Times Like These

I hadn't known I was in a battle until I had gotten myself stabbed.
I could feel my heart pumping my blood out onto the dirt, mixing with the blood and bodies of a thousand other soldiers. My wound was weeping like the wives and children of these men, they would never come home. The stains on the ground were the screams of the undead, memories that couldn't be washed away by the outcome of fighting. I fall to my knees, and I wonder if this is worth the pain. Is it worth the outcome to suffer the fighting? Would it justify little kids growing up without a father to guide them? Wives trying to keep families together and bring in money, only to go to an empty bed at night?
I didn't think it could be, but then again I wasn't here to think. Like a mouse to a cheese-baited trap, I was only here to die. Sucked in by the glory of the old-time war movies, back before it was hollywood guts and gore, and disallusioned as to the point of it all. There was no good in this, no glory in this act. I take my hand off the wound, and let all the bad flow out of my body, washed clean of all its impurities. I fall to my back, and look into the sky. The weather seemed to compliment the anger of the fighters in the field, lightning streaking across the sky mixing with the flashes of muzzles firing off, and glinting off the swords attached to them.
There was a flash, and then it was over. Nothing gained, everything lost, I let the storm carry me away.