I am a soldier.
I have survived many battles,
devoted my life to war.
For my victories, I am gifted a treasure—
a beautiful, opulent blade.
It shines with the light of a thousand suns,
decorated with ornate fixtures,
crafted as if by the hand of creation itself.
This is my treasure.
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I hold it dear—
a symbol of my struggles,
my triumphs,
my accomplishments.
Then comes the day
I am called back to the battlefield.
And there, I meet *him*—
a warrior my equal in all aspects.
The air thickens, heavier than the ichor
the gods themselves dine on.
My breath meets his,
heat mixing, swelling
into a tempest of stress,
fear,
excitement,
bloodlust.
I step forward.
He steps forward.
I swing my blade.
He swings his.
Our swords meet—
my treasure, held so dear,
and his jagged, blood-soaked saber.
In a moment stretched
into a thousand years,
I see it:
my treasure shatters.
The blade I cherished,
the lifeblood of a soldier,
fractures into countless pieces,
shimmering like a thousand stars in mourning.
Then I feel it—
his blade on my skin,
the hellfire of his steel
ripping through my shoulder,
the hellish bite
slicing me in twain.
I watch as my body falls
to the earth from which it was born,
yet my feet stand firm,
planted in the soil.
And I wonder—
what was my folly?
Was it the faith I placed in my treasure?
Was it the goddess I prayed to,
turning her back on me?
Was it the weakness of my own flesh?
Then I feel it—
the hard earth against my body.
Through the pain,
the screaming,
the blood,
the chaos,
the only thing I truly feel
is the hilt of my sword
still clutched in my hand.
For even as it failed me,
this treasure was once
the thing I held closest.
The Stones Bleed Like Me 