I wake up being shaken by a Saxon man. A few years older than me, he looks about 20. Better fed than I but not fat like a Dane. His features are similar to mine; thin black hair cut around the brow, and a bridged nose. 

“Edward…Edward” he keeps repeating. I look at him dazed, not responding to what he’s saying. “Lord, Edward, that is you.” I’m not sure who Edward is but my head seems to nod as I wake up. “My God.” He sits next to me, staring appalled at my face. 

I have never seen this man in my life. I'm on the side of a Roman road and he is with a horse, and what seems to be all his belongings. He’s wearing monk’s robes, I recognize them because on the rare occasion I would see my father he wore them. The robes are black with a thin rope tied around the waist. “It’s me…Odda…your brother.” It shakes me a few more times, trying to rattle the memories back into my head. I still have not responded to anything he’s said but he takes my distant stare and compliance with his words as an affirmation of his truth. I’m confused, lost and my head is throbbing and swollen. I begin to weep. He pulls me into his chest. 

“Edward, we've thought about you every day for the last ten years. Where in God’s name have you been?” 

“My name isn’t Edward,” I say in my head but not out-loud. If he realizes I’m not his brother he’ll leave me here and I’ll wander for days, I'll starve. I have nothing. 

My head is in intolerable pain making any stream of conscious thought difficult, but I have to answer and I have to answer quickly so that he doesn’t become suspicious. 

“Wantage” I mutter under my breath, avoiding eye contact.

“What in God’s name have you been doing in Wantage?” he asks. A simple question that provokes so much thought. What in God’s name have I been doing in Wantage? 

“Shoveling hay and plowing fields.” 

Odda laughs but it’s true. He stares at me a few more moments then decides we should leave. As if it’s an assumed fact that wherever he’s going, we will be going together. He mounts his horse and invites me onto the back.

“So you ran away and disappeared for ten years just to work for a lord in Wantage? Why wouldn’t you come back?” 

I have to think quickly and before I can muster an appropriate response I say: “I didn’t run away. I was taken.” 

Odda has one leg on his saddle but his motion stops at this. He now looks less convinced that he’s somehow ran into his brother Edward on the side of a Roman road to Winchester. 

“How is that possible?” His tone becomes skeptical. My heart speeds up a little bit as I may be caught in the lie. I gulp. “But what about the speech you gave me the night before you left? That you were going to run off with the Danes in Northumbria?” 

I mount the horse. My mind suddenly polluted with memories that had been lost from the blow. The sight of my mothers head rolling away from her body. The jolt inside of me when I was suddenly gripped by the murderous Dane. The terror in the seconds of anticipation before the young man was to strike me with his club. 

I reply, “I saw who they really were.”

We ride for a few hours, stopping occasionally, ignoring every thief disguised as a beggar on the path, until we’re stopped at a crossroads by the Mercian Guard. 

“They’re marching to Winchester,” says Odda. Winter is almost at its peak. Bitter cold but not quite snowing. The freezy rain is heavy, and the roads are muddy. The Mercian men wear green wool cloaks. Their helmets stem down the bridge of their noses. The chainmail falls from the sides of their helmets and rattles against their necks with the sway of every step. Each one has the same expression on their face. They’re cold, hungry and tired but they cannot show it, so they purposefully clench their teeth and look onwards, without blinking. They must appear heartless, brutal and strong. If they act so maybe they’ll perform so.

Finally, they pass and we carry on taking a different route than them. There was something invigorating in seeing these men. Knowing they were taking up arms to fight for people like me whose lives had been ruined, everything taken from them by the savage, rogue, Danes. It piqued my bloodlust. The Danes who have taken everything from me for generations since they first arrived. My grandfather Godric was a monk at Lindisfarne, brutally murdered when the Danes first stepped foot on English soil. My father ran away to a monastery in Wales because he lived in too much fear of the Danes to stay in Wessex. My mother, slaughtered in front of my own eyes by Viking Danes. And Ardith, only the Lord knows what the savage heathens have punished her young soul with. For the rest of the ride I dreamt I was wielding a sword and shield not just for Wessex or Mercia but for England. For an England no longer riddled with heathenism. For an England that was pure. For an England where pagans do not sport in the slaughter of innocent women and children. Where Saxon families are not driven apart in fear. Where a serf can aspire to be a knight and die in dignity, not be sawed to pieces and burned for the sake of being a farmer. Not to be drawn and quartered for the sin of inhabiting your own land. 

The red-haired Dane has not left my mind. His jolly smile, his overflowing belly, rosy cheeks and grotesque mannerisms. The devil’s spitting image. These are features I would long for as someone who’s mustered off of skimpy meals throughout the entirety of his life, always itching for a full stomach and a smile of authenticity. But not in him. His stomach is full from food he has stolen. And his chipper glee is sourced in slaughter, rape and pillaging. Now I want this. It’s my turn to indulge in what is not rightfully mine, not of Englishmen, but of the Danes, I will find joy in every second of their exploitation from here on out.

The rain ceases when we arrive in Winchester. I’m in awe. It’s greater than any village I’ve ever seen. The walls are tall, strong and stone. The four corners of the fortress are heavily armed, turrets guarded by Wessex bowmen. We enter through the gate drawn for the Mercian men to enter. They’re tailing just behind us. Women smile and carry buckets of water, meats, wheels of cheese. Men sit at ale houses, some soldiers some not, all smiling. The women are all young and beautiful. I’ve never seen a happier place. In the center of the fortress, steps lead to King Alfred’s palace. Two soldiers with giant shields form an X with their spikes before the high wooden door. We ride slowly through the village and I catch the eyes of a Saxon girl; green eyes, long straight brown hair, fair skin, and a thick, wool, cloak to shield herself from the bitter winds. She is more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. I stare at her for a few seconds, she looks up and we lock eyes. I smile, she smiles back but then looks down and turns away, disappearing into the crowd. The men are strong and focused. Some beat rope, some bang iron, many barter. I’ve never been in so loud a place but I do my best not to show my discomfort. We seem to ride for a while and I realize I have no clue where we’re going, all he said was: “Winchester”.

“Where are we going?” I ask him. 

He laughs after having the same realization as I, but then he turns grim. 

“Mother’s dead.” He responds, expecting me to take the news harshly. 

I’m not really sure what that has to do with where we’re going but I go along with it. 

“As the eldest and the last surviving known member of our family I’ve inherited the land.” 

He looked back at me when he said “known”. I too now display a grim expression even though I have no idea who this woman ever was. To avoid any suspicion I ask: 

“How did she die?”

