War Is Hell

            I stood there panting, my armor weighing heavily on my body. Dirt clumped to skin and metal, held together by the blood from my wounds. My ribs were bruised at best, a draft and warm liquid running down my calf meant that a gash had been newly opened.  My opponent has taken a beating today as well. My generosity is being taken advantage of, as he was stretching dramatically. I looked him steadily in the eye.

            “This isn’t over.”

            “It never is.” The rest of both armies had retreated for the night. The battlefield was mine for the taking. The Englishman’s sword swung high over my head, but I blocked it in time, and returned with a quick swipe to the shoulder. We were evenly matched, both singly and as our countries were; that was the reason for the length of this war. It was nearly one hundred years since my country began to fight for our crown, our king. I deftly thrust my sword towards the soldier’s chest, but again he dodged. I was getting impatient, desperate even. My muscles tensed, I fought more intensely than ever before, the stars shining upon me. Their glow glinted into the savage eyes of my enemy. I remembered his emerald eyes from before- and why this fight was personal. Long ago in my childhood, I visited England and met Arthur. We became fast friends, and I visited frequently with my parents thereafter. But we divided. Arthur became more hostile because of the war.

            “Francis, you addle-pated Frenchman! I want you to put up a fight when I kill you!” Clang! Our swords collided, sending vibrations up my arm. I sliced through the air, aiming for Arthur’s neck, but Arthur’s thick bronze shield met my sword. I preferred agility to protection. I narrowly missed a body shot and lost my balance, agility failing me. I fell to my knees. Arthur stepped closer, grinning maliciously.

            “I now dub thee, by order of the King, Sir Francis Dying.” He raised his sword, glinting in the moonlight, and my fear of death took action.

            “No!” I shouted, lashing out at Arthur any way I could. I swung my sword recklessly, bashing at his sides and legs. I stood, and became increasingly violent. My attack surprised Arthur, and he could only halfheartedly block with his shield. My sword slashed his face, drawing droplets of blood from his pale cheek. Armor broke down, dented and punctured. Soon he was lying on the ground, bleeding out, but still alive. I put an end to that, my sword breaking open his ribcage and ripping through his heart. An unexpected pain in my chest plagued me, compelling me to say something for him.

            “Someday I’ll see you in heaven, old friend,” I muttered. I walked off the battlefield, hoping to never see such a horrendous thing again.