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How did I leave? If I may dictate as such…
Before me lay the Landmiltz lieutenant, Sir Henry Walker. He lay propped up upon the corpse of my steed and battered by mud. After about a quarter hour’s worth of writhing, he parses his lips and orates to me.
“You’re a coward, McAllice.” He says in a low grumble.
The tear at my integrity slips my mind as I am relieved to see my friend and comrade able to muster some speech once again.
“Lieutenant Walker!” I joyfully said and rushed to his side. “I took you for a deadman! Thank the heavens, you live!”
“I wouldn’t be your first,” Henry coldly snapped. “Have you laid your eyes upon your men?”
Indeed I had. The last of the lines held in a redoubt rapidly making into mud. Beneath them lay the grey mass of bodies and deep red of their spoiled blood. Some adorn the clothes of peasants and laborers, yet many stand draped in the King’s royal crimson. Each pedal of color in the otherwise estranged crowd sent a pain through me many times more powerful than any bullet could inflict upon me.
“You did this.” He said, refusing to cast his eyes upon me.
“Why, of course I did!” I said in denial. “I orchestrated this great defense!”
“You killed your men.” He said, his eyes remaining hidden behind the visor of his shako.
“You killed these men. Every last one.”
“Don’t speak of such insolen-” He cut me off.
“YOU killed me. If it was not for you, my men would be alive and could see their sons.”
All my relief for the man’s condition eroded as the tides of anger swept ashore.
“Not that you would know…” he continued “Having lead your son into death like you do your men now.”
I shouted at the man.
“YOU DARE NOT DISHONOR MY SON!”
“You already have.” Henry said coldly.
The redoubt was challenged now. Those at the rear of the line began to flee from their posts. One officer shot a deserter in the leg with his fusil. The worst he did was to leave him upon the mud without any mercy killing. Then there was the sound. The thunder and rain, but most of all the screams. As these men were pulled into the mass I heard each one’s scream and heard the scream of my own son. The crack in the voice that had sung so beautifully in the church choir ripped away at the hand of Satan.
At this I shouted and drew my fusil from around my chest and leveled it at Henry. I squeezed the trigger of my piece, yet the explosive discharge came not to fruition, as the flint failed to light when struck in the harsh weather. I was in shock at my own doing now. Not only had I truly failed my men, I had even attempted to slay one by the end of my own iron. It was in that moment that I realized all was lost. My son, my men, my honor, my Majesty. Henry finally looked up at me, or at least the thing puppeting him did. His eyes were flushed red with blood yet reflected the light of a bolt of lightning in such a vivid form. Now I had lost my friend too.
I knew he soon would leap for me and have at my entrails. Now when I surveyed the formation I saw about a hundred of my sons, their faces in panic or horror or fear, watching their siblings being pulled limb from limb in front of their very eyes. I had failed them. All I could do for them now was to abandon my hubris. I brought the muzzle of my fusil to my chin, cocked the lever and squeezed the trigger with my thumb rather than my index finger. This time, the flint lit, and I ended my time in the mortal plain.
“Or so I hope,” Captain McAllice said. “You did say my son was here, yes?”
He stood in a void. Darkness surrounded him on all sides, yet he stood upon a floor constructed of the finest marble possible. A winged figure lay before him in the air. The figure was illuminated from the back as to show some greater plain it hailed from, yet any details were lost to McAllice who was entombed in the darkness.
“Yes, your son lays with us,” the figure spoke. “Yet it cannot be undone, that his falling and the fallings of your men lay upon your heavy shoulders.”
McAllice began to sob.
“I attended church, lord, I never broke any of the ten commandments!”
“Except the first, ‘thou shalt not kill’.”
“I did it in service of his majesty, surely war dead are welcome here,” McAllice asked. Panic once again found its way into his face.
“They are,” the angel assured, “yet you bear too much sin to be among them…”
The darkness slowly lifted, as the figure began to rise out of sight.
“Your body will wither” the angel said “and what services you have left may be unfortunately surrendered to Lucifer." The angel was now nearly out of sight. McAllice tried to speak, yet found he could not.
“Your soul no longer belongs to you. I’m sorry, child, I cannot save you in this apocalypse.”
McAllice’s body lurched. His eyes glowed white. The creature's thoughts bear no contemplation, merely animalistic drive.
“He’s alive!” A private shouted with glee. He made his way to his former commander. It was thought that McAllice took his own life before he could witness his regiment be reinforced. The day was gloomy, grey, as clouds of ash blotted out the sun. The bodies were being burned for fear they may still possess the fibers of hate necessary to animate still. Yet the private cared not for the concern. He had heard great tales of McAllice, and took a childlike joy in finding him. He dreamed of being a hero, written into books of history at the Battle of Cornwall as the private who discovered the heroic commander formerly missing in war. He turned the commander over to stare at his face. McAllice saw a boy who bore a striking resemblance to him and his son: his green eyes only found in his family, the golden blonde hair of his mother, and the ever so eager beard which McAllice and his son fought a losing war to keep within regulation. It looks like he just shaved. McAllice ushered one word.
“Son?”
Then its teeth sank into the neck.