The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

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librarian_7
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The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

Many people have written of Josef’s turning (some, superlatively so), which had to have taken place in the mid- to late-1620s. In my personal viewpoint, as expressed in other stories, I’ve taken the idea that he might have been an Irishman, serving as a mercenary soldier in the Thirty Years War, which raged throughout Europe at that time. The whys and wherefores of the war don’t really matter, but the destruction and death of war are realities as old as history, and as new as today.

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The Dying Day

Joseph Constantine clawed forward, the leather fingers of his gauntlet slipping on the blood-soaked grass before gaining purchase in a depression made by the heavy hoof of a war-horse. Breath rasping and labored, he pulled again, moving a scant few inches.

At least the blood had stopped dripping in his eyes, he thought, squinting against the bright sunlight beating down on the quiet battlefield. He spared the energy to glance down at his right hand. He’d lost all feeling in the arm some hours before, but he was heartened to see that he still maintained a grip on his sword hilt. Or perhaps it was simply hung in the skirts of his coat, or the baldric that held the scabbard. He suspected, now, that his wounds were mortal, and he didn’t really expect to see another dawn, but nonetheless, it seemed right that if he were to die, it would be with his sword in his hand.

A few hours ago, or was it days?, he’d ridden onto the field, jaunty at the head of his troop, sword at one hip, harquebus at the other. The scarlet plume of his hat swept down across the broad brim, almost to his shoulder. Let the rank and file wear their cuirasses, their metal helmets. He needed to see, to be seen by the men.

And he’d paid for it. The blast from the musket that caught him in the side as he wheeled his horse, sword raised to urge on the troop, had felt like a dull blow, not the piercing pain he would have expected. He’d lost his hat as he fell, and never knew if the wound on his head had come from an enemy, or the iron-shod hoof of his own horse.

He hitched forward again. Around him, he could see the bodies of the fallen: men, horses all stiffening now, their bodies given a false warmth of life from the relentless sun. When first he’d awakened, here in the midst of the slaughter, his hearing had still been blunted with the sounds of the skirmish. The blatting cough of muskets, the ring of swords, the screams of the wounded, shouted commands. He hadn’t heard the command to retreat, although he supposed one must have been given. Perhaps he’d already been down by then, left for dead among all the other carrion on the field. Now, the ringing in his ears had stopped, replaced by a deep silence, broken only by the sounds he made as he crawled through the muck and gore, seeking the shelter of the tree line.

And the flies. There was a low hum of insects, gathering to begin the work of clearing the field. The stench hit him like a blow to the face. Blood, shit, vomit, the raw stink of rotting meat. And he was struggling through the worst of it.

Any time, now, he could die. He thought it might be as easy as slipping his hand from his glove, leaving his sword behind. Leaving it all behind. The pain, the blood, the sun. He wasn’t ready yet, though. Not ready to quit the struggle. Not ready to give up.

Slowly, he made his way forward. That morning, before the battle started, he’d joked with his comrades that the little valley, parched with the late summer heat, made a sweet place for a fight. Open ground, flat for the horses, with rocks on either side to cover the musket men. Wide enough to give space for the initial charge, but too narrow to allow the enemy to flank them. Now, crawling, it seemed broad as the ocean, broader than the distance that separated him from the green hills of his homeland.

Maybe, if he survived the day, and the night to come, he’d go back home. He thought he’d had about enough wandering. Enough killing. He inched forward again. The rocks ahead seemed miles away now, and his head was spinning. A wave of nausea washed over him, bringing the taste of the sour wine he’d drunk for breakfast into the back of his mouth. The world turned to gray, and he laid his head down to rest for a moment.

When he awoke again, the sun was lower in the west. He knew that no matter how long the day seemed, eventually, night would come, and with it, the scavengers. Whether that meant peasants from the nearest village, out to pick over the dead for anything of value, or animals, from the surrounding woods, ready for a feast, it would be a dangerous time. He needed shelter.

