He waited patiently for the pain to subside. It was four hours since he had lied there. The bleeding had stopped and the breath was scant.
He saw from afar the fires of celebration on the hills, heard the victory sounds of the trumpet. He should have been there, presiding over the felicitations, calling the feast. But he laid here comatose, staring stone eyed at the celebrations of his own victory.
Sometimes you win a storm and a little prick in your foot kills you, he thought as the light of the fire dimmed. Rafael this is not over yet.
100 word story for Friday’s prompt by Madison.