"Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself," you say. "Please continue, Your Excellency," you call out to the orating bishop. The burst of strength that allowed you to do so immediately fades. Your ears ring at a lower pitch than they do when exposed to gunfire, like the bass singers in a choir.
Your lieutenants, ever in earshot, hustle over to you with the litter. Marszowski, the genius bastard, starts up. "See how the Lithuanian Ajaks is stricken with a festered wound from his glorious victory!" he cries out; you can barely hear him. God Almighty, everything is so bright. "And see how he still performs his duties, stopped only by failure of the body itself!"
You remove your cap and painfully wave it at the assembled Senators, as you're helped to a shaky foot and plopped into the litter. They cheer loudly, but you don't quite feel the rush from that. Beyond the heads of your men, only the sky is above. Not yet do tent-tops block the view of a crisp, clear, autumn's day, the sun obscured by the towers of Warszawa, down by your feet. You think that if this is the last time you see the heavens from the ground then you're a lucky man indeed – it had been nothing but rain and gloom for days before. Blue as a Crimean's flag, this sky is.
The noise becomes almost unbearable as you're carried back out into the camp's main lane, countless faces taking their turns to peer down at you: smiling, frowning, proud, concerned, blank, curious. You blearily shake hands with people you don't know, smiling weakly, brain fogged up and struggling to stay awake. Your eyes close once more, and you descend into the sea. Fragments of voices and glimpses of sun as your consciousness crashes and recedes like waves.
Ave Radzivilius, ave Ajax! What happened? What happened? …You think he'll… …Well, I can't *smell* it rotting, so… …Faster, faster, get him to the… …Your Serene Highness? Lord Prince? Pater Noster, qui es in… Amen. …The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to… …Get a priest, God damn you, there isn't, this isn't… …Oleum infirmorum, for the Unction… Do you hear how he's breathing? …I can't tell if it's… His eyes, look! His eyes are–
Music. Nothing of the heavenly sort. The droning blare of a koza, somewhere in the distance, playing some happy peasant tune. It's mixed in with the sounds of humans and animals. You recognize this. It's the buzz of city streets. The sky has been narrowed by overhangs, turned into a vertical strip. Men are yelling "get back!" You feel the falling once more and plunge back under the cold water.
You are sleeping. Or something similar to it. Once more there is a blackness of falling gray waves, splotches of dark green and night-dulled violet, punctuated by an orange-red center, a warmth on your face beyond that of your flushing fever telling you, somehow, in the wound-sleep, that you are still alive.
You are dreaming. Or perhaps seeing things, as it were. Shapes are forming. What comes out of the dark?
[] write-in.
Ideas include religious imagery, memories both sweet and sour, a regression into childhood. This might be the end for you, so think through what it is you see. It can be as long as you'd like, but be reasonable.