The wound in his side was still seeping. There had been blood, too much blood. Sometimes, these past few years, since he’d taken his sword, and his horse, and left home to seek his fortune in the wars of the world, he thought he’d seen enough blood to last him a lifetime. Until today, though, so very little of that blood had been his own. Now, the blood that covered him was rolling slowly from his own veins. If he’d had the strength, he would have laughed. Wasn’t he supposed to live forever?

He used the leather harness of a fallen horse to pull himself onward, sparing a thought for the stallion he’d ridden that day. He wondered if Bayard had survived, taking flight, riderless, when he fell from the saddle. Or did the big gray lie lifeless, behind him? He’d lost comrades, before. Foot soldiers in his command had fallen, and he hadn’t given it so much as a thought. But Bayard had been with him, from a foal. He’d seen that horse take his first wobbling steps, and the thought that he was gone forever…a tear leaked out from one eye, and Joseph was glad no one was present to see it. War was war, and men—and horses—died. No reason to weep over it.

Slowly, inch by inch, the tree line was getting closer. He was getting weaker, he thought. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain. And he was so thirsty. He’d have sold his soul, little worth as it was, for a drink of cool water. Better yet, a draft of wine, with a pretty girl to serve it to him. As long as he was wishing for the impossible, there was no reason to aim low. He’d have smiled, if he’d had the strength.

The muscles of his shoulders throbbed painfully. Just a few more yards, he thought, and he could rest. He’d crawl in among the rocks, shaded by the trees, and rest. If he could do that, if he could last out the night, he’d be sheltered from the day, and he’d be stronger.

Another scrabble, another grasp, another pull. Once he’d thought the whole world was his to grasp, and he’d intended to see it all, to seize it all. Now, his world had narrowed to a single goal. Reaching the tree line. Every inch forward cost him more of his ebbing vitality, but he refused to stop. Refused to die, here in the wreckage of a minor battle, miles from anywhere. The elbows of his coat had worn out long ago, as he crawled, and the skin beneath was scored and raw from sharp pebbles in the dirt. Joseph almost welcomed the pain of every contact with the ground. It meant he was still alive.

As the welcome shade drew nearer, the shadows slanting outward with the declining sun, he had an impression of someone standing, cloaked in black, among the trees, watching him. Twice, he convinced himself it was an illusion, a phantasm conjured up from his fevered brain. After all, if anyone was there, they’d have ventured out into the sunlight, either to help him, or to kill him. He knew his sword alone was worth more than his life, at the best of times, and now—if the peasants found him, they’d kill him for his boots. Or his gloves. Or maybe for nothing at all, but to show their hatred of the soldiers who ravaged back and forth over the land.

The shadows had lengthened considerably, and his strength lessened accordingly, by the time he dragged himself into a slight declivity in the rocks at the side of the valley. That last twenty yards, up a short slope, had been the hardest part of the journey, and he had little thought beyond the achievement of his goal.

It was an effort to turn over, but he managed, slowly, painfully, and drew himself into a half-sitting position, his back protected by the rocks. He thought he ought to reach over, take his sword into his left hand, since it was useless in his dead right one, but after a few attempts failed, he resigned himself to the situation, and leaned back, cursing his failing body.

He had become realistic enough, over the past hours, to realize that he’d likely arrived at his final resting place. At least, he thought tiredly, there was a bit of a view. He supposed as the years passed, the traces of the battle would vanish, and the meadow below would once again be nothing more than a pleasant little bit of land. Not as green as the Ireland he remembered, but he wasn’t complaining. He could rest here, with his sword by his side, to the last.

He must’ve dozed, because suddenly he felt a chill, and looked up to see a tall, thin, cloaked figure standing before him. The deep hood was pulled forward, and he could see nothing of the face within. He tried to tighten his fingers around the hilt of his sword, but he could feel no movement.

