The sun beats down on me now, much as the warriors’ fists beat me onto the ground on which I now lie.  The bright green is getting in my eye, the deep jade of the grass reflecting into my eyes because of the sun.  How nice it would be to move away from the light, but sadly that is rather difficult with a broken knee among other things.
I wish I could dream like my friends.  They lie around me silent, not stirring at the birds’ melody or the fire’s call for them to wake.  I see them covered in their crimson blankets.  They are beckoned to rest by its warm embrace.  Yet I have no blanket save the one barely covering my legs, so why am I lying down?  Why I am I the only one who remains in the land of the wakened?
I suppose it’s because I’m tired, and when one is tired they tend to lie down, regardless of whether they can sleep or not. My injury binds me to this ground, and therefore binds me to this world.  I suppose I am damned to think a little longer.
As I try to move on, my thoughts drift to her.  How sad she must be when I finally sleep.  Every letter she sends tells me of another restless day she experiences in my absence, and I feel happy for her.  I only wish I could keep those letters with me in my dreams.  I know she will be awake for a while.  The letters are the best I would wish for.
The emerald gleam of the grass annoys me now.  I can hear the sound of drunken laughter along with the sound of armor being tossed to the ground.  People speak stories and a fire roars in the distance.  Are they tales of victory or are my friends beckoning me to a dreaming recount of old tales of glory round the fire?  I wish they would be quiet, whatever the case.
I grow tired of being tired.  I lie here, waiting for the realm of dreams to claim my mind, but it seems content with its current occupants.  With so many having just arrived, where would there be room for me?  But what else am I to do?  I lie here, unable to get up and walk away, just waiting for something to stop me from feeling anymore.
This is no place for one to rest.  One should sleep in the comfort of their home, not in the unforgiving wild of nature.  I miss the comfort of my bed, not the earthen mattress beneath me.  My real blanket is blue and comfortable, not crimson and wet.  Will my friends ever have pleasant dreams when they remain in this unforgiving place?
I hope they won’t.  That soon we will leave this place of rest, and only our dreams remain.  I wish I could leave now, but I feel my scarlet pillow forming beneath me.  It soaks my hair.  Its soft warmth beckons me to sleep.  I guess that’s why I’m lying down.  I’m tired.