A/N: Just a one-shot that popped into my head. Hope you like! Review please!
Hatred. That was what he was fighting against. Hatred for Christians, hatred for Europe. He had turned his back on the hatred at home, believing that it was not as dangerous as the hatred abroad. It would not become unmanageable while he was gone; it was petty hatred, between neighbors, over paltry matters—it would not break England. The danger of hatred could only come from outside. That was what he believed.
Everyone. That was who he was fighting for. When he had come to the battlefield, and seen the terror and the cruelty—had seen that both sides were not free of tragedy, or free of wrongdoing, or free of noble cause—he kept fighting to protect them. Them. The King. Much. Marian. England. He was fighting for them, as he would always fight for them. He was only doing what he had to.
Right. That was why he had gone to war. Because it was right, because it was for truth and justice. When it became apparent that the war had little to do with the true precepts of Christianity, his reasons for fighting underwent a transformation. Then it was because the King had commanded and he had obeyed. Because being loyal and unquestioning was the right thing to do.
Onward. He'd keep moving forward. Behind him lay the blood and the screams and the heartache, all of which had been wreaked against him, and all of which he had also wrought. He'd go onward, because being a hero sometimes meant that you couldn't look back at what you'd done.