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Some call him powerful. A savior, and a light in the darkness. A beacon of hope where there is despair. There are those that revere him, and bow with the respect that his presence demands. A few even see him as a god.
Whether these perceptions of him are accurate or not, he has now been reduced to nothing more than a helpless, lifeless body. His soul struggling to hold on to the physical plane as well as feeling the warm, gentle pull of the afterlife.
Hulking monsters lumber in, mauling his already mangled body. The heart in his chest has ceased pulsing, and the blood from his wounds flow freely, tainting the soil. His mane of white hair, his gleaminig armor, his clothes... all marred by the ever present color of crimson and the stench of death.
"Should Hades invite me, I would be willing..."
A handful of adventurers would walk in now and then, offering their help, binding his soul to his body. He can not deny his gratitude for that, that the decision of hanging on to his 'life' and giving in to the comfort of 'afterlife' was taken away from him.
"But still I hope for the warmth of dawn."
No. He does not wish to live. He has already been murdered, his soul battered and thrown about by the one person who could save him. The one lady he has pledged his life to.
"Almost against my will, I move on."
A moot point. There is nothing to move on to. She wishes to die herself, so why should his life matter? Life is difficult. And death, though it may be cowardly, provides him with an escape.
"That's all I want. Sanctuary and solace."
There is nothing for him to hope for. He has refused all offers for help, insisting he wished to see the world from the other side of existence for awhile yet. A humiliating experience it was. Self-punishment. Perhaps he was also trying to hurt her as well? Perhaps he did not care anymore. She did not, after all. Why. Should. He.
And then there she is, approaching more like the grim reaper with his deathly sickle than as an angelic being with her lifetouch. Nonetheless, he could not refuse her. Life is forced back into him, unwilling though he is.
He does not want this. Life. Death is more preferrable. Though he just can not bring himself to rid his soul of this body again, not as directly as he did the night before.
Alcohol. Maybe even some merrymaking would ease his pain. Hope has apparently not lost its sick grip on him yet. A part of him still wishes to live, to be happy. Alone.
No. There is no hope.
Hades invite me. I am willing.
Valor:
Scrawlings of a Madman
11 January 97