We Few

By Ralvas Avitian,
(The book doesn't have many copies and its covers are made of old darkened leather, the leather cut and generally having a rustic look, on the spine it reads “We Few That Remain” other copies just say “We Few”)
Made to try and convey a small portion about all that serve an Empire, Duchy or Coat of Arms. And the true meaning of Honor and Glory.
As I write this, sitting upon the cold ground of this rubble-ruined bridge, I look around at what be left, be the spoils, for some, be the righteous victory, the glorious battle, but there is no righteousness that lie here . . .
All I see is bodies. the bridge itself ruined and broken, and then there, the head of that undead I had slain, taller than I, with round black eyes, pale skin, and nearly no reaction to pain.
I remember running up to the bridge when I saw the commotion, running over drawing my sword as the ground shook itself, I ran in beside this man in plate, helping him fight off the thing, we slashed and hacked but it ought not fear nor flail, finally after the man{ wielding a greatsword} managed to cut nearly half its head off, I finished the job, delivering the final cut, the things head rolling off its stump of a neck, falling to the ground as the body fell over the side.
But I continued, running further down the bridge into the marsh land, that’s when I was covered in the beings shadow, it by thy self, blocking the sun's light it seemed from reaching us at its feet.
It must have been over 20 feet tall, as I turn all I see is the undead and soldiers, hospitallers and knights… it was a mess. That day everyone there had their own taste of a little war. A little death.
I turn seeing a Lattern Knight turn to me and yell “It’s a Wretched; Watch out you fool!” before I felt the ground shake, looking up I see the foot of the beast rise ready to strike me down, the knight grabbing my arm throwing me aside, I tumble to the ground as the earth rumble, the mud splash up as I see its boot hit the ground, and I, very alive.
As I get myself up picking up my sword still covered in blood from the beast of earlier, I turn, what I assumed to be a knight rises his war hammer to crash down on me, I rise my sword to block as I sidestep quickly, nearly falling as I feel the wind itself move aside from the hammer as it fell beside me, I felt nothing, I was numb, so much adrenaline I couldn’t even speak, my scarf that hung over my mouth slipping down.
Covered in chain and gambeson, wearing a helmet of full steel I saw not its eyes, thinking it a knight or civilian I didn’t attack it, stead yelling to stop, I block a few more strikes as he brings his hammer down upon me, I struggling to hold him off, the man making no noise.
Suddenly I feel a hard crash at my left shoulder, I fall to the mud ground of the battlefield, above me stand a 8th Foot soldier, crashing down his axe on the knight's helmet, breaking his rusty metal helmet like a watermelon.
I see now its face, that of a man, but rotten, his skin gray and green of decay and his eyes pale of white. The 8th rushes on, running after another enemy.
I lay there in the mud, looking around me in a haze as my body moved by itself. My instincts of just try to survive, running through my head…
I stand shakily, midst it all, my sword barely hang on my hand, it thyself was muddied and bloodied, the edges broken and rolled, dented, and chipped.
I look down at the undead’s corpse… I yelled at it to stop as if it were alive…Its lifeless eyes staring up at I, almost speaking to me, calling for help by its eyes alone, its distraught expression. I look back everything still blurry, my ears ringing, the wretched beast stomping around, it’s sword of un-measurable size, but before I could think,
Another undead ran up to I, A longsword in its hand, it wearing a kettle helmet and Lattern uniform, like I… in shock I squint, in fear, I raise my sword, the skeleton was wearing an old uniform, like one of my fathers.. I was shaken and before I could parry his slash. A split second, just a moment,
I was hit, Its blade striking the side of my face, I fall to a sit on the mudded ground, my sword clanging to the ground, my hand trembled as I reached up, my face was cold, I was losing vision everything going dark around the edges of my field of view, I felt the side of my face, The cut ran from the edge of my mouth to the end of my jaw… a straight cut, it had broken through the skin a gash showing the inside of my mouth…I saw the blood on my fingers and I knew I had touched it but I didn’t feel it, the tips of my fingers were null, I couldn’t feel anything I realized.. my heart raced as I backed into a tree, my back rest against it as I held my face together, my hand covered in the undead’s blood, and mine…
I faded away… it was dark and cold, and I no longer heard the clanking of swords and axes, or the rumble of the wretched’s boot, or the dash of soldiers running, or the wail of injured civilians… it was silent, I was gone.
I was brought back as I slowly started to see again, my eyes opening weakly I saw a hospitaller, slapping me to wake up, I groan and mumble, but I can’t speak, my mutters he reads as best he cans and heals me, slowly as I sat there I felt the very tissue matter rebind and heal, I still was numb, and null, but the wound was gone, all that was left was a scar that didn’t look pleasing.
And Why do I write this…? As I sit here on the bridge it had all started, my crimson and white uniform, now painted with blood and mud, my scarf stained red on the side I had gotten hit, its fabric itself torn…
I write this now, my hands still trembling, my uniform still bloodied, my boots still muddied… the feeling of death that I had just so narrowly escaped racing through my mind…
Just to try to show or help demonstrate the soldier’s moment in battle, and its reality, and the reality we few face. for it ought not be glory or fame or righteousness… because, yes, we did kill all the undead, and we stormed away that wretched, and I slew that undead, and cut its head loose from its body, but at the end of the day, I struggle to be able to say the words or think them, be “We Won Gloriously here" without believing it. And knowing some widow now lie crying and some son weeps, while those words, those phrases ring…
I lie here in the bodies of those too late to be healed, too late to retreat…
I struggle to find honor here, find glory or victory, while our commanders sit and hear the words that we stormed them back, then all we’ll here is of the great victory, while wives be left without husbands and fathers without sons, even the enemy we fought, ought not be an opposing army, but the undead too, once alive… once like I or any other.
Our victory, Simply means we killed them enough that they stopped killing us. But that is not victory! The only who win are thee who did not take part, and the Generals of which we follow, they win, but you or I?!
But although this, I fight for my empire, for Lattern, and I will continue to fight till the day I die, because I know that letting those undead storm through that bridge and raid the villages, the city… that will be no victory, in any sense, that will be a slaughter of all.
And so, I will serve cheerfully, but I will not be fooled, there is no honor in death, or the battles they tell you of in stories, the only honor I can find to sit beside me here and to sit right with me, is that honor cannot be found is the slaughter, or in the battle, or in the killing or the death, it doesn’t exist there… but in the living of others, I just pray… that the price costed less for the security of our people, our families, our cities and culture and history, I wish that we did not have to pay so many lives in exchange for that of others lives, that young men like we would have to go out and fight and die just so that another few lot of people back home can live and learn and have well, honest and true lives.
This story is not to be an accusation nor confession, I am a soldier, and I will serve and do as am ordered till I die by the sword I fight by. But ultimately of all things, this is not to be an adventure, or a tale of a glorious victory or a honorable knight, for, death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it, those who have been so close to death that the stench lingers still, and the memories of the bodies and the mud never flee. There is no adventure or honor in that, the honor lies in the why not the how, why we fight, why we go and put our lives at risk, to defend our loved ones, our families, our loved ones, that is honor, that is glory! There is nothing more honorable than fighting for them and making sure they prosper another day, because of you, but how…how we have to fight…it is all death, mud and blood till one side yields.
This story is simply made to tell of the few, the few that remain, after the fire clears, and the smoke fades… Why we continue, that is why we fight, that is where we find our honor, we the broken, the scarred and hurt, the ruined and selfless. the few ones that fought and lived to fight again… We, Few.