Have you read Series 3.5 so far?
And You're Dead
Chainmail (Where you are now)
Chapter 1: Water
A man ploughed the ground. It was a beautiful dawn, he thought. Bright and pink and orange. The sun rising in the sky, filling it with colour. His thirty second birthday on the horizon. He was getting old. Ten more years and he would be six foot under. Still, beautiful. Would be more beautiful if only she was there, though. The man was dressed simply, in blue and brown leather. Simple, poor. The most visually interesting thing on his body was a simple piece of chainmail. But work was no time to feel emotions. What remained of his family would not thank him for slouching off, dreaming.
It was beautiful, though. This bit of the country. Always a clear sky. Never one drop. The town that never rains, that's what it was called. The only water here came from the lake and the tears trying to escape his eyes. No real name, because no one needed it. People always knew what you meant.
Oh, shoot. He was thirsty now.
"Arthur!" he called, across the field, absent-mindedly scratching his neck. "Could you go get me a bucket of water?"
A smallish boy of about ten, with brown hair and brown eyes, looked up. "Yes, Dad!"
Arthur. Now there was something he still had. Good old Arthur. Always causing mischief, and asking why he wore the mail. Like he'd ever tell.
A slight smile played across his features. He did not have an old face, unless you meant by their standards, but he had been through a lot, so it was good to know he could still smile.
He felt the chainmail on his body, more than before, like it was heavier. Well, that shouldn't have been possible. It was contracting. No. NO!
The sky was red. No, that was just the blood.
"ARRRRGHH!"
He sat up with a jolt. Just… a dream. Y-yeah. That- worked. Yeah. A very… vivid dream. He looked up at the sky. Nice and blue. Midday. Oh god, he had slept in!
As he hurried to get his clothes on, he barely noticed the chainmail felt heavier.
The door shone in the sunlight. His hand was hovering over the doorknob, his mind on Arthur, before realising that he was obviously already up and about. He walked out.
Wait- hang on. It was his birthday! How could he have forgotten that? He smiled to himself, and then to the town around him. The tall buildings, the thatched roofs… the town that never rains… his home.
Right. Well, he may as well get to work.
He felt uneasy as he walked down to the field. It was just a dream, he kept telling himself. Nothing to worry about. He would be fine. Nothing and no one would want to hurt him. And then he thought back to only four years before, when the Normans came.
He swallowed. He was fortunate to have survived. But there was no point thinking about all that right now! He scratched the back of his neck. One day, he was going to have to throw it away. That was to be a sad day.
As he walked over, he saw Arthur hard at work.
"Oh! Hi, Dad! Happy birthday!"
He managed a slight smile, scratching his torso. How long had that mail been itchy? It must have only been recent.
It was while this train of thought was stopping off at was-it-a-week-ago station that he fell to the ground, writhing with pain.
"Dad? Dad!?" Arthur shouted in surprise, never much good in a crisis.
He struggled out the choked phrase: "Water… water!"
"Uh, right!" Arthur glanced around. There was a bucket about three metres away. He lunged for it and splashed it over his father.
Instantly, he crumpled to the ground. Arthur edged over, whimpering, and checked his pulse.
Gone.
