He dreamt of the war that night, of his sword gliding through his enemies like a knife through butter. He smiled as he re-lived the battle that he led his troops into and won. He would surely be rewarded in the morning he thought, with gold or a promotion, his dreams changed as he suddenly stood next to the king and queen of Sparta as their commander of the royal army. “For Sparta!” He cried and a thousand Spartan warriors reigned down from the hills, following his order. But then, as he battled, a sword struck his side, causing him to cry out.
Deus was awoken from his slumber when the sharp pain shot through his stomach, making him sit bolt upright, his hands clutching his side. As he pulled them away they were coated in a thick, sticky substance. He raised his hand closer to his face so that he could see in the dim candle light that flickered on his bed-side table. Suddenly his eyes became blurry as he slowly swung his legs out of his bed. His head swam and ached as he hobbled down the corridors of the barracks.
The dim lanterns had begun to dim as their wicks burnt away and soon Deus found his vision worsened by the lack of light before him. One hand clutched his side; the other traced the side of the walls. The stone was cold and smooth beneath his rough fingers.
Soon he had found his way to the Blood Room, where the lights shone brightly under the care of the servants that worked there. By his reckoning tonight should be the turn of Anemone and this he called.
“Anemone,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he spluttered his words.
Even the soft candles that lit the Blood Room seemed harsh compared to the dim outdoors. Deus squinted as he began to feel extremely hot, the cold stone burning under his touch. “Fever,” he murmured, stumbling over to one of the beds. He collapsed onto it with a thud and moaned, his side aching even more as it collided with the bed.
But he was still tired and although the pain surged through him like a wild fire his exhaustion tugged at his eyes, eventually pulling them closed.