Bodies were scattered everywhere, the bloody grime spilt about on the aftermath of what was a brutal battle. The field was littered with glumness, death and pain as the dead soldiers' swords and steel were stained with blood and weapons were laying around after its owner's defeat; some were pointing out from other soldiers' chests, impaled straight through their steel armour. Crackling fire from busted, burning carriages killed the silence of death all around, being accompanied by grey clouds and cold air with slow blowing wind that slightly tilted the dark smoke that arose from the distant fortress that sat on a small cliff, stormed ruined and abandoned.
The slow, deliberate steps of one's armoured feet sympathetically stepped over dead bodies and debris of carriages, occasionally stepping on blood-sprayed swords and bows. Another man followed suit, his sword hanging carelessly from his blood-stained right. It was two men, limping their way into a ditch to rest themselves for a while. They didn't wear the quality armour the dead around them had, instead, they were given tight leather armour. It had thin plates here or there, though it had an aesthetic look to it, but not after it endured the war.
"We made it," a clear, manly voice breathed with victory, worn out with fatigue as he wedged his steel sword into the ground as support for sitting down next to Victor.
Victor was a young eighteen-year-old now, tiredly turning his head to Damian, blinking with fatigue in his hazel eyes that had a splash of amber, before letting out a hopeless sigh.
"Victor," Damian called, trying to grip Victor's hazy concentration.
Victor sat with his knees in the air, feet on the ground, arms crossed on his knees in his blood-stained armour. He rested his elbows on his bruised knees and rubbed his eyes, as dry blood from his ear to his neck indicated long warfare.
They both endured minor injuries, having their trousers ripped or broken, their chest-pieces cut or torn. Their heads had no protection whatsoever during the battle, causing their faces to have smudges of dirt and small splashes of blood. Damian earned a cut on his nose, slowly trickling blood to his mouth.
Soldiers who outlived the battle limped about, cheering upon their victory in agony while some carried injured soldiers away. Others were looking around for what must be their weapon while the least of them mourned over the bodies of their lost friends.
"When is this ever gonna stop?" Victor said with sorrow and slight fury in his eyes.
Damian took his sympathetic gaze to the ground…
"Is there even an end to it?" he added, shaking his head.
"Come you bastards!" a nasty, malicious man commanded with hateful intent, "back to the stockade," he spoke with his loud and croaky voice as the wooden wheels and horses of a carriage sounded closer to them.
Victor and Damian turned their heads behind them to see the sinister man approach them with a carriage full of bound soldiers behind him, miserable and hopeless. He wore a black hooded robe, thick material that was woven to his preference. His walk had a coggle to it, suggesting that something's wrong with his left leg, yet he was in a hurry. It was Sedric Leerstrom, general of Yorthanden stockade.
"Damned imp," Damian hissed, his vindictive eyes ocean blue and vengeful.
"What was that?" Sedric deflected, coggling his way towards them with wide eyes, only seeing Damian's mouth speak.
Soldiers with iron shackles approached them heedlessly, pulling and fiddling on it to bind the two loyal friends.
Sedric proudly halted with crossed arms in front of them as the soldiers aggressively pulled their hands together, binding each of them with tight iron shackles, as fire from a nearby busted carriage crackled about.
"You've done your job well today, slaves," Sedric mocked with a tight-lipped smile.
The soldiers pushed at their sore bodies with swords out, just in case they decide to make a break for it.
The two friends stumbled onwards, occasionally being tugged to the carriage as they would stumble over some debris or step on rocks.
They were led to the back of the wooden carriage, being blankly stared at by some of the miserable, worn-out soldiers sitting on it.
"Climb!" a soldier ordered, pushing them closer to the carriage.
They stepped onto the high carriage, its wooden wheels creaking by the heavy masses upon it.
They found their seats on the carriage. Victor sat beside Damian as the other soldiers around them remained silent, only looking down at the carriage's planked floor while waiting for the horses to move.
Cedric also climbed on, sitting right behind the carriage-driver, glancing at each soldier with his hood on his head.
He flicked it from his head, revealing his almost old face. He had a square chin with a chiselled nose, strangely fitting his aggressive dark eyes and devious smile. His hair was black, beginning its grey age at the roots. His hair was hanging to his ears and onto his shoulders, it was quite messy… but it was clear that he didn't fight, for his robe was clean.
He had something scornfully special for Victor and Damian, glaring at them with sneering eyes, attentively searching Victor's down-looking face.
Victor was a handsome young man, still boasting his tanned skin and a physically attractive body. The trouser on his legs nipped tightly onto him, though his knees were bruised through the leather.
He leaned forward to rest his arms on his legs, staring with awareness at the floor with his straight, pointy nose and straight, thin, rectangular eyebrows and calm eyes. His jaw was sharp and parallel to his smooth, straight cheekbones as a vein slowly hummed beside his neck and in his temple.
Damian flinched by the instant of a whip that sent the horses to trot away while pulling at the carriage behind them. The horses were both brown and young, actively pulling the carriage through the brutal aftermath of the war and onto a dirt road that distantly jumped over hills and into a deep, dark forest.
"Wake up!"
Victor jerked upright from his sleeping rug, only to hear the loud bangs on the door that woke him up.
He sighed away the sudden fright and blinked his haze away, glancing around at the cold stone cell. The small confines of the cell were built out of stone, the cracks signifying that the place was centuries old. Every morning he wakes up, he inhales the cool air, despite the hard stone floor and the scattered straw upon it. He was used to it, though.
He looked over his shoulder and saw Damian, being dead to the world on his uncomfortable sleeping rug that was made from hide. It's as good as sleeping on stone.
Victor lazily came to his feet as the shadow of iron bars was cast into his face by rays of sunlight. He peered through the small window that was paned with iron bars, seeing activity outside.
He took a few steps towards Damian's slumbering body and descended onto his knees.
"Damian," he said, delicately tugging on his body. He didn't wake up.
"Damian!" he repeated, pulling slightly harder.
Damian jolted upright with a quick breath and watery blinks, stroking a lazy hand through his dark blonde and messy hair afterwards.
"Come, Damian," Victor said, his voice clear and modulated, coming to his feet in a ragged shirt and tight leather pants.
Damian yawned and stood up while Victor stood by the wooden door. It was reinforced by iron bars and beams. Damian was topless, since sleeping with only his trousers. He sat on his hide-made sleeping rug with his light skin. His dark blonde hair and ocean blue eyes made for the perfect combination. He was fit and muscular, after those years of slave-training.
Damian pulled his ragged shirt onto his body, the sleeveless shirt was dirty and worn out.
The door burst open with a loud creak, sending Victor to stagger backwards and almost fall to the ground. Damian reacted to the usual sound of iron shackles, slowly clinking and tinging as the swaying chains lightly tapped against each other.
"Come, time to go to work," the soldier in the door spoke with a deep and throaty voice.
That was the usual routine they followed every day. To be woken up, sent to work the whole day and sometimes be sent into battle. The stockade will be brutal forever.
Victor quickly glanced at Damian then looked at the leering guard. He stepped forward followed by Damian standing up. Victor approached the guard, scanning his armour. The guard wore thick plates of armour around him, accompanied by lots of cracks and chainmail properties.
The guard shackled them both and tugged them out of their cells and into a row of slaves that must have followed commanding soldiers.