“A swollen cancer was found in her breast.” Acting, I look down and don’t say anything in response. 

We arrive at the house. It's small and wooden with straw roofing, similar to my home before it was taken from me. We dismount the horse and he brings it to the stable to feed and water it. We walk into the house and the air is dense and muggy. The room is small, and very dark. So dark with no windows that I could hardly see across the room. The door is offly heavy and slams shut behind me, the force is so strong dust flies around the room. In the corner across from the bed there’s a fire pit and some rotting wood next to it. The dust is still circulating in the air, severely irritating my nose. Odda is exhausted and immediately goes to lay down in the bed. I’m not so I leave him. 

I’m walking through the beautiful city of Winchester when I find a silver coin in the mud. I pick it up, brush it off on my coat and head to the ale house that I noticed on my way in. Hoping to cross paths with the beautiful woman I saw before. Tables of men and some women shout and laugh into their drinks. My fear was that people would notice me, that I would stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd, but it’s much too lively for anyone to bat an eye. The anonymity is exactly what I hoped for. I sit down at a table alone as far away from everyone. Seeing how high the spirits of everyone is even cracks a smile on my own face. I ordered an ale from a very short but pretty woman. Red hair, freckles and piercing blue eyes. I pay for it with my coin like I’m a regular, doing everything that I can not to hold eye contact for too long, gazing my eyes around the area as if I’m searching for an old friend. I take much pride in this, but she can clearly tell that it’s all a hoax. She is staring at me tilting her head and smiling. She hasn’t moved, she wont stop staring at me. To hasten things along, in an acerbic tone I demand that she hurries up. She laughs at me, mocking any authority I may have convinced myself I had, glances around the room to see if anyone noticed, and fills up a pint. I return to my table alone and spend the next several hours surveying what I had always been told of but have never seen. I’ve never been around more than forty men and women at a time. On the manor the only people present were we serfs. Occasionally, a lost knight or trader would stay in our vacant inn, but only for the shortest time they could because of how bleak our village was. 

As the night grows, it becomes more lively, and as it becomes more lively it becomes more overwhelming. A few patrons try to strike up a conversation but I do everything possible to avoid it. I’ve only had one drink but it’s the strongest ale I’ve ever had. Too strong for someone of my size and stature who hasn’t eaten since the sip of broth I had before the slaughter of everyone I knew. I feel horribly sick. Stumbling across the benches I grab onto a wooden beam for support and hurl out more food than I’ve ever even consumed. The blood rushes through my eyes and they feel like they’re going to gouge out of my head. The pulse thickens in my temple and in my neck. My teeth clench and I feel drowsy. I sit back down and have another. 

Hours go by. I loosen up, talk to a few men, trying to fit in and act normal. This becomes easier the more I drink. I stand up and everything's spinning. My eyes go upwards no matter how hard I try to keep them down. I decide it's time to head back to the house. Each step is like walking on a wobbling plank. I stick my arms out to each side to create greater balance but it's not very successful. Continuing to walk, finally I arrive at the house. For an odd reason it's ridden with pigs and horses which angers me. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask the pig, fat and brown. 

“What am I doing here? You’re in my house.” I could’ve sworn it responded. The other pigs and horses scoff at me then turn away. I scoff at the arrogant pig, lay down in my bed and fighting the churning illness in my stomach, until I fall asleep. 

I’m woken up being poked by a tall man holding a shepherd's cane. Somehow I’m in a barn laying in a pile of hay. I’m not moving quickly enough so the poking turns into a harsh smacking of the cane into my side. My eyes flutter open and I look around. I really am in a barn. Surrounded by pigs and horses wandering by and licking my legs occasionally. The man poking me is a shepherd who seems too familiar with situations like these and is terribly aggravated. 

“Alright I’m going.” I say to him. A crusted layer of mucus seals the sides of my eyes shut. My throbs at a slow pace, and there's an acrid taste stuck to the back of my throat. My limbs have a delayed reaction to when I want them to move. I’m heavily fatigued and weak, but the rest of the town is not. The sun shines brightly through the few clouds in the sky and people are moving swiftly as though everyone had been in last night, eating supper with their families and asleep at dusk. I find a pale of water outside of the barn. It looks relatively clean so I shove my face in it. The feeling is unparalleled. It’s crisp and cold. I keep my head under as long as possible. Swishing around, opening my eyes until I’ve finally had enough and I whip my head out. I return to the house and Odda is still asleep. The slam of the cumbrous door jolts him up. His first moments of consciousness are livid and the abrupt yank out of his deep sleep, but he is soon pleasantly surprised to see his brother. 

“Where’ve you been?” He says like a proud older brother, slightly smiling with his morning squint. 

I tell him the truth and he laughs and then chokes when I tell him where I woke up. We catch up and as he refreshes until we hear pounds on the door. I look over at him and he’s as confused as I. We wait in silence for a short duration before there are another three pounds. 

“This is the Fyrd of Wessex, open the door.” a voice behind the door commands. 

Odda obliges, swiftly paces over to the door and opens it. 

“May I help you?” Odda replies in a charming manner throwing on a refreshed smile. 

“By order of King Alfred a fyrd of all able-bodied men must be raised to fight at Chippenham in a fortnight.” The man looks into the room both ways and discovers me, staring the same way that the woman at the pub did, then returns to the conversation with Odda. “Are you Odda, son of Eadric?” 

Odda swallows, then straightens his back militantly.

“I am.” Eadric must be the name of my father.

“And who are you?” The soldier looks over at me, the entirety of his attention channeled now. I can feel his intense encumbering pressure. 

I feel tiny. His beard is grizzly, his face covered in scars. One eye slightly more pale than the other. His shoulders are broad and his chest fills out his leather vest. 

“I’m Edward,” I hesitate, and say slightly broken which only raises suspicion, then confidently throw on a smile: “Son of Eadric”. 

“Good,” He scratches one name off the list and writes in another, “The two of you will be in the quarter at dawn. If you are not there you will be banished from Winchester and an enemy of Wessex.” He turns around and makes for the door violently slamming it. We look at each other, both frightened but not wanting to show it, then we look away and carry on with our business.

We stand in the quarter. Me, Odda, and two dozen other men gathered for the fyrd. Each man is the same. His teeth are clenched and his jaw is shut. His eyes distantly glare ahead at the steps of the king's palace. His boots are covered in mud. His pants sag and are uneven. The scratchy wool of his shirt crawls up the bottom of his neck. His eyes are baggy and worn. 

