He stood there in the last moments of the onslaught. As the darkness over the horizon steadily grew darker and bigger, the morning sun began to lose its shine over the land. The dewdrops became lack-lustre diamonds, the once bright green grass became a dull color of wilt and decay and the air became a stale stench of death and hopelessness.
He stood there, knowing that the time of enjoyment and bliss is over. No longer did he think that the land had anything to offer; Solace doesn’t exist here anymore; It would only come after this fight in which death was certain. Death was guaranteed.
He felt naked suddenly, and a tear fell from his face. Despite the armour of mail and chain, despite the gigantic tower shield he held, despite the claymore in his heavily chained right hand, he felt naked. It could be because he stood alone, or it could be the confusion that sets in by the thought of facing the incoming demons. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the time to sort that thought out. All he had left to do before the final clash, was to pray. And pray he did. He closed his eyes, blinking out the last tear drop, clearing the window to his soul and prayed like he never did before.
To every single god, he prayed. To the brave and the meek; to the lust and the love; to the war and the peace; to the night and the day; to the skies and the earth; to the music and the wine; to the sad and the lonely and most of all, to life and death. He prayed in silence, yet his prayers were louder than the deafening roar of the encroaching darkness over the horizon. So loud that every god in the pantheon could hear his last prayers, even gods from the most distant reaches of the world. And at that moment, every trace of fear left his body, and even death was on his side.
He raised his sword towards the sky, catching the last ray of sunlight that filtered through, and it illuminated all around him. It filled him with a brightness that radiated out from him, so bright that the armour seemed to turn molten red. He trembled at the power that coursed through him, a power that resonated every cell in his body. He heard a loud buzzing in his head that wiped out every other thought in his head. The buzz filled his mind with a message which he swore he heard
Face your demons. Face your demons. Face your demons …
Completely empowered, he charged. He ran like no man could ever run. He ran as though his armour were weightless. He ran without any restrictions. His steps left heavy foot prints into the earth, yet he felt he was running on air. He ran, and he ran without fear. He let loose a battle cry that resounded through the land and the valleys, a battle cry that would calm an innocent infant’s wail yet strike the worst fears in the guilty, a battle cry that would cure the deaf yet deafen the hearing. And with that cry, he clashed into the demons.
He slashed and stabbed with all his might, his unending might. He pommeled and slapped with all his strength, strength of a thousand gods. He parried, blocked and dodged. He fought like the god of war himself, and he moved like the god of water. He fought like a dance that would put the god of wine to shame, and the clashes of steel against steel played a song so mournfully beautiful that the god of song could never sing.
But he took his share of pain. He braved the stings of scorpions and the bites of snakes. He grimaced through every punch, kick and the powerful whip of demon tails. He tore his eyes open for every dust blown into his eyes. He fought on through all the bruises and broken bones, slashes and stabs.
By the time was high in the sky, the darkness no longer blanketed the land. The land was littered with the disintegrating bodies of slain demons. Every single one was killed, every single one was served to death. And as the last dying demons slowly disintegrated, the wind scattering their ashes over the blood stained earth, only one person remained standing. He stood there covered in demon slime and acid blood. His armour was torn and tattered as if it had been nothing more than a rag. His once brilliant claymore now chipped and cracked; its tip was broken. He lost his shield somewhere, which he had thrown after it was cleaved in half. Underneath it all, he suffered wounds no human could survive. He was stabbed a hundred times, and a hundred times more. The cuts ran all over his body like runic tattoos; They had all stopped bleeding, for he was already dry. His fair skin now bruised and black all over. His lips were swollen ugly and split. And as the last ash was blown away, the glow of life surrounding him started to wane as the gods left his body.
He smiled that this battle was fought and he was the one who fought it. His eye glittered as he saw the god of death left his body, who waited to be the last, and pulled on his valiant soul along. And as his eyes fluttered shut, he saw himself walking side by side with death, among a row of valkyries to the glorious pantheon.
