Lines

Centurion

His sword was glimmering in the moonlight, drinking the stars. His torch still carried the hint of flame as it rested in the dirt. His armor held a sheen despite the scuffs and the grime. The blood could not sully its perfection.

He told me that this was our fight to win, and we won it indeed. Mandibles hoisted by man-sized carapaces, they threatened the world and its glory. We could not learn their speech, nor could they learn ours. So to the death we raced, and we beat them in the end.

Surrounded, I had to punch, cut, stab, thrust, and jar loose the life of every moving creature around me. The shadowy hands of the grave grabbed and pulled, but it was not my day to die, it was not my body that would bake in the Sun.

I wanted us to bask in the glories of success, to embrace and send us into the next era of our grand history. Our greatness is etched into the orators' tales and into the minds of the remaining populace. And yet my breast is cold and numb as I look into his eyes.

They were blue and laced with gold, and they stole the hearts of several young conquests. But none would withstand the test of time for his heart, they turned to ash in his arms either through his imposing form or through fate's weaving. 

One truly beautiful woman sought to finally wrest his hand as her own. She would have succeeded too, but the only case of fever to ever plague the village tore her from youth and from this mortal plane. He would never search again, so perhaps she did not fail in the end.

Dropping to my knees, I take that unclaimed hand in my own. Surveying the field, I picture the battle one last time; I heard his voice as we both were surrounded. His laughter shook the marbling around us, freed it from the settled dust. The iron in the air merely intensified our fury.

A dozen, maybe more, I had many beasts to send to their own gods of death and battle. But he had double or even triple the burden. I tried to escape or slaughter my way lend my blade, but I heard that booming voice. He demanded the lot for himself.

He still wore a grin on his face. Soaked in blood both red and black, he smelled of man and beast combined. His armor had two clean punctures, two pieces of jaw that were then sliced or torn off their owner. Every last beast died, and his blade came out clean.

His blade came out clean, and I hugged his neck. I did not think I would weep, but cradling his head made me unable to withstand their torrent. Eventually I left that site as it carried the whispers of many souls. I left him too, and the winds took him.