“Esme…”
In the
glimmer of the solitary sunbeams cleaving the ominous gray sky, he thinks he
sees her face, but only for a second as the howls of the enemy and cries of the
dying rip him back into reality.
It has
been a hard fight, a terrible fight. His
chest plate is battered and pierced and warm blood seeps from a wound under his
chainmail. He moves to address the wound but when he touches his side an excruciating
pain lights up his body causing his chest to heave violently. He grits his teeth until the pain subsides
and like a terrible wave retreating to the sea, it finally does. His body weakening and threatening to betray
him, he lifts his eyes and surveys the battlefield. He quickly realizes he is the last of his
order still able to carry on and in sadness, drops his head and mourns the loss
of his brothers. At that moment scattered
drops of rain begin to fall from the sky and the knight catches a glimpse of
his reflection in the pool of water collecting at his knees.
“Get up old man.” He whispers.
“You’re not dead yet.”
Yet…
He plunges his hand into the
blood-soaked mud and searches until he finds the hilt of his sword. He grips it and lifts his blade out of the
mire. Using the sword as a brace, he
climbs to his feet. Once standing he feels
the gravity of his years upon his shoulders.
A life’s worth of violence and regret in pursuit of honor and wealth
weighing on him more than metal and mail he is wearing. It is neither the time nor place to indulge
such thoughts but he can’t help it. They
pierce his soul like the sharpest arrows, wounding him more than the point of a
sword or end of the lance ever could.
The most poignant of these arrows belongs to the one shimmer in his life,
the one worthy conquest, to her. The
woman who saw the flicker of good amongst the bad, the woman he loves, the
woman he left behind. It pains him so,
but what was he to do? It is not in his
nature to stay and live in peace but to die in combat in service of his lord. Love, as great and noble as it may be, bows
to honor and courage. To ask why he
does not, for as the future scribe will say, “Theirs not to reason why, theirs
but to do and die.” And now, as the
enemy encircles him, there is nothing left to reason but to do just as
proscribed. So, the old, wounded knight
lifts his helmet from the muck and slips it over his weary head then takes his
sword in both hands and braces for his last overture. In seconds the performance begins and he
battles admirably. He is brave. He is skillful. He is desperate. It is as if he is an artist and the
battlefield is his stage. With his sword
as his brush, he slashes and stabs like he is young again, splashing red onto
the murky canvas. But it is not enough
to overcome the enemy that encroaches upon him and like his fallen brethren he
is brought low by their overwhelming and relentless attack. The enemy, satisfied with their hard-fought
victory, step back in admiration as he collapses to his knees. His masterpiece finished, his overture complete,
the knight looks toward the sky just as the sun breaks through the clouds and
with his last breath, whispers her name.
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