1

The field was lost in the smoke, like some ashamed god had thrown a blanket over the events of the day, drowning the sights that were strewn across it in a choking fog so that he could pretend it didn't exist. It did though. Scrot knew it did. And he knew what had made the fires that gave birth to the lazy rolling smoke. He shut his eyes and shook his head, hoping the memory would drop out of his ear. It didn't. He lay in the stinging plants at the edge of the wood and strained his eyes trying to make out figures. His mind played tricks on him, he saw shapes of warriors and then companies and then nothing.
He was scared.
He struggled to keep his heart from ripping a hole in his chest.
He was alone.
He hadn't been alone since he'd joined Calrag's company.
Now that all those faces he'd travelled with were gone he realised how far from home he was.
Home.
Panic welled in his chest he fought to think of something else.....his mind jumped to the others from home that he travelled with but then he thought of the way they died and the panic heaved in his gut, his eyes watered and his throat burned, his mouth filled with saliva. He struggled up onto all fours and puked out all that he had in him. It felt like his insides were desperate to escape from this place, with or without his outsides. He buoffed and he wretched while all the time desperately struggling to keep quiet. He considered his head and his guts were having their own mighty battle and weakly wondered which would win. He thought of the shame of being found at the edge of the battlefield having puked himself inside out.
Scrot collapsed into the stinging plants and and panted like a hound.

Scrot opened his eyes.
Something was tickling his ear.
He slashed at it with his blade.
The plant fell to the floor, it's gentle play destroyed.
It dawned on Scrot that he'd been holding onto his blade since before the start of the battle and his grip hadn't loosened once. His fingers ached but his Da would be proud. He'd never dropped his blade just like the old shit had taught him. He didn't know where his shield was though, he looked around, half expecting it to be within easy reach like it had been every morning during the march.
It wasn't.
He looked out across the field. The smoke was still billowing from the fires that he couldn't see but the colour had changed. The smoke was red. Scrot's mouth hung open in shock.
What art could turn the smoke red?
He scrabbled to his feet and backed away from the edge of the wood and he saw that there was a centre to the colour, like a fresh scarlet bruise.
The realisation sunk into his head and he sighed.
It was the sun setting.
It was only the sunset. He'd never seen it through smoke.
Fool.
He sat down again and decided to watch glowing spot till it was dark. Then he would move in the same direction that it had gone because if he knew one thing he knew that that would lead him home.