The Fallen Knight

In a dry patch of earth... the only dry earth in this field of rain, blood and urine soaked mud and misery, lies a gentleman. As the sky breaks into the fading light of dusk, the softly dying light shines against his plate. What plate that hasn't been soiled in the sopping foulness of battle. He is still, as they all are at that stage. His hammered metal shell does not move, neither does the the dark, bloody cloth of his padded garments beneath. He is still, so completely still that he is most certainly dead. His cratered helm and the cracked skull beneath are most certainly what fell him.

Death, or at least life in its very final stages, is a strange thing. He lays there, as they all lay there, on that fouled ground totally still. Still as stones in night's blackness. He makes no sound. His chest does not expand with breath. His mouth, choked with the blood that leaks from the orifices of his inner head does not tremble or close. It just hangs open in a sad, soundless cry. And yet, as you pass him slowly and even admire his armor, you notice that his eyes - shrouded in the shadow of his visor and the blackish brown of dried blood - watch you. They lock with yours as you move slowly above him.

You cannot see the color of those eyes, nor make their shape. But you can see the fading light in them... the fading flame of his life in them. He was young, and strong, and intense. His now still legs were strong and quick, and his shoulders hardy enough to control his war horse. He was not a wealthy man, nor a poor one. He is the son of a landed family. His fate, and his fortunes, and his understanding of himself was tied to the land. The rolling piedmont and forests of the pastoral north country. He was probably married, to a right fair lady of a quiet temper and a Christian heart. He loved, as even a pauper or prince would. You can see it in his face. His heart was not an evil one, and for as much blood as he could shed, he would not have otherwise. If he could have had if any other way, his life would have carried on. The quite life of a shire Knight; tending the estate, hunting boar and buck, siring as many children as his goodly wife could bare, filling his belly with wine, receiving communion, growing old with the seasons.

But here is where his song will end. He lies broken beneath his plate, unable to speak, or to pray. His hand is locked around his sword, though the stench of excrement is sure sign that he has no feeling his body. A grim and saddened priest performs one final blessing on him. He is sure to die, if not now then later, probably at the hands of a merciful archer who will put him out... and then take what he carry. He may last the night in his silence. Waiting to finally fade away. To be taken by the divinity and finality of God's plan.

As you move away, you wonder who he was, and what his life had truly been. To whom his heart had truly belonged. You wonder when he will finally pass into death. You swallow the bitter tragedy of knowing that his time had not ended by God's plan... it had ended by misfortune. The misfortune of his time, of his birth and of his station.

...You feel his eyes turn from you to gaze into heaven and ponder the same things.