Alar remembered the stories his mother had told him about war, tales of generals and heroes who had battled each other to leave devastation in their wake. Stories of great empires and even greater kings.
He had been excited then, dreaming like all children do of a life where he became such, he had been a fool. The scene he looked down on from the hiding spot was not his imagination of war.
He his behind a tree in a forest a little higher than the clearing where the forest was taking place. He had been attracted here by the noise of the armies while tending his father's flock, and on getting here. He had not been able to leave.
There was no glory, no valiant charge and no righteous anger like the stories said. All there was, was blood and gore. Queasy at this realization, Alar made to turn away. But, his will failed him and he remained frozen, watching the battle below.
The victor had been apparent from the start with an army dwarfing that of the other. But, the weaker army was not allowed to retreat...or surrender. They fought, and they died.
Now, hours had passed and the remnants of the armies still fought each other. The dead of both sides littered the ground, a gruesome carpet of red and black. The sun had moved a lot since he had left his father's flock to watch the battle; His siblings would be jealous of his adventure.
Smiling nervously, he thought to himself what a story he would tell them. He would not tell them about the paralyzing fear he had felt watching the battle, of course. But, every other detail would be true. His elder siblings would be suspicious of its authenticity, but the younger ones would believe every word. If the older ones argued too much, they could always come out here to see from themselves.
He was worried about the flock. He should not have left them them for so long. But, in his defence, which twelve year old boy could resist the sight of a real battle.
He turned, crouching and began to move down the hill. He reached the bottom of the hill and kept going, whistling softly to a familiar tune in a bid to keep his mind off the horror he had just experienced. Some innate part of him wanted to curl up on the ground whimpering. He ignored it.
He walked on for a while, when he stopped suddenly and turned, he had heard a rustle behind him. Finally, he turned back to the road, attributing the sound to a small animal in the forests. There were no dangerous animals in these woods.
A rustling sound came again. But, this time, it was from the opposite direction. "Its really late," he thought to himself "I better hurry." With that, he picked up the pace, attributing his haste to his willingness to get home and not the terrifying fear that gripped him. Ahead of him, he heard the bleating of the flock. He moved towards the sound, feeling relieved.
The third time, there was no warning, a hand closed around his throat cutting off his air, he struggled twisting and turning hoping to get free. The hand only tightened, he scrambled for a hold on the man but he could not find one. He felt himself weakening and his sight narrowing. His flailing hands caught the man's hide gloves, moving it up. His last thoughts before the darkness took him was wondering what kind of blade would leave such a scar.
The sun had gone down when a man came into the clearing having followed his son's tracks, he found the sheep milling about, of his son, he found no sign.
