Disease

 

An infantryman, remembering the last war, was returning to an old battlefield where few had survived. Back then, the day carried fog; today, the day was drawing to a close. Back then, they didn't know what might await us. We didn't know the enemy's tactics; we were marching into slaughter. A few points on the map, diligently moved by personnel in their respective directions. It was a lost battle then; the enemy had long known everything about us. He knew our weakest point, where it would hurt us most.

We march steadily, sword to sword, shield to shield. We fight for motives that no one else needed. For freedom, they shouted. What kind of freedom commands us to die? For love, they insisted, speaking of something they don't even know. For faith, they proclaimed, no faith requires unnecessary human sacrifice.

We march, and now we see the mountain, its slightly flattened peak. A huge boulder fell there, but over the years, nothing has remained of it. It crumbled into millions of pieces, and the peasants completed the dismemberment. Piece by piece, the stone revealed its inglorious secret. Bones, bent metal, fragments of banners. Nothing remained of these proud soldiers, almost heroes; if they had lived, they would have trained another magnificent army that would now face an old enemy that remains incredibly difficult to defeat. They would have marched fearlessly, dying one by one in one great, painful slaughter.

God, honor, homeland. They shouted, advancing steadily and confidently. They captured the hill, a good strategic point. Our archers thus had a field day to showcase their skill. Command could maintain visual contact with each unit, issuing more judicious orders about who, and in what order, would march in the enormous queue to their death. What a surprise awaited them when, watching the lightning-fast advance of enemy forces retreating from the Hill of Hope, a dot appeared on the horizon. It grew larger with each passing moment, followed by a whole swarm of its kind. Their weight covered the entire area of ​​the hill, creating a single mass of rock. No one survived.

As soon as we lost our superiors, who were probably wondering where they had gone wrong, the war chariots charged us. A terrifying death machine, drawn by two horses, hurtling towards us at incredible speed, was unstoppable. Enormous swords attached perpendicularly to their wheels whistled. This whistle was a rhythm, the rhythm of the dance macabre. Each unfortunate caught in these blades became a fragment of a dozen or so other soldiers; the red mass near where he stood was the only evidence of this. The charioteers wisely did not plunge headlong into us but, accelerating, drove up to the front line. I stood at a distance. But even from there, I saw red fountains, larger and smaller fragments of my friends, the brave ones.

I still felt safe; our brave officers, who were with us, or rather, behind us, were constantly ordering us to move forward. They killed anyone who, out of fear, decided to flee. In the net, we heard another whistle, more piercing. It was rain. A heavy rain of metal, lashing out between us, often enveloping the soldiers in a tight embrace. Arrowheads were also an interesting tool for spreading death. Well, necessity is the mother of invention. Their heads were designed to constantly spin in flight. As they fell, the arrow spun at an incredible speed. When it hit a man in the chest, it continued through. It left a hole behind, a hole large enough for me to easily put my hand through. I won't describe what happened to such an unfortunate man's head, or how high it could have flown.

Thanks to the genius of our command, the chariots, and the arrows, we lost three-quarters of our soldiers within fifteen minutes. The survivors stood in puddles, pools, swamps of blood and the entrails of their former comrades. I myself was a conglomeration of hundreds of men standing within ten meters of me. Not a single officer survived. And only now were their infantry advancing on us.

I was in shock, unable to move forward or flee. I watched as the mass of blackness and steel approached. They were like siege engines. They walked heavily, carrying enormous two-handed swords. They wore helmets that concealed their faces, all identical. They could kill with the mere fear of their appearance. They passed me by as if I weren't there; I stood in the center of their group, unable to draw a breath. I closed my eyes… not to strike, foaming at the mouth and screaming, to be described in ballads, so that my courage would be proverbial. I closed my eyes, waiting for death, I feared it.

She approached me silently. She touched my arm. I didn't feel the cold. Her hand was gentle, it took my stiff fingers, and we walked south. She led us away from the battlefield. We walked among the motionless statues of her army.

We walked a good two miles away from that terrible place. She let go of my hand. She looked into my eyes and kissed it...

And there I was, standing before the hill. I saw my companions. Two units with archers were charging up the hill to capture it for the headquarters; they would have a better view of the entire battle.

Wait a moment... is this a little day of viu? No, this is another unequal battle with my addiction.