My hands, callused and bloody from the arduous voyage south, grip the unhewn shaft of my enemy's spear as they once gripped the oar that carried me to this accursed beach. Like a boar in the hunt, I feel no pain, though I bleed upon the spearhead like a stuck pig. No earthly might nor godly strength can draw the weapon from my body, so I collapse to my knees. The fall is short, yet when the sand rises to meet me, pain as wild as lightning tears through my body. The sun beats upon my neck with oppressive force, but I shiver as though the north winds themselves call for my demise. Men cry out around me in pain and anguish; I feel only talon-like fingers tearing at my soul. What should have been a glorious moment has become absolute devastation at the hands of forces far greater than I. My armor was tight: no arrow could pass through its bulwark. My helmet was fitted: no blow could render me senseless. My boots were laced for swift and deadly movement across the earth. None of these earthly possessions can protect a man from his inevitable end.
Fate will always find a way.
This spear was not driven into me by mortal nor god, though one could believe either struck me down today. The pain is not merely that of a wound received in battle, but the crushing weight of my misdeeds and missteps in life. They have led me here, to my final resting place. Enemies may show leniency and mercy; all men understand their necessity. The hands of fate are less forgiving, and the weight of their judgment upon my spirit has become too much to bear. My time has come.
“It matters not what legacy you leave behind, the riches you have amassed, nor the story sung in your honor; fate cares little for the mundane trifles of mortal men.”
· · ·
What rises from the silence is indistinguishable: a dark amalgamation of crashing waves and flowing blood unsettles the already faltering beat of my heart. Like the morning rooster calling a man from sleep, the overwhelming rhythm marks the moment when all earlier memories fade into obscurity. Through this cacophony of nature and life, my ears grasp at the muffled source of what has brought me to my end: warfare. Though it hastens my demise, I strain to hear the distinct ring of battle in the distance. Blade against blade, ax through wood, bone splintering beneath steel, guttural screams and bellowing warhorns—even above the sound of death, warfare reigns supreme over the senses. As though granted one final reprieve by the gods, my hearing begins to fade again. Or perhaps for the first time.
It is truly unclear to me.
Where once came the horrific sounds of a village's destruction, only the waves remain. Where I heard the lament of friend and foe alike, now there is only the sound of blood flowing unstopped. Together, the rhythmic pounding of water against earth and blood upon sand grants me the peace I searched for so relentlessly in life. I am free from the fear of death that once plagued my ever-aging body, though I remain ignorant of the sorrow that may engulf my spirit once I pass.
“The inevitability of death concerns the living, tortures the dead, but brings a solemn peace to those who find themselves betwixt.”
· · ·
My senses tarry, but only those that remain within this dying corpse. Though I can no longer see the spear's hardwood shaft or feel its unhewn roughness, the metallic taste of my blood assures me it remains. I know neither my location nor that of my companions. The only reprieve from the sickly metal is the bone-chilling salt water rushing into my mouth, like a small creature fleeing home before a predator. The steady rise and fall of the tide keeps my spirit tethered to my body. As though replacing my failing heart, the frigid ocean mocks me and denies me death. Its repulsive salt shocks me to my core and, if only for a moment, breathes new life into me. Do the gods still have a plan for me? What use could the failed corpse of a man have in any design that stirs within immortal minds?
It cannot be so.
No god would grant a man so easily discarded by fate a place within their grand designs. I can only conclude that what I taste is neither my warm northern blood nor the product of the vast, endless abyss. No. It is the taste of defeat: the bitter reward of those unable to overcome even the most ordinary obstacle. No preparation or understanding can save a man from fate, but defeat is reserved for those who have failed and must atone through torment. The waves are no longer the ocean. Defeat itself beats in place of my heart, mocking my continued existence and longing to replace me entirely. It washes away the familiar taste of blood, perhaps one of my final comforts. Fate has torn me asunder, yet its outcome was always predetermined. This failure—this defeat—seeks to replace my being and write its own story in place of mine. I may not possess the time or will to resist its malevolent intent.
