Blood. It was everywhere. It filled Avarr’s nose with the metallic, rich smell. He was standing in the midst of a gruesome battle; one he did not belong in. He was forced into fighting, based upon his notable strength and skill, from the time he was eight years old. And here he was, fighting a battle he was ordered to give his all in based upon the rule of a king he did not truly stand behind.

The night air was a dark poison. The reek of death and agony was present behind every tree Avarr hid behind and every blade of grass that bared the blood of a fallen warrior. A fallen, innocent warrior, forced into a battle that was of utmost stupidity- over a small stretch of land that the enemy kingdom was suspected to be hunting upon, even though the land was clearly located within the kingdom’s borders. Avarr shuddered as a body crashed, limp, near where he crouched behind a large boulder. He recognized the fallen warrior as Arthur, a young boy whose bright smile always cheered up Avarr. What a waste, he thought bitterly. With his cunning smarts and strength, Arthur had so much potential, he could have been anything he desired to be in life. But, it was all torn from him because of one small strip of land. Avarr shook his head and peeled his gaze from the boy’s still body, returning his attention to the seemingly never-ending battle. It seemed to grow bloodier by the second, with bodies crashing to the ground and the sound of arrows firing and the screams and cries of the warriors.
Avarr knew he was not safe for long. They would notice him here. And if a warrior from his kingdom noticed of his cowardly act of hiding, he would surely have to speak to the king of his act of treason. And who knows what punishments awaited him after that. Avarr stood up slowly on shaky legs, not daring to look back at Arthur’s fallen body. A tear escaped from his eyes, and he cautiously walked towards the end of the boulder, drawing an arrow over his shoulder and preparing his bow. He had absolutely no intent to kill someone; he had not the heart to do so, especially not over a quarrel so wasteful. But he had to at least look as if he were fighting.
He peered around the edge of the boulder and shuddered. Only half of the warriors that had come to the battle were left, with the other half collapsed on the forest floor, arrows protruding from various places on their bodies. It was a sickening sight, and he felt the slightest bit of nausea rise in his stomach at the sight of a fallen enemy warrior, whose head was nearly completely severed off. Keep it together, he told himself as a sob threatened to escape his lips. Avarr decided that if he wouldn’t step out into the battle now, then he would never be able to join in the fight. So he mustered what little strength was still inside of him and leaped out into the midst of the battle. Bodies flew around him, and battle cries filled his ears. He looked rapidly around, wishing he had some sort of plan before he threw himself into this mess.
Suddenly, something large and heavy crashed into him, sending him tumbling to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him, and for a moment he could not breathe. He lay there, gasping for air as he attempted to raise his head. Upon him was a dead, limp warrior, a large one, at that. Avarr let out a cry and pushed with all his might until the warrior fell off of him and crashed into a small patch of grass. He lay there, never to rise again.
Avarr could not move. He sat there in a daze, too stunned to think clearly. All he could do was stare at the fallen warrior, and picture himself in the warrior’s shoes. He was certain this would be his death. Before Avarr could decide on a course of action, a deep, piercing pain shot through his left shoulder. He screamed and whipped his head around. His eyes met those of an enemy warrior, who held a thin sword in his hand. Avarr reached to touch his shoulder. He pulled back his hand, which was now coated in blood that glistened under the moonlight. In awe, he looked back to the warrior who now loomed over him, a menacing snarl upon his lips. He raised his sword high above Avarr’s head, with every intent to plunge it into his scalp. All Avarr could do was accept his fate and stare at his soon-to-be killer. He shut his eyes.
But death never came. Avarr dared to peek through the hands covering his face. He nearly collapsed in relief when he saw the enemy warrior dead on the ground, an arrow lodged deep in his eye and a pool of blood trailing from it. Percival walked to him and stood over the warrior, his eyes glazed and a certain sadness present in them. Avarr did not blame him. It was yet another wasted death over a battle that could have been settled without a need for war.
Still, Avarr was deeply grateful for Percival’s saving of him. He wished he could have said more than just ‘thank you’ before Percival jumped back into battle, leaping for an enemy warrior that was attacking a small boy. Avarr noticed with a shudder that scarcely anyone remained on the battle field. The shrieks and cries had died down almost completely, and there was a deadly silence that loomed throughout the forest. Avarr reached back to touch his shoulder again. The blood was still seeping from his wound, but it had slowed down greatly and he no longer felt any pain. He couldn’t help the sob that escaped from his lips as he glanced up and watched Percival get stabbed in the heart by the hands of an enemy warrior.
As he looked around the field, he realized with cold horror that all of his fellow warriors were dead. Only a handful of enemy warriors remained, triumphant smiles plastered on their faces despite their tremendous loss of life. Slowly, they turned and noticed him sitting there in a pool of blood from the wound on his shoulder. He stared at them, helpless, hoping that, by some miracle, they would let him flee. But they were not that kind. The enemy warriors narrowed their eyes at Avarr and drew their weapons. They stalked over to him with wicked smiles. Avarr shrunk down into the undergrowth and lowered his head. This was it for him, he would suffer the same fate as his fellow warriors. And at the end of the day, nothing had truly been won. Not at the expense of so many lives. At least he no longer would have to serve the king.
A large man stepped forward. In his hand was a long sword. Its blade glistened in the rising sun as dawn peeked over the horizon and seeped through the tall trees. The man raised it above his head. For a moment, Avarr could have sworn he saw a glimmer of sympathy flash in his eyes, but it was instantly replaced with rage. He brought the sword down.

The End