The field stretched into the distance, curving around the massive walls of the now ruined citadel. The sun hung low in the sky, as it gave up on its struggle for dominance against the moon. The long shadow stretched in front of the man as he picked his way through the carnage, kneeling at times to feel the soil. The fields might be mistaken for being dyed red from the sunset but he knew better. His eyes sharpened suddenly as he caught a glimpse of light, a golden flash reflecting off a scarab's shell. The man's mind dulled and he rose from the ground. The field filled with silhouettes of marching men as he turned to face the sunset. The glint of light flashing off helmets and weapons appeared and disappeared just as quickly. The dull marching of leather filled the air, a steady tramp echoed in his ears. The two sides stood facing each other, flashes of faces pulled into cruel ugly smirks, and panic filled eyes of the young ones flitted in his vision, before fading again.
He turned towards the now standing castle, its massive walls of stone and timber, with its beautiful citadel, just out of site behind them. Five massive turrets rose from the centre and stretched high into the sky. The promises of glory and wealth, the only thing that kept him there. Then his head spun and he sank to the ground. How could he have been so foolish? That he would believe the whispered lies that were repeated in his ears. He screamed. His voice echoed across the deserted land, filled with agony and despair. Then his focus shifted and he remembered all the cries that held those exact emotions. Cries that he caused then cut short as he forced his way through the enemy rang through the smoky air. As he brought his sword down on the next man, he knew there was no longer any distinction between friend and foe. It was a battle for your life.
His knees hit the ground and he was torn roughly out of the fight. The dry grass rustled in the silent field, the only noise was the violent sobs that exploded from his weak frame. Once he stood tall, feared by his enemies, never thinking about the impact of his actions on others. Until that one fight. When his sanity was torn apart and any morals he might have had were lost, floated away on the rivers of blood, that ran along the ground. The cawing of a buzzard circling above threw him back into the hard stone cell that was his mind. The number of birds grew until a dense cloud formed above him, their cries for the fresh flesh, that they could smell, just added to the racket of mourning friends. But he stood, impassively as he watched children being carried away by close friends. But he had none. He was alone. No one would help him through the years to follow, the nights of tears and the days of solitude. Soon the cell door would lock and he would fade. But for now he could escape. He rose on shaky knees as he ripped himself out of his memories. But then collapsed again, it was too much. He couldn't do it anymore. The once proud young man, now stooped with age and sadness. Then he fell, never thinking he would live his last day on a battlefield, but it was fitting. He would die on the same soil as did his enemies, brought down by a vision, by a dream of his past. But no one would mourn his death…