. The clutch of the nightmares would never let go, but perhaps they would easen up tonight.
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