For these men it’s evident that it isn’t their first time mustered to raise a fyrd. These men have a stare that reaches far beyond the point where they look. Standing completely still, they say nothing but their undaunted, blank expression says all the words that could be gathered to relay the regrets of what they’ve seen, done or felt.

The captain who burst into the house yesterday arrives. He walks about half way up the steps to Alfred’s palace so he is above the mob. He turns around and looks at us, taking a mighty inhale summing up all the energy needed for the invigorating speech that he has told many times. But you can see in the seconds before it commences that he’s looking for a spark that is missing. One that has been dulled over time. 

“You men,” he shouts, looking around “You brave and few, have been summoned under our Lord King Alfred’s command to serve in the defense of our great country.” Semi nervously, like he knows something we don’t, he looks down at the parchment in his hand and shivers. It’s bitter cold and everyone tightens their coats. “The Danes have riddled our lands for many years now, bringing terror to all, stopping at no one group of people.” I can see memories flooding into his eyes as he regains the spark he was looking for before, “They do not care if you are men of Wessex. They do not care if you are men of Mercia. They do not care if you are men of Northumbria nor of East Anglia…” He clenches the parchment tighter, his other hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “They care that you are men of England!” He shouts louder. “We are in alliance with Mercia and soon to be with Northumbria and East Anglia, because we no longer have the right to be a divided set of kingdoms. These dire times have forged us in unison to fight for something bigger than we have ever fought for against the Welsh, the Scots, or the Irish. We are not fighting for the liberty of provinces. We are not fighting for a treaty. We are fighting for an England!” The fyrd begins to feel the vitality of his rhetoric. “We Englishmen will be as merciless to those Viking Danes on the battlefield as they have been to us in our own sanctum.” Filled with violent urges. I bounce on my frozen feet restless and filled with fighting spirit. We all fight now for the same goal–for vengeance. It is clear in the eyes of the men of the fyrd how much of theirs has been sacrificed by the heathen invasion of our holy land, and they will not be satisfied until they are expunged.

Our training is minimal for the next week or so and then is cut short. Every day consists of slashing a sword against hay and the practice of forming a shield wall. Seven new boys have been conscripted, all my age and some even younger. The boys adorn the hay dolls, putting curved branches into the sides of their heads to imitate horns. With bits of coal they create silly expressions on their faces. They speak and babble at the hay, picking on it, making fun of it. I look upon these boys wistfully. So bonded, so chipper and gleeful. I sincerely wish that I were able to be so ignorant behind youthful emotions, that I  could be just like everyone else my age. Innocent, young, viewing the world for its light. What they’re fighting against is a concept. What I’m fighting for is a reality, a harsh reality that I push away every day. 

I go up to Odda who has relentlessly been practicing with the other men his age and stature. Odda and I have grown close. The imitated fraternity has bonded us. To each other we are the last thing each of us has. He may be older than I, but he still has not yet lived a long and versatile enough life to have much else to lose. The only life he has had has been in the monastery. Otherwise our lives have been rural and benign. I pick up a wooden sword and shield and he, covered in sweat, takes the cue. He twirls the sword around his hand. It’s free of weight to him. To me it’s heavy and weighs my arms down. I’ve eaten as much as I could possibly afford over the past week or so and gained some weight, but barely even enough to be noticeable to the human eye. I raise my sword and swing. He parries it effortlessly and pokes me harshly in the side. I wince but don't want to seem weak. He gets cocky and lunges again for my shoulder, I raise my shield, which has suddenly grown light, and he shifts. I slash the back of his legs. Our banter goes on for a short while until he is too exhausted to continue. We throw down our fake weapons once the man who delivered the speech, whose name escapes me every day, calls our attention for another declaration. 

“The Danes have been seen mobilizing. We will march to Chippenham tomorrow.” 

The men look frightened. Many do not feel prepared, but even the ones who do dread what is to come. The man walks off. The sun is setting. Odda and I walk together through the field. 

“Do you ever worry about father?” he asks. 

Worry about father? Why would I worry about him? I don’t even know who he is. “Why do you ask?” I find to be the only adequate response. 

“You may have been young but we both know he was a sinful man.” 

I act pensive. 

“How he would be off late every night, return drunk and we would be out of silver.” 

Odda and I are resting on some rocks near a copse of trees. The trees are tall, oak, dark and looming. Their canopy is dense and prevents the sun from entering the forest. But a few cracks of light slip through. Each beam is noticeable. The dust circulates, rising in the air around it. 

“How he would beat mother…how he would beat you.” He looks over to me as if this unleashed a flood of horrid memories of my abusive childhood. 

I shift to acting despondent.

“I’m sure father repented in his last days.” Looking over, I see he is truly worried. 

Odda mutters a prayer in Latin for his father, clutching the wooden cross around his neck. “I wonder if I’ll see him again tomorrow.” 

Now I no longer have to act, I truly am growing despondent because of Odda’s melancholy manner. 

“Odda, do not be so solemn. We vastly outnumber the Danes. You are well-trained. You wield a sword lighter than any other man in our fyred. You are young, ambitious and willing to fight for what is yours.” I cannot lose Odda, I’ll have nothing…no-one. It dawns on me that I may lose him too. “You’re a strong man, loyal to God. You have devoted your life to him. You have been saved and the heathens have not. When the time comes tomorrow He will be in your favor, not theirs or those of the sinners who fight alongside us.” 

He looks up at me, his eyes glossy and a smile on his face. Tomorrow we know that our youth will be gone forever. We will never be able to regain the intimacy of moments like this; enjoying the trees, dust and more without a thought of ill intrusion in our heads. But it's beyond the recognition of beauty that is most attractive to us, it is the communion, the feeling of comradeship regarding the events and things of our existence, these things that cut us off from the world which our parents and ancestors have suffered their lives in. These things made such a world incomprehensible to us. Perhaps it was the greatest privilege of our youth that I am coming to recognize too late.  

I stand up and reach my arm out towards him not to get emotional myself. “Let's eat” 

He grabs my arm, our forearms lock. I hoist him to his feet and we march back to camp. 

“It was God’s will that I found you Edward. He would not waste that.” 

For the first time since I’ve prompted this lie I feel guilt. Ashamed that I have led on so much hope in Odda. That I have created such an assurance in his mind that if he is to die, at least he is to die at the side of his brother.

Dawn breaks and we rise. My stomach jumping with nerves. Odda and I are in the same tent. We strap our boots on in silence. In fact there is not a noise made by anyone in the entire camp.  We grab our shields; heavy, large and wooden, and wait near the Roman road that will lead us to Chippenham. We stand tall, straight as a lance, our swords in their sheaths, mine heavy on my left hip and sags greatly. My shield is in my left hand and I am flexing my arm to maintain an equilibrial posture. 

