I lay here amongst the stained cathedral glass surrounded by the shattered vision, once radiantly reflected into the eyes of many in search of hope, and my own thoughts of such vapid desolation.
How fitting that I should be marked with the destruction of such beauty.
The shiver that companions my thoroughly wracked flesh and bone plays upon my spine as a warrior upon a battle drum, the ironic harmony of pain and spasm make me sing out in tortured cry.
A vision of a tonsured cleric at my side momentarily distracts my choir of echoed anguish. He relieves me of my bloodied blade, what a marvel my hand remained firmly grasped upon it through all of this. I can see he is prodding my frame in various places and I am not alarmed the sensation that should accompany such a thing remains elusive.
The words he speaks attempt to deliver comfort, although his eyes betray his speech and deliver the message I am already well aware.
As the many bites of the steel serpent begin to lay waste to my being I have no thoughts of comfort, just resolve. I deserve my fate upon this floor, not for the things in my past but for the actions of my present. I laid aside my armour and drew my sword upon this day of my own design and this last breath is of my own fruition. The battle I fought was both forced and chosen. A choice was made amongst the din of steel.
How fitting that I lay as a fallen angel upon a shattered saviour.
- yet another short story attempt by J.G. Smith (04/25/06)
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