The Last Knight

The putrid scent of rotting death spreads along the musty black swamp. A knight covered in rust and sludge twitches awake, surrounded by corpses, wearing the same phoenix emblem on his chest plate. The knight scrambles up to his feet and gasps at the pile of his dead comrades slowly being devoured by the marsh; a shaky breath vibrates out from his helmet.

Turning towards the stormy sky, a pillar of black smoke rises, piercing the dull sky. The knight’s heart sinks in realization. The war is still going on. He stumbles back down as if the dead tried to pull him with them; he shrieks, flailing like a fish out of water. Then he notices a glint of steel flashing in the darkened waters. His hands shake violently, and then he dips into the underworld and picks up a sword and shield covered in crusted black blood and rust. The knight looks back to his fallen comrades; they all stare at him with their lifeless eyes; their slack jaws seem to move, mouthing a single word to him, “Fight.”

Fight.

Fight.

FIGHT.

Shaking his head, the knight dashes off while partly tripping as the murky waters cling onto his greaves. His heart pounds rapidly as he slashes the rusted sword at the waters, shrieking like his dead comrades are the ones grabbing his legs. The knight shouts his pleas to the darkness to stop. To leave him alone.

Finally, The knight is out of the water on a small island of dirt. His breathing bursts in and out of his chest as he stares back at the pile of corpses about a tree’s length away from him. The silent words of the dead still beating in his head, making him groan to the pain; dropping the sword and shield, he pushes his hands against his helmet, thinking maybe that could lessen the throbbing. But it doesn’t help. The pain just seems to worsen.

The knight yells at them to stop, but they don’t. He begs, but they don’t care. Until he finally gives in to the screeches, he is obliged to fight.

Silence.

With trembling hands, the knight reaches for the weapons again and looks toward the pillar of smoke in the gray sky. He gulps down the lump in his throat and presses forward.

Just over a ramp of rocks is the edge of a cliff. The knight gazes upon the distortion of what was once a kingdom, his home now in ruin and smoke. A wind brushes against his armor; the smell of burning flesh and rotting death wafts him like a cloud enveloping him while delivering the distant cries of the dead to him.

The knight falls to his knees as he sobs. There’s no point in fighting when the kingdom has long lost.

…

… fight.

.. fight.

The begging of the dead returns, racking the knight’s brain between the steel chamber of his helmet and skull. He growls and then shouts there’s no war to fight; the enemy has already won.

Fight.

Fight.

FIGHT!

The knight gazes upon his broken home and then at the bottom of the cliff. He wonders if the cries will stop if he jumps. Will his misery end? He crawls a step toward the chasm. The screeching grows louder, telling him to fight. The knight crawls further; the pounding of his head throbs rapidly like a heart attack.

Then, the knight stops at the very edge of the cliff; tiny pebbles roll off and disappear into the depths. Everything silences except for the howling of the wind.

He doesn’t want to die.

The knight wants… to live. To live and learn more about the world. He nods his head, acknowledging what he wants and what he must do. Fighting is inevitable. There’s no way around it; there will be those that will come to kill him.

The knight firmly grips the sword and shield in his hands and steps away from the cliff toward the rocky path, which will lead him to the unknown battles ahead.