Did I lose myself, or did I just change? I remember the person that I used to be. I was naive, I was young, I was someone else? I struggle with connecting who I was then, with who I am now.

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Matt woke from a jigsaw of broken nightmares to the clamour of running horses and screaming men. A veteran of one battle, he recognised a soft squelching sound as metal kissing human flesh. A shout of “RALLY!” brought him to his feet, spear already in hand. Now where’s that bloody shield?

Heart hammering in his chest, he spun around wildly, trying to make sense of the surrounding scene, shield forgotten. Tall, dark shadows of riders and horses blew through their small camp like phantoms. The night twisted in stabbing glints of metal punctured by screams of agony. He saw a spear punch into the sergeant’s mouth, coming out the back of his head. What was I thinking, signing up for this? I am a fucking farmer. Why do men become soldiers at all? A rider carrying a torch broke through the darkness of the moonless night, heading straight for the large officer’s tent. The torch flew, tumbling end over end towards the large canopy, and seconds later, flames engulfed the large tent and men came running out; stumbling, falling, screaming. Burning people rolled around in the grass, filling the air with the smell of burned flesh as they died in pain.

Matt caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye and threw himself to the ground. A second later, something sharp flew above him, already heading for a new target. Fucking cohesion, he thought, as men ran in all directions around him, the panic spreading like fire. He rose back up amidst the chaos, his hands clenched around his spear and his brain struggling to think clearly. Fuck it. They have the right idea. He was no hero. He was a farmer. Not a fucking soldier.

He could stand and fight, but for what? And what would it accomplish? “Desertion is punishable by death,” had been repeated over and over. But staying in this chaos would have the same result. Decision made, he turned towards the nearest treeline, to the dark silhouettes of the Dagger Mountains. And he ran, the roar of burning men chasing him into the black.

Get to the Daggers, they had told them back in the Gamut barracks. Mark all the territory between here and the foothills. Mark it with blood and fire. All the way to the Daggers. Make them understand who owns this place.

And now, at last, his campaign’s end was in sight, as a wall of black rising out of a dim horizon. Screw them. They wanted us to get to the Dagger Mountains? I will bloody well run there.

Matt ran, his heart constricting, his breath already catching in his throat. The night behind throwing flames and screams after him, spurring him on. When he first felt the sharp pain in his side, his first thought went to all the water he had drank last night. Then he stumbled as another bolt of pain, this one closer to his heart, pierced through his body. This time, his second thought was to wonder if it would be better to find somewhere to hide in the dark woods ahead. He was almost there now, and perhaps he could wait out the night there. With tomorrow’s sunrise, he could sneak his way home to his farm. He tried to draw breath and halted to a stop as the air moved through what felt like a thin straw. His third thought was a sharp, anguished spear of irony stabbing into his mind. The wasting disease. So, it’s my time at last.

At nineteen, Matt was already one of the oldest men in his village. The wasting disease claimed everyone somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five. Some lived a few years longer, some a few years less. For most of them, the first symptoms appeared with puberty; a constant pressure in their chest, a shortness of breath that they forced out of their mind for a few years, but that would one day bring death.

One day, a final breath as the heart just stopped. Sometimes the disease took younger children. Or babies, Matt thought with a shudder. The younger they were, the more abrupt and grotesque the end was. Children would suddenly collapse, blood pouring from everywhere. From mouth and ears, and trousers filling with blood. When the babies died, their bodies were torn apart by red.

Except those fucking nobles. Nobody knew why, but for some reason, the nobles didn’t die from the wasting. They just kept living when everyone else ended. Their claim that they were a different type of people, a better people, and that the wasting marked him and everyone else as deficient, had never rung true with Matt.

And now it was his turn. He knew that he should be afraid, panicking with fear. But strangely, the knowledge was wrapped around him like a blanket of calm, like the return of a dear friend long awaited, the final ending to a familiar story. He kept running through the pain, and as he felt his legs burning and his lungs gasping for air, he smiled into the dark night. I had a good run.

Between the symptoms appearing and the wasting disease foreclosing on his future, he had an hour, maybe two. Some people might last a night if they laid down to rest to give them time for goodbyes. His mother had held on to his little hand for what had seemed like an eternity, from sunset to dawn; in a room that smelled of lavender and death. He remembered emerging from the dark room into the sunrise, holding his sister's hand as tears streamed down his face. She had squeezed his hand wordlessly, and then they had continued with their lives.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Nobody survived the wasting disease, and the strange sense of relief kept hitting Matt in waves. Like everyone else, he had carried the knowledge of a short lifespan his whole life, trying to make the most out of his few years. Two weeks ago, he had joined the Duke’s Rangers for a few coins that he had given to his sister. She had given so much to him, been there every day of his life, supporting him. With those coins, he hoped life would be just a little easier for her. Did she buy herself the scarf she had wanted for so long? He idly wondered, but he knew the truth. She wouldn’t have. She would have saved it for something the farm needed.

