In the wake of dawn, the sun glistens over the horizon. The young prince takes to the frontlines, joining ranks with fellow knights and soldiers. The fresh smell of the morning dew rising off the grass soothes his troublesome foresight of this day's foreseeable events. Since childhood, he has endured rigorous training and punishment by flogging for even the most minor errors. This day and battle would be the test of it. The result of his performance after today's events would truly define him in the eyes of his father, the King.

The enemy ascends over the hills. A sporadic mix of chants and roars echo over the lands. The King holds steadfast. His many years of war and conflict have ended his novelty of battle. Duty alone remains, a lesson he wished was learnt sooner. Any romantic notions of glory died many winters ago, with his late and eldest son at the battle at Gungnir River.

Dulled to the scare tactics of his enemies screaming and tired already of the enemies' theatrics. With a loud and melancholic tone, the King commands, "Curdle their screams." The King's army charged forth with an unwavering conviction.

The enemy screams with a fever that could shake the very bedrock of Valhalla itself. They pray the skies remain clear, to gift their fathers and forefathers a grand spectacle. This will be a glorious day for death indeed.

The gap between the two armies is thick with a cacophony of sounds. Steel whistles as it swings through the air, and thuds against wooden shields. Metal strikes metal with a crisp clank, while bones crunch under the force of blows. The air is filled with roaring screams, from those affecting and those affected.

The warriors engage in a deadly dance of feral intensity as the warriors react to the striking, swaying, and lunging steel hurling toward them.

In the midst of the battle, the warriors fiercely exchange strikes, their shields serving as their only defence. In a moment of quick reattack, the warrior's sword slips past his opponent's shield, threatening his body. But the seasoned foe, using his forearm as a guide, expertly manoeuvres the blade away from harm's way.

The young Prince moves with youthful agility on his side, skillfully evading, deflecting and redirecting his enemies' strikes. An annoyed eagerness comes over him. "Try harder!" he overconfidently taunts. The seasoned warrior falls for the provocation. Their odds in this fight descend. Resorting to brute force over the instinct of skill.

The young Prince almost succumbed to his demise. His overconfidence would have eventually been his downfall, and the tales would tell it that way. The dawn of his mortality was born when the axe's blade stopped but a breath from his face. All his short life was lessons; this day was the test, and he almost failed. Knowing his father would have stood looking over his cold corpse in disgrace that would plague the King till his dying day. With his mind sharpened by the whetstone of reality. He deflected his opponent's axe, followed by a countering slash to his thigh.

The conflicted young Prince paced impatiently on the battlefield. His mind was consumed by a newly learnt lesson that would certainly cost his life, had he not. A lesson of 'Humility.' He had just indirectly learned from the most unlikely teacher, his enemy, on the battlefield. The very man who still folds on the ground before him, wishing the axe had connected.

The wounded warrior kneels unwillingly in front of the egotistical young Prince, taking his stance as a sign of mockery, he believes. The young Prince, statue-like, looks at his fallen enemy, he raises his blade to the sky, the sharp edge of the blade hovering over the wounded warrior. He tightly closes his eyes, waiting for fate to knock. The young Prince hyperventilates under his helmet, tightly twisting at the grip of his sword, conflicted between glory to his father or honour to his enemy and teacher. His next decision will ensure strength for one and weakness to the other. Either way, this battle is lost to him.

Once confident about his side attack, the warrior's enemy suddenly feels a sharp and sudden sting in his throat. With a crimson spray, the enemy gurgles an inaudible clamour as the warrior guides him to the earth with the slow downward guide of his sword. The helpless foe, not retaliating, weakly grips the blade of the warrior's sword, lowering himself to the ground.

The warrior beats his sword off his shield to a heartbeat rhythm. Steadily he quickens the pace, faster and faster. The thudding clanks grow more rapid, the warrior beats with a frenzy… Still! The warrior stands motionless, the heartbeat ends. Moments go by, the warrior slowly animates, lifting his sword off the shield, raising his blade, directing the tip of his sword to a chosen opponent. "In moments, your heart will do the same."

Even without displaying facial features to gauge the expression of warriors' emotions, I believe emotion is drawn from the image. The absence of eyes creates an ambiguity of emotion, which could mean we may look inward, conjuring up our emotions, to understand how we may feel in the same position. The lack of clarity of what they look at further adds to the ambiguity. This is why I cropped it to a medium two-shot, by framing out the eagerness from the previous shot, which could be portrayed as a shield-bashing taunt.

The Little Lord, old enough to prove himself a man in the eyes of his Father. Measured by the crimson taint of blood clinging to the edge of his sword, after the last frail cries of their enemies have been silenced.

The warrior halts his opponent's bashing shield impacting his body with the pommel of his sword. For an instant, the warriors meet eyes. They see each other, not as enemies, but as fellow men, united by a common cause, despite being on opposing sides. Foe could have become friend in different circumstances… But this is war, and fleeting thoughts of compassion could bring one's demise.

The warrior fiercely propels the edge of his shield hard into his foe's face, aiming to warp his visor to his eyes, blinding him before sending his sword to deliver a deathly strike.

The warrior looks at the sword of his fallen foe… still, peaceful. A dawning reality seeps in. The comforting lies of disconnection he's told himself for so long unravel. Realising the lives taken by the warrior's most trusted confidant, was not an instrument of death, but merely a tool to channel the intent of the real instrument of death… himself. This creeping realisation brings not a moment of glory but a disgracing feeling that taints his soul. Where would his soul go if he were to fall today, somewhere he wouldn't desire, he fears.

The grounded warrior wearily ascends from the earth with the aid of his shield, conserving his dwindling strength to reengage into the fray.

"Could this man have been my friend in different circumstances?" Even in the grips of war, the momentary whispers of compassion are heard through the hatred of the screaming masses.

Exhausted and wounded, the warrior clutches to the ground below, caressing the blades of grass with a gentle touch. Nourishing a moment of solace from a lifetime of war. In his last breaths, he awaits and welcomes the sharp strike of his inevitable fate.