When you find yourself in the dead of night, everything is loud. Shrouded in the shadows of the night, the forest took on a different shade. Nothing, not even the sound of a mouse, was heard. The eerie quiet unnerved him. Several sleepless nights and a pack full of adrenaline-infused leaves made even the slightest rustle of the wind against the leaves a possible threat.
He spat out a wad from the leaf he'd been chewing on, the quiet ptouh echoing like a cannon before a stone wall. He shivered, a trail of cold air racing down the ridges of his spine. He stared at the sword in his hands. Splatters of blood stained the metal an ugly color, leaving a ring of red rust that wouldn't wash off. He huffed onto the cold surface, watching the puffs of his hot breath cloud the mirror finish. He slid his hand under the corner of his tunic and wiped it away until he saw his reflection staring back at him.
An owl call rang among the trees and brush, a clarion call in the stillness of the night. He sat upright and responded in kind. No, there had been no sign of the enemy. All was well. Yes, all was well, he thought, settling into his lookout spot. This stone made a good headrest, and the soft grass that tickled his hand wasn't too bad of a seat.
It all returned back to that silence. That silence that pervades, sinking into bones and flesh until all you can hear is the sound of your heart pumping blood to keep you alive, pulse flushing in your ears. At the same time, there's a terrifying knowledge that you are not alone. You may not see them, but even the movement of one hair can freeze your nerves and set your heart into a panicked gallop.
He sheathed his sword quickly, cupping his hands together and calling like an owl. He waited a second. He tried again. No response. He gripped his sword, pulling it out of the sheath tied to his belt. His muscles tensed, breath growing heavy. He heard a different owl call, two hoots asking for a response. No answer. The silence was suffocating. Sweat formed on his palms, rubbing awkwardly against his leather gloves.
A crow's caw ricocheted off the trees around him. The blood rushed out of his face. He gasped, shaking as he held the sword out before him. His eyes glanced at his reflection. Two men stared back, one with an unfamiliar shade of jet-black hair atop his head. He was not alone.
SLASH!
A bloodied head fell to the ground, abandoned sword clattering against rock with a resounding CLANG. A large band of men jumped from the brush and foliage cover, streaks of black smudged under their eyes, screaming and whooping as they took down the remaining men.
Joon held his soiled dagger tightly, the tied ends of the red kerchief on his arm billowing in the wind. He panted as he watched the blood drip from the sharp metal to its deceased body. He watched the chaos and confusion erupt in the night, cries of violence and pain that he'd grown accustomed to over the past six years. He knelt down and wiped the dagger on the fallen man's green tunic, leaving behind rusty-red stains on the rough, woven cloth. He sheathed his dagger with a shlink and stole the dead man's sword, rushing into the heat of the battle to cut down another man.
The soldiers proceeded through the forest, shadows and moonlight filtering through the canopy of the trees onto steeled gazes and clenched jaws. The man on Joon's right fell on top of him, the tip of a sword pierced through his stomach. Joon briefly registered the shade of his cloak— identical to his, a rich navy blue— before he pushed the heavy weight off, resisting the urge to gag at the smell. He twisted away, turning to the man who had felled him, bisecting him with a single determined strike. Joon heaved and clutched his stomach, nearly tripping over a root under his feet. As he staggered up, a low branch scratched his cheek, barely missing his eye.
This is the truth of war. For every eye, you take an arm. For every man, you take a dozen more. It takes extraordinary men to wage war. It takes even more extraordinary men to end wars. But at the end of the day, men will wage war against men, and men remain the ones who are killed and left behind.
Some might find it cruel that no one bothered to collect their fallen comrades and carry them home. Some might find it ridiculous that the only time someone stepped foot in that forest again was to burn the corpses so that the rats and wolves wouldn't get to them.
Joon's shoulder brushed against an allied soldier's arm. As he pushed forward, his gaze was set and focused, but his eyes were empty and emotionless. Sympathy was a pacifist's game. There would be time to point fingers and condemn later. Right now, one thing, one desire was coursing through his veins, rushing like ice water. Kill. Kill and survive.