A Beautiful Death...
A lofted spear catches him on the thigh. It is only on this battlefield that the agony can be ignored; in fact it has to ignored, for to falter for even a moment would mean death. But there is a momentary lull in the fight around him. As he looks down at his wound he realizes the irony; his fate has already been sealed. For this battle cannot be won, and with this wound there is no possibility of retreat. There is no despair or panic, but instead there is a feeling of headiness. For a man who was trained for war since he learnt to stand, for a man with iron resolve for the cause he fights for, for a man who knew this moment would come, there is no fear of death. What matters to him is the honor in it. He drops his shield and casts aside his helm. He takes a deep breath and readies his stance. They sound their horn; legions of evil steel and brawn mocking this small group of men who have the audacity to take a stand against the armies of an empire. The horn bellows again and ano