Strike Me Down
The warrior's face is falsely pasted with a smile. Crooked thin lips gently purse and split revealing his filthy sadist's grin. His arms are not muscular, but well defined, which makes them all the better to strike me with. Stringy sinew and tendons bend and contort at his will and with every slash at my poor broken body I feel the cuts lengthen; my blood flowing in numerous ribbons that fill my mouth like a warm, salty gravy. It tastes somehow sweet, somehow indulgent. My one last failing pleasure in life is to swallow. But, first...
In the corner of my eye lies my fallen comrade's abused body. In it's lifeless grasp, a sword. No work of art, nor the pride of a long labored in smithy. Just a sword. I take hold of the vengeful blade and strike true and hard. How very strange! A single stroke to one man is as fifty to another, for he is released.
My tortured enemy flies swift to his fiery throne beneath the earth to be born again into the flesh of a pig or a woman possessed by the moon. I would rather lie here dying amongst the dead than to live and be revisited by the countenance of one so vile.
Strike me down dead that I may feel the blood come forth as a river into the vast expanse of the sea. The light around me grows dim, but it is not the ushering of self into the great void. It is the sunset. And, I am the sun.
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