The arrow is truly a horrid weapon. Those struck down by them will, most likely, not die immediately. It will be a slow, painful expiry.
But the slowness of such an injury leaves a window open for treatment. Though treatment is often as fatal as the wound itself. Other times, it only prolongs the inevitable, saving the man only for them to die of infection weeks later.
It hurts you. You watch those around you dying, and you can do nothing. You would trade places with any of them in a heartbeat. Odds are, most would do the same for their buddies.
When the adrenaline high leaves your body, you feel empty. You know that, regardless of how hard you try, your boys are going to die. Men who trust you. Men who follow your orders. Men who don't deserve it.
Fortunately, the quantity of casualties is manageable with your current staff, a small mercy in such violence and death. But some men are doomed, even with the best surgeons treating them.
It never sat well with you, turning casualties into statistics. A dead soldier is a life extinguished. But you've contemplated this all before. You know the truth, the cost. The cost of war. And how empty your life is without it.
And so you observe from the sidelines. You cannot do anything. Not anymore. You tried your best to save as many as you could. And, ultimately, you did succeed. More would have died without your intervention.
Despite having the control of the entire army, you feel as if you have the least control of all. Because people are going to die no matter what you do.
With a tired sigh, you make to leave the tents.
The tents that reek of blood.
Next