Arkhiem's Story

Beneath the sweltering heat of a summer sun, Arkhiem was slowly dying. The wounds he had received during the battle a few nights past were taking their time in killing him. He lay awkwardly on his back with his head turned to the left. His left leg and pelvis had been broken badly by the impact of his horse falling over on him. The beast had been able to stand and gallop away in the midst of the fight, but he had lain screaming in agony as his comrades and enemies fought and fell all around him.1

In the chaos that brews in the belly of war, none had heard his screams or even noticed as they stepped on his face, torso and wounded lower half. Arkhiem had attempted to drag himself from the madness around him, but to no avail. The wild footfalls of horses and men had kept him from reaching safety, breaking more bones and flesh before he finally succumbed to darkness.2

Arkhiem had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He only was aware of the pain that had jolted him into awareness. The battle had long since been over and his bleary eyes had searched in desperation for a hand of mercy that would free him from the prison of agony in which his body had become. What he had found was a staggering silence. 3

It had taken most of his strength to lift his head and view the carnage around him and what he beheld had brought tears to streak his bloodstained face. 4

The lush meadow in which they had ridden into was no longer scenery of beauty and peace; it was now the very vision of the rampages of war. The dead lay in the scattered heaps in which they had fallen. Their armor glimmering in an ethereal blue glow beneath the full moon. The grass in which they lay was soaked with the blood of each fallen, and as the wind blew he could smell the foul, salty odor of it. 5

Or perhaps it was his own death he could smell, he was not sure.6

There were no sign of any wounded, nor could he see any horses lingering, as they often did when left without a rider. They must have been collected while he lay unconscious, bloody and broken. He was sure that any who had seen him must have thought him dead. 7

As he scanned the field he could make out the distant features of a few of his comrades. Their faces sallow and stained with blood. Some starred blankly through the grass, while others were mercifully closed. There were many young men amongst them. Some he had never seen before. His eyes blurred over with tears as he looked upon each victim of the feud that had taken their lives. 8

Arkhiem no longer looked at them as friend or foe. He could only see the complete despair of lives cut short, families torn apart, wives without husbands, children without fathers, and children that were never to be sired. All wasted away with the foolery of a war that had no real significance. The harsh reality of it had him weeping until sleep stole him away.9

When Arkhiem had awoke from a fitful sleep the next morning, he was ravaged with wave after wave of excruciating pain that ransacked his crushed body. Sharp blades of agony pierced through his hips and genitals as his bladder relieved itself without command. Horrible muscle spasms were wrenching through his wounded leg and his knee had swollen to the point that it seemed too big to fit in his armor. The pressure against the enlarged joint had his toes curling in such torture that his stomach writhed and twisted with illness.10

Unable to turn on his side, Arkhiem was forced to choke on his own blood laced bile before catching breathes of air in his burning lungs. The few moments in which he lay awake were such a misery that he became too exhausted keep sleep at bay.11

The fallen warrior woke once again to a hellfire of suffering. His body had become a niche to pain and torment. The merciless sun beamed down on him from a summer sky, filtering through the narrow slits of his helmet and burning his eyes with its light. The dry heat of a humid afternoon was intensified within the heavy metal of his armor. Arkhiem’s bruised and lacerated skin felt as though he were baking in an oven. The dried and hard scabs shriveled and contracted while the flesh surrounding them turned almost black before tapering off to dark bruises and then pale, whole skin. The overpowering odor of blood and death made his breath grow short and forced. 12

His blue eyes wept an endless river of tears. Tears for the fallen men around him, and his own sorry fate that crept closer and closer. 13

In his weary state, sanity began to lose its hold in his mind. Thoughts of past crusades and triumphs filled his thoughts, taking over the reality at hand. In his mental wanderings, some memories stayed true to the point, while others were subtly changed, leaving him with a plaguing voice that told him something was wrong. 14

At times his head would stay mercifully blank, a solid black void that would only be disturbed when his eyes opened to reveal the cruel, unrelenting, white hot sun beating down on him. It was in these grips of dreams and thought that he heard the laughter.15

A soothing, almost familiar sound that he barely heard in the distance. Almost bell like to his ears, reminding him of days of childhood and innocence. Arkhiem forced himself to claw towards the surface of life, if only for a moment, to better hear the chiming laughter. A warm wind blew and he could distantly make out the sound that it carried. 16

Such a wondrous sound, he thought. 17

In his transfixed wonder, Arkhiem had neglected to notice that the heat of the sun no longer burned his flesh. That a sensation of cold had fixed over his body, gently stilling his organs and muscles. His eye lids half closed before a welcoming tunnel of black began to fix over his vision.18

“No!” he thought, “I must see the angel of death” 19

As his sight began to grow narrow and more distant, a small shadow blocked the sun from his eyes. The last thing the man saw was beautiful to him.20

A glowing cherub sat before him. Young and innocent from the putrid evils of the world her god had created. Small orbs of glowing light seemed to shimmer around her golden hair and fair skin. She wore a gown of flowing white that billowed in the breeze and her tiny smile held all the promise of heavens gifts.21

Arkhiem tried to pull himself from the cold grip of death long enough to speak to the angel, but he was too weak and kept sinking further into oblivion. Darkness closed in around him and the cold embrace took all his pain and sorrow with it.22

In the last instant before Arkhiem joined the souls of his fellow victims of war, the scent of flowers filled is nose, blessing him with one small trinket from the living world.