Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Winterfyllēð 14, 1066

I'm slowly losing what's left of my mind. I shouldn't have let him bring me. I shouldn't have let him convince me that this would be better—safer. I'm not sure my safety is worth this. The movies I watched in Abby's life can't begin to touch the true horror of battle.

The din is the most wretched thing I've ever heard. Screams—human and animal—ring above the clash of weapons and bodies. The lines of men shift and flow like water, struggling against one another in a field turned soggy underfoot by the blood soaked into the soil. Bodies litter the ground, making the footing even more treacherous.

I am close enough to see, but not near enough to know. It would have been impossible to pick out Deniel among the thousands of other knights, anyway, but my heart still turns to ice every time I see a horse fall or see one of the mounted warriors torn to the ground.

Flocks of arrows dart back and forth, men cut down like wheat beneath each deadly barrage.

The fighting has been going on since morning. I don't see how it can possibly last much longer. All day I've stood watch on my little hill, bearing witness to this battle. Hoping and praying feels useless, but I can't stop myself from begging anything and everything to show mercy. To spare him.

My lips still feel bruised from the force of his last kiss. I'm afraid this is just wishful thinking—just some way for my mind to cling to him.

Once, William's line had broken, the mercenaries on his left flank retreating. I watched the English troops give chase, caught between horror and a strange sense of triumph. But the route didn't last. The duke restored order and the mercenaries turned and fell on the English troops, obliterating them.

As the day has progressed, the Normans have feinted two more retreats. I know they are feinted because the knights are turning back, not just the mercenaries and there is a certain terrible order to their withdrawals. Each time, the English lines have given chase only to be cut down when they're drawn far enough away from King Harold's main force.

The English soldiers who remain standing have tucked themselves up against a hill, preventing William from outflanking them. The battle has a new sort of fever-pitch to it as the sun begins to sink into the west. The Normans are pressing harder, knights crashing through what's left of Harold's shield wall. 

I think the English are beginning to crumble. 

I wonder if it makes me a traitor, this sense of relief beginning to bloom in my chest.

                                                                                 ~~*~~

It was nearly full dark before I heard the only sound I'd been waiting for—the stumbling beat of weary hooves.

I shot up from where I'd been huddled in a cloak at the base of a sprawling maple and sprinted toward the sound, my mind whispering words of caution. The horse drew to a halt when I came bursting from the trees and I slowed slightly, squinting through the gloom.

He sat slumped in the saddle, exhaustion showing clear in every line of his body. His voice was little more than a ragged whisper. "Aeleva?"

A sob rose in my throat as I ran the last few steps. His horse flicked a weary ear, but just stood with its head lowered, sides lathered with sweat and blood. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't the same horse he had ridden away on this morning. This one was a massive bay.

With a groan, Deniel heaved himself off the horse. He managed a grand total of two steps before his legs gave and he collapsed, slamming into the grass, his breath a thready gasp against the now silent night.