He noticed shadows ahead, other men fleeing from the raid, and pushed himself to run faster. He sensed tremors in the ground as the whinnying of horses echoed through the darkness behind. Delicious irony, he smiled to himself. Knowledge of certain death drives me to flee another type of death. It would be so easy to just stop, to lie down, to wait for the sharp steel.

He kept running as the ground slowly sloped upwards. He could see the silhouettes of the men ahead of him nearing the foothills of the immense mountains as the darkness took on a different quality, becoming a tangible thing; a looming, threatening creature that became the entirety of the world. Those mountains are fucking ominous. He nearly stumbled as the ground changed from grassland to rocks, and more carefully, he picked his path through the uneven ground, following the sounds of the people above. The caves might have a place to hide, he thought hopefully, the sounds of horses behind now louder. A nice cave to die in. “Mum,” he would say when he met her, “I saw the Dagger Mountains!” She would smile and embrace him. As she held him close, he would tell her about his life. About his sister and brothers, and about their farm. I will leave out the last two weeks, though.

Casting a quick look over his shoulder, he made out dark figures moving swiftly over the lands below, torches in hand, horses left behind in the treeline. Looking back up, he realised he could no longer see the men he had been chasing, only the mountainside, and he picked up his pace, legs about to give out from under him. The knowledge of his scheduled death, and the sounds of men with steel behind him, kept him going. If he was going to die, it was going to happen on his own terms.

He ran another few strides and heard voices coming out from a dark opening in the mountainside that was as wide as a man and twice as tall. Something about the black maw froze Matt in his steps for a moment, before a sound behind broke his trance and he practically threw himself into the tunnel, nearly colliding with two other men. One was large and solid, with long yellow hair framing a square face. He was wearing simple leather armour that was too short for his tall body and held a hatchet at his side. The other man was even taller, looming at least another head above the other man. He was thin as a reed, holding a dagger which was pointed at Matt. Behind them, he could see two other figures wrapped in shadows; one smaller, and a taller one carrying a torch in one hand and a spear in the other.

“Easy,” Matt exclaimed as he skidded to a stop, watching the dagger pointed towards him. “I’m with you!”

A slight relaxation in their postures, but weapons still held ready. “Who are you?” the ridiculously tall and thin man asked. He looks like a reed. The wind could blow him over.

“Matt, Duke’s Rangers, 2nd Company.” he gulped, “Quick! The men on horses are right behind me. There’s at least six of them - with swords and metal armour! We need to move into the cave!” Matt wanted to say more, but a fit of coughing took over.

“Move into the cave? Are you crazy? We can hold this entrance. Me and Thor up front, you and Vic with spears behind. They can’t get past us.” The man with the hatchet declared, the tightness of his shoulders and the knuckles wrapped around his weapon exposing his nervousness. Matt recognised the man from the camp last night and remembered jokes with an edge of fear. Pete, wasn’t it?

“No.” the reedy man said. A surprisingly deep voice with an undercurrent of calm authority. He lowered his dagger to his side, a long thin blade like the man himself. “These men are trained. Not like us, not farmers and peasants. And they have armour and swords. And most importantly, there are more of them. It might take them some time, but eventually they will cut us to pieces. We can hide in the tunnels. It’s our only chance.”

“But…” Pete began, hand gesturing towards the dark tunnel disappearing behind them. “Better stand and die here. Who knows what is down there? You know the stories. At least here we know who–what–we are facing.”

Matt took a moment to catch his breath, finding it more and more difficult. Hands on knees, vision closing in, he tried and failed to speak. He did know the stories, but his chest was burning, and it felt like his lungs had constricted to the size of walnuts. He just wanted a place to hide. Somewhere to lie down. He didn’t care about the stories. I just want to die like my mother did. Like Father. Not at the end of sharp steel.

A smaller voice came from the cave. A girl’s voice. Soft and thin and assertive.

“Don’t be stupid, boys. I’m not dying here. I’m going in, and so are you.” She took a step towards them, one arm pointing firmly back into the cave, the other reaching out for Pete. “Come, I will guide us.” Matt recognised her from yesterday. After the battle, she had been sitting next to a man with a crushed hand. She had held him close and whispered something, then she had taken a bone saw to his arm and worked resolutely through his screams. She was so small he could pick her up with one arm.

The reedy man looked at Pete, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let us go, Pete. Quickly.”

Matt watched him turn around, joining the girl and the man holding the torch as they moved deeper into the darkness of the cave.

Matt moved to follow and heard a mumbled “screw you, Thor” as Pete also joined them.

Just a few more minutes now. Matt smiled. I wonder if ghosts smell like they did when they were alive. See you soon, Mum.