Blood. Everywhere he looked all he could see was blood.
"Retreat! Retreat!" The captain called out, but which captain, which side? Everything seemed to slow down. Alfred felt numb even as the arrows pierced his flesh, his armor doing little to protect him. He felt limply to the ground, another loss to be counted nothing more. This battle and every other like it were all for the glory of the Agax empire. Even as the light slowly faded from his eyes Alfred wasn't afraid. He had been taught not to fear death, for he knew he would join his ancestors among the Gods. He would be merry and his ancestors would celebrate his arrival with food and drink.
All the trials in his life time were over. Or so he thought…
Alfred was dying, abandoned by his master who retreated leaving the dead and the dying. In the aftermath of the long and grueling battle, enemy soldiers patrolled the grounds, recovering the bodies of their own and killing the Alfred's soldiers. Soon, it would be Alfred dead at their hands if he did not bleed out first.
Then, a voice interrupted Alfred's death reverie, lovely with a high lilt as clear as silver bells. "Over ten thousands men died today fighting over a bridge. I remember when Man had such dedication to his gods." Out of the dead smoke from an extinguished fire the figure of a male emerged. He wore a short, sleeveless white chiffon with a single strap over one shoulder, but his features were shadowed in the near darkness.
Alfred watched him warily as he approached. The blood of fallen soldiers staining the earth to mud did not touch his sandals as he serenely picked his way across the carnage. The soldiers didn't notice, but continued salvaging the battleground and drawing nearer to Alfred.
It was a god, Alfred realized with alarm. An aura shimmered off his body like gold miasma, buffing his hair gold and brightening his brilliant emerald eyes. The god's eyes never left Alfred's face as he kneeled by the mortal's dying body. He gently cradled his head in his lap and stroked his filthy, bloody hair. "Dear knight," Britannia sighed with serene tenderness, "I have seen you battle this day. You fight valiantly, like a true gentleman, but here you are dying on the battlefield your army left you for dead."
"But I have greater plans for you. Your master may have lost and you may have been bested by other men, but you have won my favor." He continued stroking his hair. "Accept my favor and live another day to serve me, Britannia Angel."
Alfred was silent in his reverence of the deity before him, for such a god to have chosen him above all others was an honor indeed. He gasped out for breath as the reality of his wounds came back to him. 'I deserve not such an honor. Surely there are others who fought more bravely than I.' Alfred thought to himself as he rasped for the breaths that would prolong his fading life. 'Yet who am I to question the will of a god?'
"Yes." Alfred rasped out, "May I be of use to you in whatever way you see fit."
Britannia's fingers left his hair, drifting down the side of the knight's face with feather-light contact. His fingertips lighted over his lips and gently parted them. Then, he bent over Alfred and claimed his lips. He gently sucked on his cupid's bow before slanting his mouth over Alfred's and kissing him deeply. He tasted like honey, and his thirst was quenched. Alfred felt himself go drowsy even as they continued his blissful moment. It was all Alfred remembered before losing consciousness.
When Alfred woke up, it was daytime. He didn't know how long he sleep, or where he was. He lay in a pile of hay in an abandoned barn far out into the countryside, miles away from the battlefield. The knight was completely healed; not even the faintest scar told of his grievous wounds that would have cost him his life. And he was alone. Britannia was nowhere in sight, and Alfred could have thought it was dream if it weren't for the lingering taste of honey on his lips.