When the figure spoke, he understood nothing of it. He’d learned Latin, and some Greek, when he was young, and during his time with the Emperor’s forces, he’d picked up some French and German, but these local dialects defeated his ear. Even the peasants hereabouts managed sufficient German to get by on; there’d been no need to trouble himself with Polish, or whatever this was. He managed a small shake of his head, enough to signify, "I don’t understand."

“Easy, child,” he heard a voice say in low rough tones, the German heavily accented, but intelligible. “I mean you no harm.”

He had enough strength to rasp out, “I’m…no…child.”

A low chuckle answered him. “Forgive me. I meant no insult.”

Joseph was past worrying about meanings. He saw a possible source of hope, of help, and he was ready to take whatever was offered. “Water?” he croaked.

The hood swayed a negative. “No, my son. But if you can wait until nightfall, I will give you a better drink.”

Wine, he thought. “Why…wait?”

Another chuckle. “You are a brave soul, it seems. A worthy soul. I watched long, before I came to a decision.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Joseph now. “Indomitable, even unto death. He’ll do. He’ll do.” The figure turned, and then looked back over one shoulder to the dying man on the ground. “Rest. It will be night, soon enough. I will keep watch until then.”

He wondered if this was the Reaper, come for him at last, or an angel of death sent as a final mercy. He muttered a few prayers, as best he could remember them. He thought he’d keep his eyes open, as long as he could, watching the sunset. He knew, now, there would be no more sunrises to see. Not for him.

The clouds streaked a late afternoon sky with gaudy ribbons of orange and pink, shading to indigo purple as time went on. He thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He wished that Siobhan were here to share it with him, and the thought brought up a vision of her face. He’d been a fool to leave home, and all he wanted, now, was a chance to tell her so. That, and a little water to moisten his lips. Just a little, to quench this burning thirst.

And there, in the rocks above a battlefield that was already forgotten by all but the dead, Joseph Constantine, late of Ireland, waited for death and destiny, as the summer sun went down.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by jen »

Lucky

This meets one of the best characteristics of great fic--it leaves you wanting more!

As Josef witnesses the last sunset of his mortal life, he steps into another. I can't help but wonder how he will respond when the time comes. Will his Sire explain to him what is to come or simply drain him without a word, leaving his to think that he is the victim of a scavenger, after all. How long did it take for him to wake? Is there anyone else alive on that field of death?

Fabulous story.

Thank you

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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by Lucy »

Love reading historical Josef......thanks!
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by francis »

Wow. I absolutely adore how you manage to convey the strength and the love of life and the absolute refusal to give up in Josef. And that's probably what the unnamed vampiress sees and why she decides to turn him. I love the picture of the battle field. The 30 year war was such a crucial time in our history, in my history too. I love that you make him an irishman fighting on foreign ground. It fits him so well. I love that he mourns his horse and wants to die with his sword in his hand. There is so much detail that I love.
You just are a great writer. Proven again. :hug:
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by Marigold »

Oh, Lucky. You've outdone yourself. :notworthy: :notworthy:

This is such a beautiful piece. Such emotion. Reading about the battle, about Bayard, and then about Josef's struggle to get to the tree line, combined with listening to the music, has left me teary. :hankie: :Mickangel:

I love the mention of Siobhan. Her character has always stuck with me. Little does Josef realize that he will eventually have the chance to see her again. :Mickangel:

I love how you've related the theme of 'nightfall' to the end of Josef's human life, and to the sunset.

Excellent response to the challenge. :rose: :rose: :rose:
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by cassysj »

Nobody does historical Josef like you. This is a fantastic answer to the challenge.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by MickLifeCrisis »

I don't read historical Josef very often, but this was excellent! I could just picture him pulling himself along on the ground with one arm, inch by agonizing inch. Thinking hopeful thoughts at first to keep himself going, yet even after realizing he would probably die he kept pulling himself along to reach his goal of lying in the shade and protection of the trees and rocks.

