He had grown old, this warrior

Who lay bleeding in the dirt, shield

Split asunder from the axe that still

Jutted from his chest, biting into his

Heart with every ragged breath, but

It had known pain much worse than

A simple mortal blow could inflict, a

Mere physical distraction, this heart

Had bled long before today.

He was perhaps the last of his kind, a

Man who took no pleasure from war

Or the victories of a king whose ideals

Had once been noble ones, before he

Forgot the cost of obtaining them, the

Crown upon his brow now tarnished

With greed, eyes grown crafty and

Insane behind closed doors where

Cloaked figures fed his ambition for more.

A man of few words and little means, this

Now fallen warrior left for dead in a field

Of thistle, where bodies lay scattered like

Broken dolls tossed aside by careless children…

As he lay on his back coughing up whatever

Blood that had not pooled beneath him in the

Final minutes of his mortal life, he gives a

Silent prayer for the men he loved, the only brothers

He ever knew in a world he no longer understands.

And somehow smiles as he breathes his last.

END

“The Fallen”