A great amount of time passes, the men stand fatigued until we can begin to hear the marches. At the front is Alfred himself. His horse is large and white. His hair is fine, his cheeks are hollow and pale, he sits quite short on his horse and his wrists are far thinner than the sleeves that stretch down his arms. He does not appear as the strong, relentlessly ambitious, annexor of kingdoms that he is. He is surrounded by noblemen of Wessex. Everyone marches in unison. Alfred notices our fyrd and is proud even though we are few. He stops to look at us. The whole line stops. 

“You are the men, who have declared it a personal duty to defend what is rightfully yours. For this reason God shall judge you fairly and pardon you of whatever sins you have committed prior to this moment.” 

The words coming out of his mouth are eloquent and roll off of his tongue with great ease, but it’s evident he has much more to say. The priest behind him wears a gray woolen robe with a brown rope to tie his waste. The priest is bald and smirks at us. After Alfred's brief oration, the priest forms a cross in the air with his fingers and muttering in Latin prays for our souls. 

The army, which is great, passes and at the end comes the Mercian Guard in their metal helmets and green cloaks, just as clean and well fed as before. We march at the end of the line. 

Our marching is endless, and after a short while our steps fall out of unison and slow. Half a day has passed. We march through fields, along Roman roads, and through thick woods. Two knights of Wessex die of exhaustion. We stop on the side of a hill, bury them in a fox hole and carry on. Nobody seems to mind. Nobody weeps. It's as though they were just a number that might have increased our chances of victory and nothing more. The priest gives a prayer and throws holy water onto their bodies without emotion, just a disappointed look on his face as if he expected more of them. 

We reach Chippenham. It is a large field and we are on top of the hill. To our left lies forest and to our right more of. Thick and deep. But ahead lies a long strip of green, the blades of grass drip with frost. The men shiver when we arrive, both of fear and cold as the wind chill is more prominent in the open land. We gather in  formation, a large line about 900 men, many rows deep. At the front are all of the men on horseback. We wait in silence for a long duration, the sound of men’s anxious breaths corroding my ears. 

Finally, the Danes emerge from the woods at the bottom of the hill, their filing out doesn’t cease. Their army is more than double the size of ours. Alfred rides in refreshed and mighty from the right side of the forest then comes to a halt in the middle of the crowd. Odda and I stand very close to him. He clenches his teeth stoically, 

“Men of Wessex and Mercia. These are titles you will no longer fight for… Now you will only fight for the sake of a united England. But if today we are not victorious then you will not have the luxury to find under the title of any.” He rides past the left side of the army, his voice becoming more faint, but I can still hear his words. 

“You are men!” He cries. “Men who have been stripped of your God-given right of sanctity.” I look over the shoulder of the man in front of me to see the Viking army still gathering. “Our mothers, wives, daughters and children have been raped… exploited… abused! Our home, forged with character by us Saxons, Romans and Celts before them, have been burned to the ground by these heathens…” He rides now past the right side of the army, “burned by pagans…” His eyes survey the entirety of the army proudly, “Burned by Viking Danes who will no longer plague our God forsaken lands!” He unsheaths his sword, he holds it high in the air. “The grace of God is with us!” 

The army takes the cue all at the same time to unsheath their swords and point them forwards. 

Alfred's right-hand man, steps his horse forward as to make a declaration of his own. He’s a true warrior; long black hair tied back, muscles bulging out of his shirt and a thick veiny neck tattooed with scars. “Fear God, honor the King!” 

The army responds as one; “Fear God, honor the King!” The men on horseback start galloping and we chase behind them, shouting. I feel exhilarated but nervous past a point I have ever been before. The Danes charge up the hill without an ounce of fear. But the shield and sword in my hands have grown light. I’m running next to Odda, I look over but he doesn’t look at me. He’s determined. 

The first row collides with the Danes and are gruesomely obliterated, their necks and shoulders hacked into by the giant Dane axes. I watch a Dane hurl his ax into the face of a Saxon soldier. The blood splatters all over the Dane, but to him it’s as refreshing as a pond in the early morning. His eyes grow wider but not with fear…with a crazed bloodlust. One runs towards me, his blonde hair long and thin with a metal ring around the crown of his head to hold it back. He’s charging, a small axe in his right hand and shield in his left. I clench my sword tightly, my eyes focussing as the nerves start to flee away. Charging with his shield first, I set mine ready in front of me and brace myself putting my right foot back. He rams into me with such force I fly back landing on my behind in the mud. Seeing his axe raised high over his head. I raise my shield for protection but then his bloodthirsty screaming stops. I look up and see the blade of a sword sticking out the front of his neck. Blood oozes from his mouth drips all over me. Once the sword is yanked out of his neck his knees buckle and he collapses onto me. I gather my strength and force him off. I feel sick, but I scramble to my feet, covered in mud, glaring around, engulfed in mayhem. The line between Saxon and Dane has become blurred. It’s heavily raining now, everyone covered in a slush of mud and blood. On the ground lay men, many of whom I trained beside and marched with.  

I spot Odda. His clothes are entirely brown and red. He exchanges many blows with a Dane, fat and covered in furs. Odda aims for his arm but misses, slashing the hand, slicing his fingers off. This forces the fat Dane to drop his axe. Wailing in agony, the Dane drops to his knees, clutching what’s left of his hand. Odda doesn’t second guess his next move. He wields his sword up and over his head, building momentum to take the fat Dane's head off swiftly. He is staring into Odda’s eyes but then his attention is diverted to something behind Odda. My eyes follow to see a giant white horse. On it sits an enormous man in a helmet with horns sticking up and out on both sides. He too is covered in furs and has cocked a doubled sided axe bigger than myself. As Odda is swinging his sword down to take off the handless Dane’s head, he’s intercepted. The Dane on horseback slashes his giant axe through Odda’s side, severing his torso from his legs. The Dane on horseback rides on slaying Saxons with ease. Odda’s would-be victim believes he’s been spared until I hear a scream and the Danes all look up. The sky becomes even darker as arrows pollute it. I grab my shield and throw it over my head. Within seconds my shield is punctured more than once. The chaos has gone almost entirely silent as everyone hides under their shields. The only sound is the wails of pain from those unlucky enough to still be alive. Through the rain of arrows I peak out from under my shield. The handless Dane finds hope in escape that is cut short when an arrow shoots through his temple and he collapses next to Odda. 