I really did enjoy this! Awesome job! :twothumbs:

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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by allegrita »

Lucky, this story is so filled with powerful images that it actually hurt to read it. I could feel every agonizing lurch across that battlefield, feel the afternoon sun beating down, smell the stench that Josef struggled through. And I could feel his indomitable will dragging him along. Only one as determined as Josef would have kept at it when it was so obvious that all hope was lost. But Josef wasn't like that, even as a human man. He couldn't give up. He had goals, even if they were as simple as reaching shelter that probably wouldn't do him any good.

And that mysterious watcher... who was it? Why pick this particular battlefield, this particular soldier? I love that we don't find out anything about this sire-to-be... because this story is about the fall of Josef's last night of life, and it's fitting that the story end with that sunset.

By the way... thank you for that word-picture of Josef astride his beloved Bayard, wearing the dashing hat with that gorgeous scarlet feather... :melts: :melts: :melts:

This was just amazingly, beautifully done. :clapping: What a brilliant answer to the challenge!! :notworthy:
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by eris »

Ooh! Very cool surprise to find now that I'm home. Wonderful, Lucky. I really like your historical pieces.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by Lilly »

Lucky, this is just amazing. I am always in awe of your historical pieces (not only because they include Josef so seamlessly :happysigh: ) but even more so for the utter richness of your descriptions. :notworthy: Your language is appropriately more formal than in your present day stories and I believe that is instrumental in transporting the reader back to a very different time.

Alle is right. This story is painful. I had a knot in my gut that grew tighter and tighter as Joseph inched his way across that field. It was a grueling journey -- physically and emotionally -- and it told volumes about the human man he was.

This is a powerful account of his last moments as an ordinary mortal. And at the same time, you've managed to convince us that he was not so ordinary after all.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by darkstarrising »

Lucky, this is an incredible piece. :rose:

The imagery you convey of a dying man surrounded by the death and destruction of war is quite powerful as is how his perceptions changed so drastically over the course of a single day. Two components stood out in particular - blood and the sun. Riding into battle, Joseph thinks little of his own mortality, but soon in surrounded by blood, something he will later rely on for survival. The 'glory' of war soon becomes gory:
And the flies. There was a low hum of insects, gathering to begin the work of clearing the field. The stench hit him like a blow to the face. Blood, shit, vomit, the raw stink of rotting meat. And he was struggling through the worst of it.
Nothing glorious about that.

Then there's the sun. At the beginning of the day, Joseph is human, eager to ride into battle, but soon, wounded and dying, he seeks shelter from the sun, perhaps a foreshadowing of things to come.
Slowly, inch by inch, the tree line was getting closer. He was getting weaker, he thought. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain. And he was so thirsty. He’d have sold his soul, little worth as it was, for a drink of cool water. Better yet, a draft of wine, with a pretty girl to serve it to him. As long as he was wishing for the impossible, there was no reason to aim low. He’d have smiled, if he’d had the strength.


Still, he doesn't give up, and his resolve will soon pay off, just not in the way he expected. The last line is perfect - the sun is setting, his last sunset as a human, little knowing that he'd eagerly await thousands of sunsets in the future.
And there, in the rocks above a battlefield that was already forgotten by all but the dead, Joseph Constantine, late of Ireland, waited for death and destiny, as the summer sun went down.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by LaughtersMelody »

I absolutely love your historical pieces with Josef and Ireland, and I was thrilled to see this one. The descriptions are just beautiful and haunting, and really liked that Josef unknowingly heads to his destiny, right to where it waits in the shadows. A very poignant image.

Fantastic work!

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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

Thank you so much for the comments! I love when I get an idea for historical Josef...it's one of my favorite genres to write.

And there are centuries of Josef still to explore! :teeth:
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by MoonShadow »

Another jewel.
Your have the most astounding ability to write Josef. I need to clarify that statement, you have the most astounding ability to write.
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Re: The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13

Post by cassysj »

You bring such a deep richness to your historical pieces.
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