“Defeat is cold, uncaring, and all-corrupting. Allowing it to claim victory will not only replace your previous existence, but surely end your life.”
· · ·
With so few senses left to guide me, it becomes clear that death waits beyond the horizon. I cannot hear its march; it is an entity wholly unknowable to mortals. Numbness may spare my skin from death's cold embrace, but it cannot hinder the reaping. The taste of defeat still weighs upon my tongue, vying for control of my story, though even defeat knows it will be extinguished at death's arrival. Yet no man can deny the smell that announces death. For most, it is an assault strong enough to drive even the wisest elder mad. Wherever war, famine, and pestilence gather, the smell of death stands absolute: a stench so wretched that even the hardest warrior cannot keep his balance beneath it. This is what we were taught as children. Death is a terrifying end to a bleak reality—repulsive, abhorrent, and to be avoided at all costs.
They are all lies.
The smell of death is sweet. Comforting, even. Wracked by pain and surrounded by misery, the promise of an end awakens joy in those who are neither wholly dead nor wholly living. I have failed in life and suffer between worlds; only death's release offers the happiness that once danced along the fringes of my mind. A man should not spend his life wishing to die, but fate cannot be silenced or reasoned with. Once fear, terror, and pain strip him to his most primal self, a morbid happiness surrounds the thought of death. At last, I know what awaits me on this beach. With the last will coursing through my body, I reach out to meet death with open arms. No answer comes. I am met only with a stillness more absolute than death itself. Hope of an ending abandons me as death refuses my cry. Have I become such a wretch that even death will not walk beside my spirit? Without an end, fate is meaningless. Without a chance for redemption, failure fades into obscurity. Forgotten by fate, ignored by death, rejected by failure—who remains to claim my eternal soul?
“The strength of a man cannot be measured in numbers and deeds, but by his ability to stave off the certainty of his own mortality.”
· · ·
I am unmoving, unfeeling: a husk of my former self. The man I was is no more. Whatever makes a man has spilled onto the beach beneath me. Yet my vision remains. Why does it linger? Nothing is more powerful than seeing one's failures laid bare. The mind may play tricks, and a steadfast man may chase such thoughts to its furthest corners, maintaining a firm grip on his own reality. But no man can banish the truth before his eyes. Is this one final trick? One last kick against a man already failed? The mind may be sick, but the eyes do not lie. All around me, drained of sound and color, my failures lie strewn across the shore. The beachhead has become a grave. The sky is black with the ash of burned timber, and though I can no longer hear, I sense the silence of slaughter settling over this place. I will be remembered only by what could have been rather than what should have been. Like the closing of a gate or the snuffing of a roaring fire, darkness marches slowly toward the center of my vision. After what seems several lifetimes, it becomes almost welcoming.
And yet, senses can be deceived.
Like a noise in the night or the sudden sight of a stalking wolf, uncertainty overtakes my mind. If my senses deceive me and my will is broken, why do I cling to life? Doubt infects the fringes of my thoughts—not doubt in my accomplishments or duties, but in my eternal certainty. It is too late for prayer; none would hear me. Too late for penance; I wear my sins upon my soul. Too late for charity; I have taken more than I could ever give. Why then, accursed heart, do you continue to beat? This is too much effort for frugal gods to spend tormenting one unremarkable man. Many have fallen today. I am nothing worthy of divine ire. I have cursed death; now I begin to curse life. I am no witch, and undeath is no card my heart would play. When, profaned spirits, may I slip the chains of life? Has death itself shunned me?
“From the wisest scholars to the most battle-hardened warriors, none can truly face reality without heeding the siren song of insanity.”
· · ·
And then she appeared.
· · ·
While I fought upon my sandy deathbed, her presence went unnoticed. Perhaps my failing senses concealed her. Perhaps the war within me did. Or perhaps she was one final trick sent from on high to crush whatever morsel of hope remained in my corpse. What is certain is that she was there. The last point of my vision fills with sunlight so intense that even death retreats to its vile lair. Like the final charge of a desperate army, the light beats back the darkness. It lingers at the edges of my sight, fighting a war it cannot win. As I struggle to understand my new condition—my true final battle—I cannot tear my thoughts from the light. Is this death? No; death has been driven from his prize. Has fate granted me another chance? No; I killed fate the moment my boots struck this beach. Are my senses deceiving me again, as they have so easily before?