Odda is somehow still alive, blood pouring from him on both halfs. His intestines are spilling over the ground, but the top of his torso still tries to crawl to safety. He screams in a heinous agony, gripping the muddy soil firmly. Despite the rain of arrows I run towards him. The Danes, peeking through their shields, think I'm mad. I make it over to him and grab his face as he notices me. He looks in my eyes, but his gaze shoots through me. He smiles at me and I move his hand to grip the cross around his neck. My tears pour over him, coinciding with the rain. The arrows stop, and the Danes get up off their knees to charge again at us again. I drop my shield running away. I do everything I can, dodging blades, axes and shields as I run out of the battlefield. I drop my sword and sprint away into the forest. I feel a horrible sickness churning inside of me. I run endlessly, deeper and deeper into the woods until the sickness overcomes me. I clasp my body to a tree and hurl my guts out over the side. I keep vomiting and vomiting, the sounds of screams, clashing blades and punctured men are no longer hearable from the distance I’ve run, but are prominent in my head. I cannot get it out. I curl up by a tree, scratching at my ears and skull with my sharp and jagged nails, blood is streaming down my face. Clutching my cross and begging for the Lord to make it stop. But every time I close my eyes to pray, the terrible sights I’ve witnessed are burned into the back of my eyelids. Odda’s torso crawling away from his legs, his guts leaving a trail behind him like a snail. The Dane with a sword punctured through his neck as his dark red blood dribbled over me. The handless Dane’s eyes rolling into the back of his head as the arrow cut through his temple. I do not want to open my eyes because of the looming neuroticism that I may be being chased. But I cannot close my eyes because I am beset with the sites I’ve just seen. It drives me mad and I scream, banging my head into the bark of the tree, pleading for these visions to be excised from my mind.

A seemingly endless length of time passes to which I’m tortured by my own solitude until I hear the rumble of men and horses. I’m stunned, could the Saxons have defeated this great Dane army? The sound of men, and the presence of real danger is far less tortuous on oneself than being confined to the freedom of your own minds wandering. The leading Danes on horseback spot me on the ground weak. Without bothering to tie me up or knock me out they throw me on my stomach to the back of a horse. I’m too weak and tired to resist, but why even bother acting like that would make a difference.

Winter is dying down but still bitter cold with harsh winds. I look through the thick metal bars of the cage I’m in and see Danes, clinking their ales, laughing, fighting. They act in a way I envy. Their people haven’t been brought down by a country that has done nothing but deplete the spirit of its people. It’s hard to fight for an England when an England has done nothing for you. Not Mercia, not Northumbria, Wessex nor East Anglia have protected me or anyone close to me. What difference will it make when they’re all working in unison? We would still be constantly plagued by heathens but we have yet to exile them from our own lands. 

Though they may be cruel, power hungry, savage people, the Danes are generous and through the last two months that I have been in this fortress they now claim as theirs I have been treated better than any Saxon has ever treated me. I grow fatter by the day. They allow me to bathe numerous times a week. I speak with many of them as they start to learn English. They give me combs for my hair. We laugh and often have long conversations. Every day I am visited by a beautiful tall Frisian woman around my age. She has thin, long, blonde hair, sometimes it's braided in two. Her eyes are blue, her face perfectly symmetrical. Her purpose is to  deliver me supper but I am convinced it is beyond that. Our conversations used to be quite brief as she spoke much English but I’ve taught her more by the day. She’s grown warm towards me and I to her. Yesterday we spoke through the sunset. She didn’t return to her family for dinner and today she tells me about how worried they were. 

“If my father knew that I was missing supper and spending my evenings entertaining a Saxon prisoner, he would have me sent to Winchester with a sign around my neck that reads ‘free wh*re’.” 

What appeals to me most about this remark of hers is that she acknowledges the dangers of spending time with me, but is willing to face whatever consequences may come as a result. I am worth it to her. In response I exhale a little through my nose and smile. We both look away. The silence sits in the air but it is not a silence that I dread. It’s a soothing silence. 

“Well then, I should get going before my father gets suspicious.” 

I reach out for her but the chains shackling my arms just prevent me from touching her. 

“Don’t go, I beg you.” Without her presence the air of the silence is different. It’s not a peaceful quiet but a dreadful opportunity for Satan to punish me by giving my mind the will to wander. “How have we spoken and spent so much time together and I still do not know your name?”  

“Edward, if you speak of me and refer to me by my name to others I will be punished. I cannot risk that.” 

She touches my forearm sincerely with her soft hands. Her piercing blue eyes stare at me with great intensity, but it's relaxed. With pursed lips she smiles then elegantly stands up and walks out. 

The antics of the Danes begin to die down and the worst part of the night comes alive. I lay my head down on a pile of hay and dim my eyes. As the noise and distractions grow devoid, a crescendoing guilt builds inside of me. It is so intense I’m forced to grab my stomach as I’m flooded with memories of Odda and his kindness towards me. Was it my fault? The question that repeats in my head. Why should he, a man of God, a great soldier, brave, young and fearless have his life taken and not myself. Why not me? If only I had been quicker I could’ve warned him about the man on the white horse. If only I had been swifter on my feet I could’ve aided him. Instead I hid behind my shield, laying in the mud and watched him die. I watched him die the same way I watched my mother die…hiding. I’m responsible for what has been taken from me. I try to battle this stream with my narrating conscience thoughts that say It’s not your fault, but the guilt is triumphant and cannot be expunged from my mind. The thought that none of this is the fault of Danes but instead the fault of my lack of courage. This loophole makes me truly sick. My youth and innocence is gone and will never come back. I will live the rest of my life riddled with guilt and only if God is gracious will he allow this suffering to end. Odda died under an impression of false hope. A hope that his family name would live on through me and that I would be able to fulfill whatever it was he couldn’t. A lie that I posed for my own benefit. I saw that in his last smile. I’ve lied, and I’ve hid, and I’ve cheated this life in the hopes that I may benefit but I am still burdened. Still cursed. Still constantly punished by God.

Why would He allow great men like Odda who devoted their lives to Him to die an excruciating death and cowards like myself to live? Perhaps the reason is so that they can finally get what is promised sooner. God’s punishment is not death. God’s punishment is life. 

