A/N: At long last, I'm happy to be back with another longer story. This one was started before series 3 aired, making it somewhat AU, and the timing is shortly after the end of season 2. This first part is short, and as usual, I'll be updating daily. If you choose to give it a try, I hope you enjoy, and that you'll take a moment to let me know your thoughts in a review.

Last, but not least, my heartfelt thanks to AZGirl for her tireless help proofing each chapter, polishing my story summary and suggesting a title that both of us liked. All remaining mistakes are mine.

There was no glory in war. There was only savagery and brutality, fueled by the raw need to survive, beating down the enemy before they could strike you down first. It left a man heaving for air, covered in blood, and staring numbly at a battleground littered with bodies. The fortunate ones were dead; the unfortunate would be dragged off the field and tended in the makeshift infirmary, held down by comrades-in-arms as lead balls were dug out of muscle, and holes caused by steel and shrapnel were doused with strong alcohol before being swiftly stitched closed. After the battle ended, it was eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the pained cries of the wounded.

Men walked amongst the bodies, first, to search for the living, next, to recover usable weapons, and lastly, if there was time, to remove the dead before doing it all again the next day. Soldiers eventually became desensitized to the sights and sounds; it was the only way they could retain even the slimmest grasp on reality rather than going mad with the cruelty they witnessed every day. That men could treat others in this fashion was unfathomable, until you'd experienced the thrill of adrenaline when running onto the field of battle, or the sheer terror of having to fight for your life against opponents who were just as willing to die for their cause as you were.

There was no rational thought in battle - only instinct. Planning and logic was left to those absent from the battlefield, pouring over maps and developing strategy far away from the dirt and blood and death. Those men could callously speak of attacks and ambushes, the men they commanded nothing more than a list of numbers that represented the strength of their forces; they knew nothing of the soldiers' names and faces, only tallies of victories and defeats.

A manic giggle sprang forth from the man's lips as he surveyed the scene around him, too reminiscent of what he'd experienced every day since his regiment had been despatched. A part of his brain recognized that his reaction was wrong and he should be worried about his inability to stop, but there was nothing right about any of what surrounded him. He could feel the wet stickiness that coated his hands and face, recalling dimly the spray of blood from his opponents as he'd snuffed out their lives. Each move had been ferocious in its intensity, meant to kill or incapacitate as efficiently as possible, without thought for technique or the elegance he'd previously associated with his swordwork. War was a ruthless affair, and he wondered how he could have ever looked forward to being in its midst.

To be continued...