Martyr

| by Val Jotenheim

I circled him, akin to that of starving wolves to their own packs,

He circled me, a dance of the crestfallen.

I clutched the chain mail around my lacerated left arm, momentarily stopping,

I could hear him breathe, and him my own.

Blood drenched my once white and gold plate mail, the edges dented,

His right leg now seeped with blood, sagged and limped from what once was brazen footwork.

“No one’s left. No lords, no kings, no men. We mustn't cross blades!” I shouted across the desolate battleground.

“You craven brute! Trembling swine! Cower behind your lord’s banner dog!” Spit glinted from the gaps between his helmet.

He charged at me, reinvigorated with barbaric madness,

My limp arm could no longer hold a shield, defiance was futile.

If my death be the end of this forsaken war, then let me be the martyr for peace.

For if god could see, then he must’ve turned a blind eye.

I am no saint, I am a soldier,

His blade sunk into my shoulder.

My place is here among fallen brethren,

Death takes no hostage of heathens.