The Red leaves of Fall

  It nearly consumed all of Tebathor’s remaining strength to gain the sitting position against the stump of the large oak tree. His back thudded against the bark as he let his weight go, the impact forcing more blood into his mouth. Tebathor attempted to spit the mix of blood and bile away, but his weakness resulted in the thick liquid spilling down the front of him. His breathing hard and raspy, Tebathor watched the blood make its path down the his chest plate; the blue, gold, and silver metals now hued with a strange aura that lived within his life-blood.
   He was aware of the weakness that now ensnared him; conscious of death’s greedy clawed fingers slinking round the other side of the tree. If Tebathor was nothing else in life, however, he was stubborn. Thus, death would be forced to wait to claim his soul to the afterlife, but wait it would, perhaps satisfied with the hundreds of dead soldiers upon the field surrounding Tebathor.
   Looking to those dead men, Tebathor knew it would not be long before he and his companions would be reunited. A sudden sting of pain erupted throughout his body sourced from the wound at his side, forced the soldier to wince hard, as he felt more of his blood escape from the gaping hole, as though it longed to be free from the confinement that was his flesh.
   A leaf fluttered before Tebathor’s grey eyes, one that has broken free from the branches of the oak above him. How recklessly it fluttered in the soft breeze, yet its beauty was undoubted. It too was dead, Tebathor acknowledged; now set free from its bark shackles and permitted to fall to the ground. It was field of death in many forms Tebathor understood, yet the red and golden leaves retained a measure of beauty that could not be said for the slaughtered soldiers. Perhaps this was because the leaves had no bodies to be torn and slashed, exposing their insides that were meant to be contained eternally. Perhaps it was because the leaves bore no faces that would twist in horror as the cold of death filled their eyes in the last moments of existence.
   The sun was setting, the fading rays casting a golden glow over the field, and Tebathor could not be sure if the aura of perfection was stemmed from natural beauty of the undeniable slaughter, or the illusions of his life coming to its end.
   Leaves continued to fall before Tebathor. Once they reached the ground, they were greeted with pools of red. Dead life, embraced by dead life. The tree was watching the spectacle, no doubt, though its eyes were tired with the growing days of fall. It watched Tebathor and the soldiers draw forth their weapons and cry for battle, the oak had watched the field become silent hours later, and eventually still.
   Tebathor looked to his sword laying some feet away from his grasp, its blade almost hidden under the red and gold of the leaves. No more violence would the weapon spew forth into the world from his hand, perhaps not from any hand, less another find this field and strip it of possessions.
   Having no wife or children to think of, Tebathor tried to put his mind elsewhere. A task which proved vain he quickly surmised, for the stench of death filled his nostrils, and the fabric beneath his heavy armour was soaked with life-blood. A golden leaf fell onto his chest plate, its colour quickly transformed from the influence of the blood.
   “Let these corpses of nature cover my dead body”, Tebathor thought, “For their death holds less emotion than mine. May my body fuel this oak tree, payment for its aid in providing me a last reprieve before the inevitable end.”
   Tebathor felt another flow of blood escape his side. Clenching ever so weakly at a leave within grasp of his fingertips, Tebathor smiled at his companion into the next stage.
   “Today, or lives become one on this field”, Tebathor whispered to the leaf in his hand, drawing forth more blood from his mouth and his pained through the words. “We shall die together, and are bound in death until the next death. And so shall it be until the end of all time.”
   His eyes never leaving the red leaf in his hand, Tebathor uttered not another word, nor stirred again as his eyes went dark with the nothingness of death. Their reflection, however, still mirrored the image of the leaf.