How long had he been fighting? He didn't know, lost in the repetitive cut, slash, dodge, jump back, dart forwards, attack, defend, attack, attack, block, footwork, swing, swing of the battle, armour clinking around him as he moved. The bulky armour that simultaneously provided his only defence and hindered his movement enough to truly need it, but was standard army procedure to have.
His current opponent fell, clutching feebly at the gaping hole that had just been rent in their armour, the hole slowly pooling up with their crimson lifeblood, the iron tang indecipherable from the rest of the smell of blood, gunpowder and sweat. For a moment, he found himself with no person charging at him, and instantly started to look around, keeping his guard up, for someone to help.
A comrade in arms caught his attention, and he instantly rushed to their aid. With him to fight as well, the other stood no chance, soon falling. Yanking his axe out of the cloven helmet of the dead man, he started to look around again. Another fight that he could help with, only a few metres away! Before he could get there, a retreat bugle sounded. But not theirs. The enemies.
With a cheer, he started towards the now fleeing men, aiming now to simply get them off their land. However, something made him stop and turn, looking to the right, to the setting sun glinting off the armour of two soldiers still caught in battle. He almost ignored it, but something about the armour of the person marked as being from the same army as him made him pause. As his fellow fell to his knees, he was already running, knowing something was wrong but hoping it was not what he feared. The opponent practically ripped his helmet off, revealing short, silvery blond hair, matted with sweat and blood, but somehow still managing to keep that one strange curl that he adored to play with. His eyes went wide, then he was practically sprinting, noiselessly begging his body to get him there in time, begging the enemy to stay his blade a moment longer.
His friend, his love, tried to raise his sword, but it was knocked out of his hand. As the sun's bloodied rays hit the raised sword, as the Norwegian was forced to tilt back his head by a hand roughly gripping his hair, as Mathias still tried to sprint, to run, push through all of the retreating soldiers, hoping, praying...
The sword fell.
Mathias' agonised yell rent the air as Lukas slumped to the ground. Not even a full moment later, the enemy was dead as well, head landing a metre or more from their body, but too late, too late.
The sun set that day on the bowed back of a blond Dane, cradling his love to his chest and sobbing bitterly into his hair, stroking his cheek, begging for a miracle with broken, whispered words into unhearing ears.
