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 another wave of violence is unleashed upon the beleaguered men.

There are too few to hold the charge, so they too rush into battle. The warrior leaps to his bloody task, caution forgotten and reason discarded. He knows no fear for he has nothing to lose, and so he gives in completely to the emotions that have been stirring in him. Blood lust encompasses his mind; the thirst to dispatch as many of the hated enemy to Hades as he can. His sword carves sadistically through the enemy, following his will like any other part of his body. He runs amok through the army. They are too slow for him, too inexperienced to match his skill, too afraid to lose their lives. And so they fall by the dozens, gutted, decapitated, left writhing in the warrior’s wake.

The enemy captain looks at the carnage, stunned. The handful of men who should have turned tail and fled upon seeing the armies of his empire have slaughtered entire battalions. And they still fight. One figure stands out; a tall sinewy shadow wielding a blade of fire, flowing through his men like a crimson streak. It takes the captain a moment to realize that this is indeed a man. He wears no armor, but his entire body is covered in blood; that of his foes. He carries only a sword, using it with devastating effect, dancing to the tune of some unmerciful god of war. The captain’s voice quavers as he orders his archers to shoot this fiend, lest his whole attack turn into a rout as his men see the ferocity of this spectacle. They miss; dozens of their men die from the arrows, but the warrior is like a juggernaut. They fire again, and again, till all around him are dead and he stands alone, finally spent, mortally wounded.

He stands upright, statuesque body, covered in the red of blood, blond hair flowing with the wind. The setting sun seems to pay homage to this daunting figure, as majestic as a god, as fearsome as a demon. He slowly falls to his knees. He has no thoughts like the ones normal men do when near death; he has no regrets, no remorse over responsibilities unfulfilled, no thoughts of gods or life after death. He kisses the land he has fought for. He remembers his home, his wife, and his son; not with nostalgia but with love. He breathes his last, leaving behind only his legacy. And so the warrior dies a beautiful death.