The next day is spent like all the others. I’m risen by the sound of bells and the movement of people around the square. Today there is no rain. The sun shines through but it is still brisk. I’m fed handsomely soon after morning and then am left to my own devices for the hours preceding it. I spend this time with my hands wrapped around the bars watching the Danes train in the courtyard. They fight each other with wooden axes, shields and swords. Treating it with as much vigor and reality as if they were face to face with Alfred himself. There’s a man with thick dark brown hair knotted behind his head who fights the best. He is the swiftest, the smoothest of them all. And after every bout he has with another Dane he looks at me. He doesn’t smile, but he looks at me with familiarity. He seems to be important but is not their leader. The men fight and sweat for hours, beating the cold with their movements until another Dane calls an end to the training. The brown-haired one disappears.

Then unexpectedly the back door to my cell opens. It’s him, the one with brown hair. He looks to his left and right before entering the small, dark room. After shutting the door he looks at me still, not breaking his solemn face, Then in perfect Saxon English asks, “Who are you?” 

I’m caught off guard by his perfect accent.

“That’s a question with so many answers. You’ll have to be a little more specific.” 

“Where are you from?”

“Wantage.” I reply. 

His expression displays familiarity with familiarity with the town.

“Then why do you fight from Winchester?” 

“Because your people burned down my village and murdered my family.” 

“They are not my people.” He responds matching the energy I’m putting out. I’m disgusted by this man's self contradiction.

“If you’re a Saxon, why would you fight alongside the enemy and pillage the country that is rightfully yours?”

“Because you will soon learn that neither Alfred, nor Aelthelred, nor any other greedy Saxon king cares for his people. They care only for themselves and their ventures of power. Expanding their kingdoms so they can steal more gold and silver while men like you spend your lives slaving away for a false hope.” There's silence. “I can see it in your physique. You were a serf were you not?” 

I wait for a second then respond, “I was.”

“Every night you drank thin broth and if you were lucky there would be bread you and your family would fight over a single bite of it.” 

It enrages me that he is bringing these memories back but it is soothing to see that such success has come from a man who started just as I did. “You are blind, boy. You have allowed the myth of Alfred's England to carry you to a belief that that is what is best for this country… Alfred wants nothing but war and more land to claim as his own. Him and all of his kin will not stop until they have Alba, Ireland and after that they will not stop until they have everything from Frankia to Rome.” I stare at him, not sure what to believe now.

“How can you say this while you ride with the men who brutally slaughter innocent women and children in their hamlets.” 

He can see beyond my eyes and into my mind. He can see that I have had everything taken from me by the Danes and that is why I have this hatred. My eyes grow red and watery.

“I do not condone the acts of terror brought by some Viking Danes to the English people. What I can condone is an England run by Danes where the people are not forced to slave away to a lord for thin broth and bread. I condone the true vision of a Danish empire that reaches wide from Rus to England and beyond. Where the people all may grow fat and happy and fight for a vision that is theirs, not some man in his palace who slaughters his men while he watches.” 

His message is starting to sink in and I feel invigoration in a way I have not since I saw the Mercian Guard marching to Winchester. 

“The Saxon Kings do not even fight in their own battles. Does this not say enough about who they are and what their kingdoms represent?” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I’m generous and I will not let a Saxon die in a cell in the name of Alfred who Alfred has done nothing for.” He reaches for the axe on his hip, then takes the shackles that bind my wrist and sets them on a stone. “You will fight under this Danish army at Eddington in four days time and if it comes to it, you will die for them.” He poses this statement though it’s a question to which I hesitantly nod yes as he breaks the chains and takes the clamps off of my wrists. I feel extreme relief. He firmly grabs me by the forearm, his arms muscular and tight, and hoists me to my feet. 

We walk through the fortress. This is my first time being able to freely explore it as I am no longer captive. He takes me to his home. It’s larger than any I’ve ever been in. There’s a fire set in numerous rooms with beds, and a stone table for dining. The walls are made of limestone, as it is a part of the castle. And the furnishings are all carefully-crafted wood. It’s smoky and warm. He goes into another room and fetches me new clothes. I put them on and I look like a true Dane: brown woolen pants, boots and a leather vest. He hands me an axe. It’s very heavy. I study every feature of it. It’s shiny and the wood is skilfully carved. I look back at the man and realize I haven’t even asked his name. 

“Who are you?” I repeat his first question. 

“Cenric,” he replies without looking up. “And you?” 

I find this question to be lots more difficult than it should be. 

“Edward” I ultimately say. 

Silence hangs in the air the rest of the night. 

I’m back on the battlefield. Arrows rain galore. My shield over my head and the sound of crying men and puncturing arrows through wood and flesh is all I can hear. The mix of blood and mud splashes back up into my face and eyes. I look over to Odda. He's about to take the head off of the pagan he was dueling before and I see the man on the white horse. I drop everything and run at him. I won’t make the same mistake that I made before. I scream his name to warn him there’s a man with an axe just behind him. To duck and turn around. To raise his shield behind him. I shout to him in a million different ways but none of them escape my mouth. I scream in silence and my legs move slower than tar. The Dane slices Odda in half. 

I am transported to his side covered in his blood and guts. Next to me is a tall white horse and in my hand is an axe. The axe is bloody but still glistening in the parts that are not red. Everyone has left the field. It is just Odda, myself and the horse. His intestines steam through the cold air. I’m weeping relentlessly. But I’m still standing over him triumphantly. He doesn’t look at me the way he did. He looks at me with a painful bloodlust. 

“Why would you do this to me Edward?” 

I look into my axe and see not myself in the reflection but the man on the horse. I drop the axe and resume my wailing, my screams still silent and I’m clawing at my head for this all to stop…

I’m jolted out of my bed by Cenric. He’s shaking me with an extremely disturbed expression on his face. He grabs my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes with concern. 

“You’re screaming, Edward.” 

I’m covered in sweat even though the room is cold. The morning sun glistens through the window sill above my bed. 

“I apologize.” Avoiding eye contact, I shake out of his grip, get out of the bed on the other side and dress myself.

The day moves very slowly. The sun shines throughout its duration and the courtyards and streets are bustling. I’m able to enjoy the high spirits of the castle and not have to look upon it so wistfully from behind the bars of my cage. Families trade and buy bread and furs. There’s a sense of community that I haven’t seen elsewhere, it is much stronger than in Winchester. I wonder why no one has questioned my absence but then am reassured that Cenric has handled it. 

I’m standing on a balcony overlooking the central courtyard when I see the Frisian woman again. She's holding a basket, wearing a white robe with a brown rope tied tightly around her hips, with a slightly worried expression on her face. Filled with juvenile exuberance I make my way down the steps and across the courtyard to her. I grab her by the shoulder and she spins around, at first she’s startled but then extraordinarily relieved. I can tell she wants to hold me but there is a fear inside of her that is preventing her from doing so. 

