But Ashes Do Not Make Men

((non-canon))​

"he awoke as a corpse, set along dust and dirt and bone. muddied blood soaked his trousers and cooled his legs, flesh still boiling from the heat of war. plate armor was terribly insulating, and the layers of gambeson underneath helped not. perhaps, in any other situation, it would've been refreshing. perhaps it already was. it didn't matter; no moral man would ever dare to admit that. the soldier peered down to his legs with a consciousness that had long since left the battlefield. his sabatons were dirty now. what a pity. he had spent all morning shining those boots. for a moment, he wondered if they were empty; it wouldn't be so unusual for the shock to numb the pain of it. for a moment, they were."
​

"it was this very dust and dirt and bone that had choked him, forming a rank, moist cloud that drifted across the hellscape they had named promise. the uneven melody of trebuchets that had normally deafened him barely registered, for something else had caught his attention. a third boot - just a limp as his own. no, no, that couldn't be it; he did not have three legs. the soldier blinked. he blinked again. no. it was somebody else."

"five years of service, fervent, zealous and relentlessly loyal. five years the pair had served together - soldier and commander, guard and nobleman, oathkeeper and oathbreaker. he was an empire built on dreams, or maybe it was it the other way around."

"it didn't matter. his liege, long dead, lay but a meter away. there was no effort made to open his eyes, to listen for a still beating heart, to check for life, for it was clear. perhaps it was the only clear thing in the world. his pulse went on. his charge's sat silent. he was alive. his charge was not."

"he had failed."

"his legs regained feeling, so he stood up."

"the coward began to walk, then. and then he walked a little further. and he walked further. and he did not stop walking."​