The day of the fall

What I find strange is not the fact that I didn’t remember it like this until today, but the fact that I managed to remember in so much detail. When I saw the scar it all came back to me and then I realized how odd it all is, how that recall in particular doesn’t even feel like a memory, when I start thinking about it, it feels like I am reliving everything all over again.



I made a habit of never dwell over it too much after the battle ends, there is actually no point there at all. Once it’s done, it’s done and it cannot be changed so why twist it over and over again in my mind? For the same reason, I do not tell nor listen to war stories; but today, it suddenly hit me. It is probably because it’s been out of the ordinary from the beginning (it’s been one of the few times when I’ve actually been deliberately vindictive in battle; most of the times, my fight is strictly survival, saving as much force and energy as possible under the circumstances). It’s because I’ve been hurt to the shoulder and that wound still stings each time the weather changes.



It was not much of a fortress but it had been giving us a lot of pain. My men and I were seizing it for weeks now and it would not fall; so, winter was coming fast and we became more and more filled with anger and thirsty for revenge. Then one day, we finally took it and we went wild, that day more than usual. My men plundered the city and ravened all they could and I must confess I did not care anymore I just let them be. In the end, they brought it down to the last stone and finally put it on fire, that was the outcome, and afterwards, we managed to get through and return home.

However, this was later on. Back then, even though I tried to remain wary, some of the excitement of the victory around got to me and, as I was scorning my self for being so relaxed, I couldn’t really help it, after all those long days of siege.

It was that day when I entered on foot into the left wing; I assumed there is where their rulers or priests used to gather because the rooms were bigger than the rest and richly decorated. I let a couple of my men behind searching the rooms for jewelries, furs and weapons and I moved toward the bottom of what it seemed to be a council room. With the corner of my eye, I noticed a tiny slot in the rocky wall. I stepped down carefully and there it was, an old wooden door seeming like it has not been opened in years. Just the kind of door that would have bared a treasure room, I distinctly remember thinking, as the door finally cracked under the handle of my sward. I stepped cautiously inside, took one or two steps, trying to accustom my eyes with the grayish light, then suddenly I found myself roughly jumped on from behind.



I could feel the cold knife finding its way underneath the shield, between my shoulders and then the gory explosion of pain in my mind. A crimson wave, coming all over me as I was struggling to breath, an ocean of darkness thorn by a blaze so red, just like the curtain of thick blood that rose over the narrow streets of the city that day of the fall.

I think I yelled as I was clashing my way out of the grip and have done so for some time thereinafter, but I cannot be sure.

When my men, drawn by my screams, finally rushed in, they found me, back against the wall, with my sword drown out and yelling like a lunatic. "I've been attacked," I said, between curses, "I could not see them but I managed to fight them of. I think I am wounded; I got stubbed in the back".

The confusion and doubt on their faces was obvious to me, even in my state of anxiety. "Sir”, the sergeant said hesitantly, after a short while, “there is no other exit and we meet no one on our way in ..."

I shook my head, insistently. "You think I'm crazy, man? I tell you someone attacked me. I've been stubbed in the shoulder, for the sake of Gods!” There was still some reluctance on their faces but they have been accustomed for so long to follow my orders they did not questioned anymore. "Can you walk, Sir”, they asked “Let's get out of here". I confirmed, silently; “Just watch out” I said and tried to take a step toward the door when I suddenly stumbled and I would have collapsed haven’t they caught me just in time.

“It’s the damned shoulder” I said, “stings like hell”. With the help of my men, I stepped out into the council room. The light outside had begun to dim as the night approached. “We must get back to camp” I said, and requested the sergeant to place guards on the entry into the left wing and then, all around the building, thinking there must be another exit that we haven’t still found.  I ordered the guards to stand prepared at all times and, as everything was coming into place, I finally took a moment to catch my breath.

My wound whistled like the fire itself and the ache clasped somewhere in the back of my brain, pumping forth a torrent of black light.  I pulled the sergeant aside. “Help me take off the shield” I said, “I need that wound looked after”. He unfastened the leather restraints securing the forged cuirass and removed it, exposing the hauberk. I pulled it over my head nervously, my shirt all together. The pain, coming and going, like a wave, was now agonizing and made my face twitch. “How bad is it?” I asked. “I think I’m bleeding”

“There is no blood, Sir” … the sergeant answered hesitantly, “There’s nothing … there is no wound”.



I laid down in my tent for days.

My men were obviously worried and even though they tried to act normal around me, I was well aware of their feelings.  I could not really blame them: I had been the one pretending an enemy no one could see attacked me, the one who alleged an injury that was not there. I knew even then how it seemed.

The pain was always there, piercing my left shoulder and my brain all together. I was under the impression I was loosing blood, feeling dizzy and week most of the time. My mind was unclear and I would often fall into a heavy, agitated sleep interrupted by horrific crimson visions, filled with fear and regret and loneliness ... visions of love and hate collating behind my eyes. It took me more than three days to be able to eat. I don't know how long it's been until I manage to stay awake for longer then a few minutes.



When my men thought I was asleep, I could hear them talking about it, in a small voice. The rumor that the Commander has lost had already spread through the camp.  The sergeant was blaming the evil forces that got us to that place and kept us there, prophesying that I was just the first and others will follow. Soon, he started speaking of witchcraft and, as he was experienced and well respected, I knew it would not take long to convince the others. This could not go one if I wanted to keep my command.



Then some morning I realized I was better but I had to use all my forces to get up of bed. I called for the sergeant. The men were still doubtful but somewhat relieved to hear I am making sense.

I did not refer to my latest condition. In stead, I requested information on the inhabitants of the fortress; they did not know how many were killed or wounded. Some, they said, managed to escape. There were no prisoners.

I also realized I had been out of this world for more than three weeks, just the amount of time it took for them to tear down the fortress and burn it to the ground. The sergeant was now looking down embarrassed. "You were ... well... you know ... ill, Sir. We kept watch for more than ten days and no one appeared. The men were getting impatient; we’ve been stacked here for months, in this wilderness... I thought it best to get red of it once and for all." He was obviously relieved when he finished.

I felt something dark pulsing in a corner of my mind; rage was growing inside me, behind my control. "Get the men and the horses ready. We are leaving." I gave my orders in a husky voice, hands clamped on the handle of the sword. Some of that pain was coming back.