My vision is hazy and my heart is heavy, for I will not make it home.
The air is cold as I stumble towards the stream and my sword feels cumbersome. The wound in my side flows like the water over the rocks, and it is deep.
The wound in my back is deeper still.
The ground is hard as i fall to my knees next to the riverbed and i weep; not for my own death, but the death of my homeland. The warriors who come under the banner of the Christ god will not stop until our ways are forgotten and our gods left behind. I take solace in the fact that while i am dying, they are dead. I suddenly feel as though i could do with some rest and I let myself fall into the stream and shut my eyes as the cold water laps my cheek.
And as I fall into darkness, A light burns against my eyes and so I open them once more.
My vision is clear and my heart is warm
For I am home.
The air is perfect and my sword is more a part of me than my own beating heart. Where once fatal wounds had been, only scars remain.
The ground is soft as I stand on my feet again and I weep; not out of sadness, but joy. The warriors who came under the banner of the Christ god will never see what I see, never feel what I feel in this moment, and I turn to embrace the sight of that glorious mead hall. I take solace in the fact that, while my brothers and sisters are dead and dying, I will see them again in that hall. I walk towards the steps as the doors open, and a one-eyed man motions me to a seat at his table and says