I didn’t sleep last night because I went to visit and you weren’t there. I thought they had executed you.” She cocks her hip and sighs. “What happened? How did you get out?” She’s now looking around nervously. 

Confidently, I grab her by the wrist and lead her behind a stone corner a few feet away. 

“I’m no longer a prisoner.” 

“How did you manage that?” She asks me. 

I’m not sure that she is going to like my answer but I will tell her. “I will be fighting alongside the Danes at Eddington” 

Her expression shifts from ebullient to disheartened, confused as to why I would do such a thing. She knows everything that her people have done to me and my family and that that is why I’m here in the first place. “I would expect you to be more benevolent towards me. I’m free. This is what you have been begging for for months, the day where you wouldn't have to sneak around anymore and could finally love me.” She grabs me firmly by the head and kisses me. I’m too stunned to even react. She pulls away and mutters something in her language under her breath, nervously looking around to ensure nobody saw. 

“When will you be leaving?” 

“Three days.” 

We both put our backs on the stone wall and slide down it, sitting on the ground in silence. After a long while of staring deeply into the wall ahead of us she breaks it: 

“Mildrith.”

Mildrith and I stayed out late the next two nights. We walk and talk in the forests for hours, but tonight she is different, more reticent than usual. I know why but I don’t ask. We walk through trees in greater silence than before. Her presence alleviates the tension and stress silence usually brings me. Usually it leads to my senses being overrun with painful memories, but while I’m with her it doesn’t. The smell around me is of fresh pine, not the repugnant smell of guts and flesh. The site is of lofty, dark oak trees not the cruel punishments of man for our disagreements. The sound is of our footsteps cracking the wood and the leaves around us, not the wails of friends and foes, whose screams equally churn my conscience. The feeling in my hands is now of her grip, not the skin of Odda’s face as he horribly passed. And my emotion is a reassured sense of belonging and love as I’m with her, not lonesome and melancholy as a majority of my years have been spent. 

“You must not go tomorrow Edward,” she says “I cannot bear to lose you.” We stop. “Tomorrow morning at dawn we’ll gather our things and flee to Lichfield, somewhere in Mercia where you can truly be free and not forced to fight for the Danes who have ruined your life. I won’t allow you to die for a cause that you do not believe in.”

“All the Saxons who died at Chippenham and all of the Saxons who have fought for a greater England under Alfred died for a cause that did not believe in them.” 

“Edward, you are young. You must not waste your life.” 

“Do not question the shrewdness of my judgment.” I harden my tone and stare into her eyes. “Fighting as a Saxon I have lost everything. This is an opportunity to start a life of my own. Under Alfred I am a slave along with all of the other mindless sheep to which abiding is all they know. With the Danes I am fed, bathed, clothed and cared for. These are things that I never had in my life as purely a Saxon Englishman.” 

“How could you fight for the pillaging of your land?”

“I have spoken to Cenric and the other men of the regime, it is evident that that is not the Danish goal. They wish for peace, and a peace where the people are all treated with the respect and rights that they deserve.” 

She starts to weep and I grab her firmly, bearing her head into my chest. 

I woke up the next morning at dawn. Cenric and I gather with the Danish army. We number about 250. There is no speech. We simply begin our march toward Eddington. We march through the forests for hours, joining forces with other Danish soldiers. Each group has an emblem that distinguishes them. The most recent to join us is a battalion of tall Viking men from Iceland, they have white pain on their faces that streaks down below their eyes and white paint in the form of crosses on their shields. 

We stop alongside a river for water. I abandon the rest of the soldiers from our army and study the Icelanders. They’re standing in the cold river water, barefoot and share mushrooms with each other. Minutes later their mannerisms and behavior are completely different. They’re screaming, howling at the sky in the middle of the day. Each of them puts on hoods with wolf’s heads and fangs sticking out of their forehead. It’s frightening and I’m worried they’ll mistake me for a Saxon, which I am, so I run back to my cohort and we continue to march until the forest breaks and we’re at a hill, very similar to the last. Waiting for us is the rest of the massive Danish army. We line up in formation and a shirtless Viking painted in blue blows his horn loudly while riding across the front line. I’m three rows back just as before. I try to grip my axe firmly but the sweat from my hands makes this difficult. The man on the horse has braided brown hair. His eyes land on many but doesn’t look at them, it shoots through them. The energy from this side of the front is opposite from the Saxons. These men are not afraid at all. There is no fear. Just an eagerness and expression on each of their faces suggesting that there will be no surrender. I try to hide my own fear but my legs are shaking. 

Up the hill Alfred stands with his great Saxon army. He’s on horseback and looks down on us regally. This infuriates me. I grip my axe tighter. He turns around and commences his speech of false promises. All of them cheer in his name without a second thought. The Dane with braided hair who leads our army says a few words in their language that I cannot comprehend, but there is a loud and heavy grunt after every phrase. The Danes start banging their axes on the metal of their shields, almost all of them shouting blood curdling cries of war. To the right of me are the soldiers in white, scratching their faces with excitement some to the point of drawn blood. The commander says his last words and fearlessly charges forward on his horse. We all follow. I’m running, blood coursing through my body in the seconds before collision then BANG! The two armies' shields meet in an even line. The horror begins.

Soldiers reach their swords over their shields to stab at each other, many fall on the front line, screaming in pain. The Icelandic soldiers break through the Saxon shield wall and start their merciless slaughter. A double sided axe flies into the back of the head of a Wessex soldier and then is effortlessly hurled out and through the metal helmet of a Mercian on the other side of the blade. I decided to stop looking around and pay attention ahead. The wall has completely broken and is now a blur of mayhem. I’m surrounded by both Saxons and Danes slaying and dying by my side. I am spotted by a Saxon, he looks at me confused. He can obviously see I’m not one of them. Maybe he even recognizes me. But he doesn’t think twice before he decides it's time for me to die. He jabs the tip of his sword at my heart but I block it with my shield. His stance is open and he’s lost balance so I seize the opportunity. I let out a savage scream, eyes wide and hack my axe into his hip. He shrieks in pain and falls to the ground, wounded but not dead. I cannot let my emotions get in the way, this man is trying to kill me. I bring the axe over my head and he stares deep into my soul. My mind changes intentions in this moment but I cannot beat the momentum. I swing the blade into his face, cutting it in two then pulling it out as quickly as possible. His teeth shoot up and back into my face. Sweating, my heart beating at immeasurable rates, I feel guilt but I must carry on. I’ve just killed a man.

