The Glory of Fulfillment

I pity those who could not die so well.

Those who died namelessly in battle, accident or treacherous knife.

Not condescension, but sorrow that their death had no purpose, could not choose their death.

My death meant survival. Not mine, obviously, but those behind me. Those who would be slaughtered should my foe be victorious.

Not for honor, or my name in lays or tomes.

Not for a glorious Last Stand.

But that my Last Stand meant survival.



If one could choose a death, it would be mine.


There is no good way to die.

But one can die well.