Gilos sat in the grass, peering off toward the horizon as the dawn slowly clawed its way into the sky. He was utterly drained of emotion - his own thoughts silent for the moment as he aimlessly watched the sunrise. He was physically exhausted, hardly daring to move as his body cried out in silent protest with each small shift in weight.
It had been hell, the past day. The struggle between life and death. The elusive climb toward success that remained ever beyond his reach. It was never enough.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath as the sun cast light on his dirt covered face. The warmth was minor, only a flicker among the white snow that lazily drifted down around him, yet he enjoyed the moment.
In this moment, it was not about victory, not about the take form the day's work. Today, he was content to simply see the sunrise that he was so sure would be denied him by death's grey embrace.
The night had been unkind, down below the earth. In the pits of the dead, among those who have not seen the light in many years, they fought. Despite best efforts, despite all they had, they had failed. They were driven back, many being cut down in the hasty retreat. When their line broke, it had been a slaughter. Efforts were made to reclaim the fallen, but by the time the dust had settled it was clear they had lost. Most were dead, and those who lived were in no shape to fight.
They made easy prey for the wolves lying in wait. Some stayed and fought. Others were run down in an attempt to flee. Gilos had escaped, ironically, by taking shelter in a tomb. He spent most of the night with the dead, unsure if his wounds were so serious that they condemned him to join the ranks of withered bones interred there. His eyelids were heavy, perhaps he would close them and wake in the Grey Realm. Perhaps this was his final battle after all, and he would remain less than a footnote in the story of this land. Or perhaps he was not done yet. Perhaps he still had the strength left to stand. To fight. To take up his blades and face his fate on his feet.
After a time, he forced himself onward. His men were still out there, among the others they had seen fit to take along. He was no hero, and when it came down to it, his Jackals were all that mattered to him. He would see them home.
It was a long and bloody road, but in the end, he had them. He owed a great debt to the only one who stood beside him in the final hours, a brave soul of a bear in the body of a man. Perhaps one day he would find himself another more fitting shape. Perhaps one day he would learn to turn himself into a Jackal.
But not today. Today, they simply paid their respects to one another and parted ways. Exchanged farewells and faded away to enjoy the morning in their own ways.
They were all stronger for what they had gone through last night. Stronger as individuals, stronger as a team. Maybe it was misplaced, maybe it was foolish, but he almost felt a sense of loyalty to those bastard sons and daughters who fought under his banner. It still made him uncomfortable when they called him boss, but he trusted them with his life. And that was more than he could say about anyone else he'd worked with in this land.