Enemy´s Eyes

The soldiers came walking back, picking their way through the bodies. Some in a daze, others joyous and relieved.

A meaty hand crashed down on Daul’s back.

"You’re first battle, right lad? Nice to see you‘ve made the cut." It was the man-mountain with the fiery beard. "You’ve got a few tricks now, you’ll make it OK. The ones that survive their first battle, tend to make it all the way. Glad to have you with us."

Daul didn’t make a response. He knew what the difference was between the ones that made it and the ones that didn’t. The ones that made it killed. They ignored the pleas for mercy in the enemies’ eyes, they accepted the rules of the situation they were in and didn’t waste energy on dreams for a peaceful future.

Daul looked up and the carnage and the brutes that surrounded him. This was his world, these were his people, the desolation and the foulness of the living.

He glanced down one last time at the body at his feet, peaceful in its death-mask, and as he turned to walk off the field of battle with the other grotesque and misshapen approximations of the living, he wondered who the real victor was.

The End