text: The Warrior fell to his knees, holding a grimy hand to the ragged tear in his abdomen. His breathing was heavy and labored. The saracen's blade had slashed clean through the metal links of his chain mail armor, leaving a bloody gash. The Warrior slowly sat himself down, dripping spots of red on the earth, which mingled with the dust and the blood of his fallen brothers. He leaned his head back against a large boulder and stared up at the ashen sky. The pain in his belly giving way to a dull drone of unfeeling, he let the sounds of the raging battle melt away. Below him, in the valley, hordes of saracen charged to meet the army of crusaders. The rumbling of feet, the clash of swords, the anguished cries of the dying, all drained away from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask.As his life left him, so did all his resolve and conviction, leaving only a want of sleep.The day was warm and overcast, and the Warrior closed his eyes. The Warrior awoke on a soft, silken cushion. A lantern swung to and fro on a rafter overhead. He was in a carriage. It was dark outside, and the only sound was the clip-clopping of four pairs of horseshoes pulling the carriage into the night. A centurion sat on a cushion opposite him, his red-plumed helmet in his lap.The centurion spoke, in Latin. It took a while for the Warrior to translate. "Is it over yet?"The Warrior shook his head. "Not yet."The centurion accepted this, nodding solemnly. The Warrior's wounds started to ache, and he went back to sleep. The Warrior clawed his way up the wall of the trench, his throat gagging on the noxious green cloud that enveloped the ground, filling his nostrils. Dimly, distantly, through the forest of pain, he recalled being told that the poisonous German gas was heavier than air. The Warrior desperately climbed over the top, forcing himself to stand and take huge gulps of air, but the cloud was too thick. The top of his steel helmet barely broke the top of the cloud, and he collapsed, his lungs full of chlorine. His oxygen-starved mind numbed, the sounds of battle draining away. The blasts of gunfire faded from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask.Suddenly a carriage appeared out of the gloom. A crusader, in chain mail armor, stepped out and helped him to his feet.The crusader spoke something in a forgotten tongue, yet the Warrior understood. "Is it over yet?"The Warrior shook his head. "Not yet."The crusader climbed into the carriage, and the Warrior followed. The Warrior skidded across the sandy desert ground, dragged by the arms by his fellow soldiers as plumes of dust sprouted from the earth. He heard the creak of a door, followed by frantic shouting in that foreign language he'd been hearing for the past month. One of his squadmates propped him up against a wall, giving him water from a rusty canteen while the others called for a medic. A soldier with a red cross on his sleeve hurried over. He dressed the Warrior's wound, assuring him everything was going to be alright. At that moment the back wall of the house exploded, taking the upper stories with it. Dry dust rained down from the ceiling, spraying the Warrior's raw flesh with dirt. Through the clearing dust, the white trail of a rocket darted through the gaping hole in the house. It hit the ground, the high explosive sending a shockwave through the bodies huddled in the room. The Warrior was thrown to the floor, shrapnel peppering his battered body. Already his squadmates began firing back, the clatter of their weapons blending in with the rest of the white noise. The Warrior's forehead was pressed to the floor, its cracked concrete surface blurred and out of focus. Blood leaked from his multiple hits, and with the medic dead, there was no way to save him. His hands felt the warm earth as he let the sounds of battle fade away. The pop of a grenade launcher, and the earth-shaking boom that followed, all trickled away from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask. There was the clip-clop of hooves and the creaking of wheels. The door opened, and a voice beckoned him outside. Outside was a carriage, and standing by it was a rifleman, his uniform a hundred years out of date. On shaky legs, the Warrior stood, and the rifleman helped him into the carriage, where a centurion and a crusader waited. The rifleman closed the door behind him and the carriage started to move."So," he said. "Is it over yet?"All eyes in the carriage were on the Warrior.The Warrior saw the feeling in their eyes.Weariness, sadness even, with just a lingering glimmer of hope. He knew that they had all asked the same question, and received the same answer every time. He didn't want to disappoint them, yet - he had to tell them the truth. "No," the Warrior said, shaking his head. "Not yet." And the carriage continued on.