The night is slowly giving its way to the sun first rays. Filtered by the trees they still provide but a threadbare light and few hope. You have been running through the night. The prince' royal garments, not designed to race through the forest, are nothing but expensive rags; even his shoes have lost their soles and now serve only to give him a pitiable and humbling look. The fatty prince has not uttered a word for the last two hours, trying to save but the last bit of his breath.
Even you are not in a much better shape now. Yet still you have sword and shield; a mail shirt and a full suit of boiled leather covers your body, hard boots protect your feet; over your head an open help, not fitting to a knight by the opinion of your richer comrades has kept you well and sound. You have lost your horse to those traitors but what's a horse when you have seen your friends falling by the tens?
You are still trying to make sense of how you actually managed to survive when a sudden noise startles you. It's Prince Allan, who has fallen into the ground, face first, again.
"Please," he begs for the first time in his life, "rest."
Maybe you should. Even well trained and young you left the battle with a scratch or two and the weight of your weapons and armor has taken their toll, too. How long would you be able to keep going?
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