The death bells chime on, calling upon the warrior, the gates open for him.
His golden amber irises look on from that high mountain peak, long silver hair swaying in night fall’s last breath. He was numb to the feeling of touch, his light weight yet dignified attire shifting above skin. Hands tightened at his sides, the hymns of unnamed voices ringing in his ears. Those eyes never wavered, never watered with tears nor turned to see behind him. This swordsman was ready to stare his destiny in the eye. He knew no fear. The moon falls away beyond day break’s clouds as the air changes scent once again.
“The time has come.” He murmured just barely above a whisper. Of all the ways to meet his end, he couldn’t have asked for a better way.
Though all who would stand around him would see nothing more than a disgraceful traitor to his people, he alone would know the truth. He had done the most honorable deed a loyal soldier could possibly do in his short life under the order of a king.
He saved the heir.
Though his means of doing so were apparently questionable, there was no doubt in his mind. Even if he had to die because of unjust accusations, he had done what needed to be done. That was all. He wouldn’t die as his forefathers had; publically honored and given an extravagant funeral and a grave stone marked in history for all to see. But he had been told since his boyhood that redemption and honor were not something you can just be presented on a silver platter. Such things come from one’s actions, and how you yourself feel about those actions. He would die with those beliefs. Even if not seen by others, he would still die with his own honor.
A true soldier of the king.
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