This is an old story, maybe about five years old, but I’ve always loved this one.

It flowed, flowed out over the ground, soaking into the dirt. It spread into a pool around his stricken body, glinting red in the pale moonlight. His rugged chainmail gleaming again, red from his own blood and that of his enemies.

He lay on the battlefield, countless bodies strewed around him; some dead, some, like him wishing they were dead. The silence of the night was rent by the moans of the fallen.

Slowly, one by one, the moaners fell silent, finally achieving that last goal they had sought; death.

Alone the one soldier struggled on, silently, his life flowing out of him, one drop at a time. The blood flowed ever slower and slower, how he wished it would reach its end when no blood would ever flow again. But still a part of him clung to the life that would so soon be taken from him, it fought to prolong its time in the land of the living. That part of him clung to a tenuous consciousness, refusing him the black bliss of the unconscious.

There he lay, no longer really alive, yet not quite dead, merely waiting in some place in between; a place of blood.


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