|Vladimir Arsenievich Zhikharev ჯ Troilus (apromisedglory) wrote in mythopoeics,|
@ 2012-08-17 02:01:00
|Entry tags:||!mini-log, !zurvan, troilus|
It had come suddenly as some attacks were wont to do. The shell explosion was unavoidable, sending himself and a few of his fellow men flying back. Misfortune blessed Troilus as he did not die immediately but came to his senses long enough to realize he couldn't feel his legs and that he was assuredly on his way to death. Despite that, the most awful of panics rose up in him. Well ignoring the fact he could not hear a damn thing, he pressed shaking hands over himself to inspect what other damage had occurred anyway, sticky, wet prints of blood left over himself. His uniform was torn, he was now feeling a jagged, oozing wound on his side and the ragged ends of a deep gash on his thigh. There were other injuries where he could feel bones, both broken or simply exposed, but he gave up.
The sky above him couldn't be seen, the air thick with dust and smoke. It barely seemed like day at all. Troilus closed his eyes, wishing he didn't have to take the scents of a battlefield with him into the afterlife or with the feeling of the ground was rumbling. Tanks, he presumed as he began to feel so very light-heated. If his hearing hadn't been so shot, he would have heard the shouting, the screaming and even the crying for the loved ones very few on that field would see again. Only his mind kept him company in the last few moments of his life.
And as he left the world that was so very false but granting him a very painful death, his thoughts were made up facts like he was leaving behind his beloved pregnant wife and how much he could not regret entering the war anyway.
warning: character death, set for Friday