The Black Hand

The hit had rendered Robert unconscious, for how long, he was unsure. But when he opened his eyes the Beast towered over him. He lay there dazed and grasping for breath as the world danced circles around him. His ears sang a deafening tone, all other sounds drowned out among the ringing.
The Beast sneered before it maneuvered itself as it had done with Captain Morgan. Twisting to the side so its giant foot could crush down on Robert’s sternum. Under its force, the Prince could feel his body sink into the rain softened earth.
But still, he refused to give in. Burrowing deep inside of him, he found a final reserve of energy. He mustered what he could and dared defy the weight of the Beast above him, managing to lift his body the shortest of ways. The pain that raked his broken ribs was more than enough to send him slumping back into the mud. However, in that brief moment he had managed a final, shaky glance at the world around him. His blurred eyes were unsure as to what they had seen; part of him said it was his imagination; but the hope left in him disagreed, arguing there was a flicker of movement from behind the Beast.
Breathless, in agony and concussed Robert realized the pointlessness of his thoughts. The Beast’s trident now hovering over him. Drops of Morgan’s fresh blood dribbled down its barbed tips, dripping and pooling with the rain and mud that had settled in the dents of his armour. The gold and yellow of Yarin’s insignia that once stood so proudly from his breast plate now buried beneath.
Robert’s head pounded as he stared at the menacing tips of the forked weapon, the world continuing to swirl, ringing about him (To repetitive?). His eyes followed the cold, metallic shaft upward ignoring the smug look of the Beast. He chose to concentrate on the droplets of rain that seemed to float down in slow motion from the dark clouds above, as if they were flakes of snow. Each drop landing upon his battered face like slaps of coldness.
His mind in such disarray he hardly noticed. Nor did he feel the pressure of the trident as it began to press down on his plated stomach.
His end was near. He could not deny it. Shutting his eyes, he blocked out the night sky. He could not hear the sounds of vigorous battle around him; did not notice the call of a melodic horn that sounded from the defensive line. All he heard was the numb ringing in his ears. All he saw were memories. Images of his father, brother came in droves, of friends and cousins.
Robert accepted his fate then, relinquished his right to life and embraced dying in the field, pulling a small joy in the knowledge it was fighting for what he truly believed in. The protection of the people. His people.
Time dragged forever but the pressure of the trident halted.
A trickle of warmth splattered across his cheeks before dribbling over his lips. The metallic taste of blood slapping Robert back to reality.
His eyes shot open. His vision twisted before him.
The world sped up then, as if reclaiming the time it had been slow in giving.
The sound of battle once again assaulted his ears. His sight steadying as they focused on a most miraculous sight. The glimmer of his own sword triumphantly protruded from the Beast’s chest. A stunned look plastered its gnarled face, its tusked jaw hanging wide.
“Aye, teach ya for turning your back on me, you Demon shit” Captain Morgan spat before collapsing to the ground.
A burst of adrenaline reinvigorated Robert. The sound of Morgan’s labored voice succeeding in dragging the Prince back to life.