I can spot Cenric in a crowd of fighting men. I make my way through to him. He’s fighting two Mercian men. I cannot let Cenric die. At full speed I run shield-first towards the Mercian man to his left and ram into his side. He’s knocked to the ground and his shield flies away from him. He grabs his sword, scrambling to his knees and swings it at my ankles. He misses and his blade jams into the mud. He’s stuck in this position… vulnerable. Swiftly, I swing the blade of my axe across his neck and his head rolls. I’m toppled under a wave of guilt but do my best to block it out of my mind. He is still quivering his lips and his eyes are blinking rapidly while it is severed from his neck. I shout in fear, no longer paying attention to the chaos around me. Cenric grabs me and throws me to the ground. An axe goes gliding over my head and Cenric lodges his blade into the man who wields its chest. The battle goes on until I hear a Saxon commander shout “Shield wall!” The Saxons all gather in uniform and stack their shields above each other three rows high. The Danes do the same so I follow. I’m behind a few rows of men on the right side. The two armies' shields press against each other and men are dying in the front line. There’s nothing I can do. I hear a rumbling to my right and see, emerging through the forest, men with red hair and red robes charging towards us. It’s the Welsh. We clumsily regroup, trying to fight them off but our right side is too open. Saxon’s and Welsh slaughter us with ease on both fronts.

The Welsh, energized and fresh, cut through rows and rows of Danes passively. I don’t participate in the rebuff on this front but instead turn around. I see Danes retreating, flooding back into the forest and onto the Roman road. I run as fast as I can after them. I look behind me and see all the Danes are taking our path of retreat. Many in the back are stabbed and trampled by Welsh and Saxons on horseback. The Welsh loose their arrows and the sky becomes blotted out again. Danes fall to my left and right. The Dane running besides me collapses and I look back to see what happened but I truly wish I hadn't. The arrow was so large and strong, it shot through his back, out his chest and into the ground. Halfway up the wood of the arrow is his heart still pounding faintly as he lies face in the mud next to it. An arrow grazes my left shoulder and lands just next to my foot. It’s extraordinarily painful and forces me to drop my shield. But I keep running. 

Ultimately, we arrive in a small village. Most of the men run through it on the central road but I find a small hut and hide inside. I shut the door quickly behind me, praying that I have not been spotted. Then I turn around and see two Danish women, mother and daughter, hiding near a pile of a table. The mother, blonde and braided hair, puts a finger over her lips. She looks just like Mildrith. I drop my axe and grab my shoulder in pain. I try to catch my breath but I am winded. The daughter is crying but the mother is holding her mouth to muffle the screams. She tries speaking to me convinced I’m one of them but I do not understand what she’s saying. She wonders why a Dane would not be able to understand his own language. After a few stalled seconds of confusion in bursts two Mercian soldiers. They spot me and immediately move to murder me, the mother and daughter. The two of them have dark rugged beards and their helmets are splattered with blood. The one on the right side raises his sword towards me and I throw my hands up. 

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” I shout, “I’m a Saxon just like you. I beg you do not kill me.” 

They lower their swords only because of how convincing my accent is, though their hesitation seems like they’ve heard this a million times. They look at eachother and laugh as if this is going to be extremely entertaining. 

“Alright then, where are you from?” The one on the left asks. 

“Wessex.” I reply, but it's too vague of a response.

“Where?” 

“Wantage.” They should be convinced by now but they're not.

“Why are you dressed like a heathen then?” 

“I was taken captive at Chippenham.” 

They exchange a few inaudible whispers with each other, then after settling on an appropriate solution to this problem say: 

“Alright then. If you’re really a Saxon you should have no problem with killing this mother and child.” 

I look over at them. They don’t understand the words but they understand the message. The mother grabs her daughter tighter in fear. 

“What have they done? Should we not just take them captive.” 

Any levity the soldiers had leaves.

“If you don’t kill them, we kill you.” Simultaneously they raise their blades towards me. 

I walk over to my axe slowly, their eyes fixed on me. My entire body is shaking. I grip the axe, staring at the innocent mother and child. Weeping horribly, they plead to me for mercy. I can feel my mind being pulled by heavy stones on either side. My jaw clenches hard. I look at the soldiers then back at the Danes torn. My chest becomes tighter and my breaths are short and punchy. The magnitude of stress is unfathomable. I raise the axe over my right shoulder. I begin to scream, my eyes pulsing and feeling as though they’re popping out of my skull. I think of Mildrith, how these are her people, how similar they look. I cannot get her image out of my head. I think of my mother, who was murdered by Danes and I thought it was the worst thing man could do. Now I’m about to do the same, putting the daughter in the same awful position I was in. She’s powerless, she’s nothing but subject to what others decide her life will be. I make the decision before my mind is even able to weigh out the options. I swing my axe around and bare it into the chest of one of the Mercian men. His blood squirts into my face and pieces of his heart dribble onto the blade of my axe. I look up at the other, ready to impale him with the other edge of my blade but it’s too late. He’s drawn his sword through my chest. 

The child screams and I don’t move. I look into this man's eyes, which are filled with hate and disgust. Both self loathing for his now horrible actions in such a moment of intimacy that my face will haunt him forever, and loathing of me…the enemy who’s now forced this burden on him. I tilt my head and look down then back up at him. His lips are pursed, his jaw is clenched and his eyes twitch. The look he gives me is one of confusion. Without words he begs me why must I have just complicated this situation so dearly, and begs himself why must he have reacted so impulsively. He thinks: “I don't want to kill this man but this man wants to kill me.” But the truth is neither of us want to. It was just a misunderstanding, can’t he understand that. I cannot even feel the sword impaled in my sternum. We’re two men, susceptible to having fought under the beliefs and motives of other men. We have fought for a purpose to which its validity we are still uncertain. We have ruined lives for a reason that will always be greater than us and only in this moment is it recognized. He is sincere and everything about his mannerisms apologize for this, he did not want to, he had to. It was the will of God. A tear rolls down the man's cheek and he quickly wipes it away with his blood stained sleeve. I forgive him because I understand what so many generations of men that will proceed me will not until their moment like this. He draws the blade out and I feel the warmth of the blood dripping out of me. It’s uncomfortable but not painful. I fall to the floor, opposite the man I had just slain, my eyes open gazing out the door I entered. The Mercian soldier grabs the women and ushers them out the door, he pauses in the door frame. Light shines around him creating a silhouette. He is looking at me, resisting every urge in his body not to aid me, and then leaves. For a few minutes I lay still and I watch the Englishmen march triumphantly down the road, becoming one step closer to the goal they are convinced is their own.