Cold Hands and Sunrise

My mind awakens, as I do not. I know I am here and yet I cannot produce the right movements or signs to show it. I lie there for some time, my face pressed into the mud, until at last, I feel the smallest strength begin to enter my veins.

I open my eyes to find myself half submerged in the mire. It is marked by tufts of grass and trampled flowers. One has floated down before my eyes. I look at it for a while, taking in its pale stalk and wilting blossom. No colour remains there. I reach out with my bloodied hand, but, as a second thought, my fingers retract themselves. I do not deserve to hold such a delicate beauty, when I am such a hateful worthless object.

I ease myself up painfully onto one elbow and start to take in my surroundings.

How long have I lain here? I wonder dolefully. I look up. The sun is rising. Or is it setting? I could not possibly know. In the heat of battle, I have known for the battalion to start on one side and end up on the other, facing the wrong way even. Not that I have witnessed this many times. This is my third fight. The third time I have woken too; found myself alive again. But this is the first time I have been alone.

Eventually, I heft myself forward into a sitting position and work my way out of the mud and swamp. With a few shaking steps, I am standing and gazing round at the ruin around me. It is the most terrible thing I have ever seen. This is what we created. It is of our own making. And there I am: the last one standing, tears and blood shining out on my face as clear as the failing sunlight. Over there, the giant shadowy outline of a dragon, fallen from the skies, peppered with spears and the scales tore from its back. It is an island in a sea of the dead. A hand here, a leg there, sticking out in an undignified jumble of limbs. A sword erupts out of this chaos, like a shining finger or arrow about to fire at the sun.

But it never will.

The flags lean on each other like drunken men, their blazoned pictures so scarred with blood and rainwater that they are unidentifiable. I do not know which is my own symbol. I rode with the army under one of those flags. I close my eyes and see it again. The oncoming enemy thundering forward. I can still hear the echo of hooves and the roar of anger rising from either side. My lance tip plunges into armour...

Crimson madness. That is what they called it, back at home.

This warring business, people would say to you in the street, it's all crimson madness. All will be over by Yule.

It wasn't. It isn't. You can never anticipate when the end will come. A terrible thought comes to mind: I do not even know who has won. Here I am, a tattered and sullied lancer lying in the dirt, completely alone.

Foolish woman, they'll say then, Should have known better, shouldn't you?

I can feel the hot tears on my cheeks. I swallow down the rising sobs that long to escape from my lips but I will not let them. I am a soldier! The commander said a woman would be a weakness but I proved him wrong! I saved a man's life before. I was given a crest of honour.