No: my senses were returning.
As though she hears my internal battle, she steps into view. Or perhaps she simply appears; as my senses return, she shatters the reality I had accepted. She is like the sun: as beautiful as a spring morning, yet so radiant that I cannot hold my gaze upon any part of her for longer than a breath. She wears armor—or perhaps a robe, or nothing at all. Somehow, she wears all three and none in unison. Golden are her hair, her eyes, her skin: a beauty beyond the words of any who might behold her. Is this my reward? After defying death, fate, and failure, am I permitted to gaze upon true beauty before I pass? Perhaps death's final trick is to appear beautiful; it tasted sweet, so why should it not be fair? No. Though I may be little more than a corpse, I have never trusted my senses more than I do now. Whatever she is, she is real and has come with a purpose unknown to me. If I can tear my mind from her radiance for even a moment, only one thought remains: I pray she is benevolent.
“Men are simple and frail creatures. But in this simplicity is the calling card of human nature: the appreciation of true beauty.”
· · ·
I cannot grasp my situation; whatever sanity remained has drained from my mind. This gold-clad woman has beaten back the darkness at the edges of my sight and now stands at my feet, silent and waiting. Does she understand the enormity of her presence? Or does she see only the shell of a man struggling to comprehend his final visions? I cannot say. She remains unmoving and grows ever more radiant. Like a thief in the night, the overwhelming stench of death and viscera returns. Were I able, I would retch and fall to my knees. Yet as quickly as the stink of battle arrives, it vanishes. I know it must still hang over the beach, but without it I cannot be certain of anything beyond her. My sight fixed upon the woman, I barely notice new scents creeping into my nose. This one is familiar—not vexing or illusory like death. Death can only imitate sweetness, and only those with nothing left but life itself could mistake it for comfort. This scent is real. Familiar, inviting, warm.
It began to smell like home.
At once I am carried back to simpler times: fresh snow across the fields, my mother's bread, a roaring fire beneath a star-filled sky. The longer I dwell within them, the more memories return. The scent of a woman. A first ale. Fresh meat from the day's hunt. The flood nearly becomes too much to bear. Moments ago I would have called these recollections another trick of failure or death, or one final cruel joke of the gods. But they are neither dreams nor fantasies. They are mine. Moments from my own life rush into the emptied vessel of my mind. I cannot know what this woman is or what she represents, though I am certain she is my end. These memories were all but lost as I lay dying upon this gods-forsaken beach, yet she has returned a fragment of my identity. For that, I cast aside my remaining fears and cling to her as a newborn clings to his mother. To hell with fate and failure. I must remember who I am.
“Memories are not simply visions of a better time; they are the fundamental building blocks of a man's inevitable future.”
· · ·
The waves of blood that once crashed against my teeth like stones upon a shore have receded, as though the moon itself has called them back. Burnt flesh and death no longer march across my tongue. I am lost, but not as before. Moments ago, who I was and what I would become felt like a foregone conclusion written by the decrepit hands of fate. This figure—this woman, this savior—has severed what I feel from what I know to be true. As savage as the battle upon this beach once was, the one raging across my tongue is more complex. The taste of defeat cannot be forgotten, yet I can no longer recall its bite. Shame and ineptitude had replaced victory and dominance, only to be washed away by the cold torrent of seawater as I lay lifeless upon the shore. And the blood—oh, the blood. Its familiar warmth heralded the death knell of all men. Now it too is gone, replaced by a taste many claim to know, some may experience, and none can truly understand.
It was the taste of salvation.
