|Prayer for the Fallen
Stunned over the occurrence, he whipped around. Naught but death and devastation littered the grassy field. Most of his battalion lay dead on the bloodied soil, Lord Robert Bruce and the Earl of Mar among them. He noticed the strangeness then.
Something didn’t feel right. He touched his body in various places. The muscles, skin, and bone felt solid enough beneath his fingers. Yet, just as he placed his hand against his chest seeking the beat of his heart, he spied his mortal body prone at his feet. Eyes, which no
longer blinked, stared up at the morning sky. A hand, which would never again engage an enemy, clung to his sword. He knelt next to his mortal remains in quiet despair. A steady hand aimed for the arrow that pierced his heart and ended his mortal life. He couldn’t grasp it, no matter how hard he tried.
He hesitated for a moment and then turned to face a bewildered Duncan. His friend of many years placed a hand of comfort upon his shoulder. Unable to speak, he gazed into his eyes and shook his head.
“I think we’re dead,” Duncan whispered.
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