There are few places on earth that are a sanctuary of all life, and all death. The field was one of them. Sir Lijart remembered the field well. He played in it as a boy. He remembered chasing that other boy… oh, what was his name? Even though he was nobility, and the boy was a farmer’s son, they still chased each other, around and around the field. How they had laughed at the escorts that they had tricked into letting him go play. He took his future wife, Aphra, to this field when they were children. The flowers in the spring were always purple, a soft, mellow purple that made the surrounding greens of grass look so wonderful, so beautiful.
Lijart stumbled. A gentle tear of blood rolled down his abdomen and onto the ground. Sir Lijart looked down in dismay. The battle. Its cries of sorrow, of pain, the shouts of the dead and dying. He shook his head. That was a full day ago. He was almost home.
Leaning on his sword he began to carefully walk forward. The mountains rose in the distance, the trees behind him. He had survived the forest. He had survived the battle. He wouldn’t die here.
Lijart walked forward again, remembering. Wasn’t it here that he first learned to hold a bow? Wasn’t it here that he first swore to that other boy he would one day become a knight? A knight, instead of staying to watch over his father’s estate? Lijart smiled faintly, remembering. He was six, and had been out in the field the day before, and saw a knight walk past, his head held high. He had no horse, and was smattered in blood. Aphra cried uncontrollably about how terribly sad it all was, and how unfortunate the poor knight had been. All Lijart could remember was how out of place the knight looked, but how wonderfully beautiful, even more than the flowers.
Oh, and how upset father had been when Lijart proudly pronounced he was to become a knight. Mother had nearly fainted as father tried to convince Lijart to stay home. Home.
Lijart let his smile fade. How out of place he must look, in this meadow. He suddenly wondered how much blood he had lost on the journey. He dared look back. There was, in fact, an almost straight line of the deadly red fluid leading to him. He frowned. Knight training, he remembered, had taught him well. How to bandage wounds, how to use wild plants as medicine, and how to know if someone was mortally wounded. He looked up at the sky. “Dear God,” he began to say, slowly, letting each syllable rumble through his throat.
A wave of pain forced him to his knees. He gripped the hilt of his walking-stick-sword with both hands. Coughing, coughing.
It passed soon enough.
Lijart got back up on his feet. He looked up again at the sky. The sun was setting. The golden rays touched his armor. It felt like this, he remembered, the day he was knighted. The gold rushing against his armor. Tendrils of warmth, tendrils of glory, of absolute.
Lijart took another step. This time, the pain, the pain, grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to the ground. It slammed his body on the grass, so green against the beautiful mellow purple flowers. After a few minutes, Lijart decided to recognize the obvious but sad fact. He was not safe. Death was already squeezing at his heart.
Lijart’s mind went back again. His instructor. Sword duels. The fierce growl in his ear, “Get up, Lijart. Get up. I may have beaten you down this round, but you may beat me. Get up, you bum. A knight never is down for long, and in his last moments certainly does not die lying down.”
Lijart stood up, using all of his energies to do so. Death and pain joined in a destroying chorus; a single, desperate song, but Lijart paid no attention. He stood.
The sun laid its golden fingers on his body, gently. The flowers and grass beneath him waved in the wind, cheering. Lijart’s cape fluttered to the rhythm of the wind’s music. His eyes saw the mountains, saw the forests beyond them, and nestled in between two mountains,he knew, his home. He said a silent, almost happy goodbye to them. Happy, because pain and death would haunt no more. Then he heard laughter.
Lijart looked back and saw two boys emerge from the forest where they had been playing moments before. They stopped and stared at him for a second. Then one of the boys, clothed in the garb that proudly stated his noble rank, pointed at him and said something to his companion. Lijart knew the dialogue. He had said the same when he was their age. “See that? I want to be like him when I grow up. A knight.” The other boy looked back at the one who had just spoken. Lijart knew what he would say. No doubt, he would note how this poor knight had just wandered from battle, and would die sometime soon. The boy would then proudly proclaim that he would become a farmer.
The boy who spoke first said something else, which Lijart knew was, “Farmers have no excitement in their life.” Lijart sighed and looked away. The boys disappeared back into the forest, no doubt distracted by a squirrel or rabbit.
Lijart looked back up at the sun. His friend who had discouraged his knighthood had indeed become a farmer, and would probably return home, alive, this very night. Lijart looked up at the sky once more. The wind gushed up. Petals of the mellow, purple flowers danced about his face. Overhead, a swallow sang its song as it flew. The leaves and grass ruffled. Lijart felt life slip away.
Lijart inhaled, the sweet, cool air.
He exhaled, his hot breath warming his tongue.
Inhaled cool.
Exhaled warmth.
Lijart’s last thought was…
Paradise.