Hero or Murderer?

The world around me filled with the sound of clashing metal. Time passes, though it is difficult to tell how much, as warrior after warrior fall under my blade. Swinging my sword with all my might I mar and cripple and kill those whom oppose me. Standing alone in the blood stained field, I fall to my knees. To live as a hero of war seemed like such splendour a few days ago, now however, the thought seems abhorrent "I'm not a hero, but a murderer." I tell myself. No one should have to witness, or be apart of, the carnage spread out before me, nothing but torn remains as a result of clashing blades. I sit, on the blood red grass and watch as the sun sinks behind the snow-capped mountain casting a golden glow tainted red by the dark blood that coats the once lushes green field.

Exhausted I stumble through the now dark field, and off into the even darker forest, the thick foliage blocking out the crescent moons light making it impossible for me to see where I am going, somewhere in the shadows something moves, the ground whispers as something walks over it. I don't stop; I don't care if it's some harmless prey, or a fearsome beast wishing to prey on my flesh. I would deserve it if it were so. I did not deserve to survive that battle, no one who has killed as many as I should live. I fall to the dark ground, unable to continue as my legs give 'way. So here on the ground I stay and the whisper of the ground grows closer, until I feel hot breath on the back of my head, I close my eyes, ready to accept my fate. A hot wet tongue runs over my cold skin, leaving a trail of saliva from the back of my neck to my ear. And involuntary shiver runs down the length of my spine.

The animal sniffs me blowing its hot breath into my ear. Fear began to wrap its icy fingers around my heart, constricting my chest, cutting off my airway, I know I'm going to die, and I wish for it, but in some ancient instinctual part of me I want to fight, or run, just like on the battle field, kill or be killed. Shaking with exhaustion I consciously relaxed my shoulders, and arms. I wait for the beast to strike my exposed neck. To bath its muzzle in my warm, fresh blood. A cold nose presses itself against my cheek, and nudges gently, I don't move, it nudges again, a little harder. I soft whine sounds in my ear; I slowly raise my head, and look at the animal.

Beside me sits a wolf pup, maybe six months old, it's dark fur makes it impossible for me to see more than it's head, which is light grey, odd for a wolf. I try to push my self up, but am unsuccessful, so I roll to my side, so I'm facing the young pup. It licks it's nose before laying beside me, pressing it's body close to mine to obtain the warmth. I put my arm over the animal, and close my eyes. Perhaps it's simply not my time to die.