Nimmer Het Htilzetten

Thin, fragile beams of light poured through the cracks of the
porthole, and he was thankful to see day. Silence had blanketed the area, replacing the horrific screams and other Hellish sounds of warfare.

He had been down there for so long, his only company in the rancid shelter being the vermin and insects. He could feel them, crawling up his limbs and nesting in his hair. But it meant nothing to him. He wasn’t out there, with his father.

Tired and weakened muscles willed him to his feet. Having to
crouch slightly from the ceiling’s short height, he eagerly scratched his hands along the porthole’s surface, searching for the lock release. Finding it, he pulled it out almost unsuccessfully, the battered airlock that hadn’t even been working wheezing open. Shouldering the metal lid, he put his
weight into pushing upwards, but it refused to budge. Pausing to catch his breath, he tried once more, grunting as the lid slid a few centimeters. Still, it was enough to squeeze his hands through, and, bracing his wrists, he began skidding the lid slowly aside. The more it moved, the more he could see what was weighing it down: a heavy mass, covered with torn
fabric and seeping with a crimson liquid. Frowning in wonder, he hefted the lid as far as it would go and gasped dryly, cringing backwards as an arm fell limply into the opening, obviously belonging to the mass that trapped him inside. Regaining his composure, he stepped towards it, immediately clutching the lifeless hand. On its icy fingers was a ring bearing the crest of royalty.

His strength returning to him, though fear gripped his stomach, he pulled himself out of the shelter, forcing his body through the constricted opening he had given himself. Halfway free, his weary arms gave out, causing him to stumble slightly back into the shelter. Leaning forward, he
gripped at the dampened ground surrounding the porthole, digging his fingers into the soil and hefting himself out with the last ounce of his strength. Falling upon his stomach in exhaustion, his cheek against the cool, wet ground, he cursed, knowing full well of his drained, sickly condition.

A coppery taste filled his mouth as his breath wheezed in and out, and he grimaced, his eyes snapping open. Lifting a hand to his face, his breath sharpened at the sight: the same red liquid that had covered the body drizzled through his fingers. The taste was familiar, like when he bit his tongue, or his younger days when he lost a tooth. The coppery flavor of
blood.

Scrambling to his knees, he wiped his hands on his shirt, staining the already dirty garment. Remembrance flushing through him, he crawled back to the body, muttering a beseeching ‘no’ over and over to himself. Almost afraid to touch it, he pulled the figure onto its back and peered at
its face. A crown of blood saturated the man’s hair and beard, and his face was almost unrecognizable, having been crushed to a concave mass of flesh and tissue. But the eyes, frozen open in deathly shock, he knew.

The ring did not lie. The body was the King’s.

Irate with reality, he stood, finally acknowledging the damage that surrounded him. As far as he could see, there were rivers of blood, emanating from bodies that lined the ground. Most dead, but some clinging to the last shreds of life created a human tapestry along the courtyard, which extended for nearly two miles. He cursed again, but now for the light that shed itself upon the sufferers, basking in the irony of forgiving light against such gruesome sights.

He was suddenly drawn to the item that hung around his neck,
scratching against his skin. Lifting the chain from beneath his shirt, he looked angrily at the talisman he had forgotten he wore. The sharpened points of a cross dug into his palm as he clutched it, and he snapped it from the chain.

“What sort of God would let this happen?” he muttered, his voice cracking tiredly. “To let so many of His children die… but spare one…” Disregarding his own blood that trickled along the cross, for it was little in comparison to what his people had cast, he drew his arm back and threw the cross as far as his strength would allow, his eyes following its decent until they would no longer focus.

In the distance, he could see soldiers, clad in enemy colors, trooping along the bodies; he guessed they were searching for survivors. Behind them, shackled to one another, were what was left of the King’s troupes, as well as some common folk. From his place, he could hear the weaker of the survivors’ wailings, and he could see their clothes, also draped with blood. And though the enemies had their share of battle wounds, still leaking, they stood taller and walked with no trace of a limp. They knew they had won.

Estimating his last moments, he turned back to what was left of the King. If they found him, those savages of Earth soldiers, he knew they would desecrate his corpse in loathing and lack of remorse for the dead. Taking his pocketknife, he first cut off the King’s beard, then scraped at his scalp, wincing at each fragment of skin that came loose. Burying the evidence, he lastly took up the King’s hand, kissed it, and removed the band of royalty he wore on his finger. Slipping it onto his own, his heart swelled momentarily in pride before placing the man’s hand onto his chest.

“Sleep well, my father. I’ll be with you soon.” Rising once more to his feet, the young prince turned to the forthcoming soldiers, still a ways away. Grasping his knife so harshly his knuckles turned white, he began towards them, his eyes stern. He would not go without a fight.

* NOTE *
I apologize if this offends you, in regards to the Christian/Catholic/etc. religion and my character’s attitude towards it. It’s vital to the story (as it continues – if it does), and I am in no way attacking God’s followers. Hopefully this doesn’t anger anyone, but if it does, again, I apologize, and please bear in mind that this is only a story.