I am reminded of my mother's cooking, my father's hunts, and the earnest mistakes of a younger man. Sweetness does not begin to describe it. No banquet nor the finest mead could rival the undeserved gift this being has brought me. As though by perfect design, she clears the cancerous thoughts from my mind. Now kneeling beside me in the sand, a celestial shield against mortality's pains, she lowers herself to meet me. She neither smiles nor glares. Her eyes meet mine as an invitation to the deluge of questions she knows her presence has awakened, but my tongue cannot move and my voice has fled to the pit of my stomach. With outstretched arms, she reaches into the sand beneath me and draws me against her chest as a mother would her firstborn son. My senses have never been clearer, yet never further beyond my understanding. Fate has had its way; I no longer know who I am. Yet there is no defeat here, no shame, no guilt. There is nowhere else I am meant to be, though I may never understand where here truly is.
“No greater love can be known than the unconditional love given freely. No earthly forces nor human limitations can sever this bond once given.”
· · ·
Like slow winter snow, my senses settle back into my body. Where each once served as a final hymn sung by dying priests, each now finds new life. Battle once consumed my world like a guttural song; now I hear only this moment. Her armored hands cradle me, and the crunch of sand beneath steel gauntlets blots out every other sound upon the beach. The waves fall silent. The birds no longer cry. It is as though the whole world has stopped to witness these two figures meet. I hear leather grow weightless and the axe and shield I once carried fall lifelessly into the sand. For a moment, there is silence again, as though we have crossed a bridge into a world where nothing can be and no life can sing. Even my heartbeat has fallen still. No breath fills my lungs. Then I hear it.
The sound of softly beating wings.
Like a seabird crossing an endless ocean, or the silent flight of an owl over a snow-covered hill, the beat of her wings fills my ears. It is so powerful I feel it within my chest, as though her wings have replaced my heart and its rhythm. As though she might return me to life through will alone. We begin to ascend from the beach. Had I the means, I would look down and watch my final resting place recede into smoke and fog. Beneath her wings, air rushes gently past us. It is a cool morning breeze and a cold winter gale in one, filling my mind with better times and life anew. She does not break her gaze. Her look comforts without revealing emotion, as though this were merely the order of things—a predetermined end I should have known from the beginning. Doubt, shame, death, and fate have all been replaced by a feeling few ever truly attain: peace.
“All men chase her, few men catch her, and none truly deserve her. Peace is the foundation of man, without which we must constantly live.”
· · ·
Far above my mortal home, we rise gently through the sky. A realm for birds, dreams, and stars becomes the stage for my final moments with this being. She holds me closely so my mortal form cannot fall, though I no longer believe any earthly bond or mortal coil could tear me from her arms. We pass through clouds softer than fields of spring flowers. Water mists my face and wind moves through my hair as we climb ever upward. I have died. Of this I am certain. Yet this is far more than life. Never have I felt so intensely or dreamed of such sensations. Our destination remains unclear, but my guide knows the way. I cannot look away from her eyes. Vibrant colors move within them, as though the stars have found their home there. Fear has abandoned me, and doubt is a long-forgotten shadow. I struggle to ask where I am, who she is, and why she chose me. But the questions no longer matter. The time for understanding—and perhaps human nature itself—has passed. Only action and existence remain. I know not what force moves me, but I feel this may be my final chance to share some connection with her.
So, I reached up and touched her face.
Her skin is soft, radiant, and warm as the sun. Its brilliance is so great that I do not wonder why my heart has left me and only will remains. She looks down, and for a moment I fear I have angered her. Instead, she fixes her astral eyes upon mine and, without a word, smiles. Is she my reward? No. Failures do not receive the riches of the world merely because they can; such gifts must be earned. Is she death, playing with a man willing to touch anything that grants him comfort at his end? No. Even death shields itself from her divine radiance. As my hand slips from her face, I drape my arm around her shoulders and settle into my place within her arms. The sun approaches faster, its rays battling for dominance over her silhouette. I feel all of it and understand none. At last, I surrender to the truth that I am not meant to know. Who she is, what purpose she serves, and why I was chosen are negligible now. Once, I was a frail mortal, enslaved to the whims of mortality. Now I am something more. I am destined for somewhere else, and on her wings shall I ascend.
“We crave not the feeling of death, just the promise that it was not all in vain.”