Beirut
01-07-2004, 21:06
In service to Lord and master
It is the year 1105. The land is in ruins and men fight men for control of so very little. I have been taken into the fight against my will. I am not a fighter. I feel fear. I can taste it. I hear it in my breathing. I am awash in an ocean of fear. My soul is afraid and my heart trembles. I am a coward. I am amongst a thousand brave men, and fear is my only friend. I am alone in a great crowd. Any of a hundred men beside me would kill me if they knew the base and empty character of my will. But I am what God has made me.
A battle lies before me. Not a sword had been drawn and not a drop of blood shed. But the battle is soon. On the field stand a thousand men of common ancestry before my master, a nobleman born rich and raised in high fashion who tells us of bravery past and future. We will be that future he says. “Fight bravely and join me in victory, join me in the eyes of God as Heroes.” I would kill him had I the chance. This bastard with blood the colour of silver and gold is going to offer my pain and my life so his body can enjoy more comforts unknown to me. Poor, simple wretch that I am. And coward that I am, I want to kill him as much as he wants to kill the enemy.
The men bearing arms around me feel no such fear. They have hearts like lions and are eager to taste the blood of their wounds mixed with the death of the enemy. A scar to bring home to entice the ladies. Proof of manhood and ability. “Bed me maiden, and I will tell you great tales of sorrow and victory.” I have no such desires. I want no maiden in my bed, I want only warm pillows and the nobility of singularity. I desire no high standing nor merits to my courage. I desire nothing but freedom from fear. That freedom lies everywhere but where I am. I am captive to my Lord and master and there is no escape.
He speaks and speaks, that jeweled bastard of a leader. There is a great wind blowing from his mouth, crying out to rally and charge, to kill and rejoice in killing. My legs are weak. His mouth moves and flails at us, encouraging death to those who share not our cause. I have no strength. He is raising his arm, his sword in hand. I am going to be sick. I want my home. I want my bed. I want my miserable life. His arm is falling. My God the men beside me are moving, running towards the enemy. I want to run away.
I’m running along with the thousand men in a violent rush to meet the foe. Where is that bastard? Is he at the front or the rear? Is he hiding like I wish I could or does his character show the iron in his will? How can I run when my legs are so weak? I’m being carried in a river of inevitability towards an end I have no control over. I am going to suffer pain, I know it. I know I won’t survive. That bastard made me do this. I am not a soldier. I am a worm looking for a hole. And I would gladly accept that fate would it be that I was not here. Where is that bastard?
My God, the front rank has joined the enemy. I hear cries and screams. Why am I here? The worst place in the world and I am being dragged into it. This is not a place for me. I want my bed. I want so much to be alone. I do not want this fight and yet I am going to die in it. Where is that bastard leader? If I kill only one man, by God’s grace may it be that bastard who led me to this. Please God, let it be so. Men with swords are running at me. Oh God Where can I go? I want…
All is quiet. All is black.
The emptiness moves around me. By any standard of Angels and Heaven I must be dead. They must have struck me with those swords those men. I am aware but not in control. I feel no movement but still there is a sense of great change. I can see shadows and shapes. I am above what I was. I must be dead. I can see people moving about in slow steps, bending over bodies and praying. I see me. My God I am dead. There is a man standing over my body. What is he saying?
“He’s dead Lord Stanley. A shame. He was a good dog.”
It is the year 1105. The land is in ruins and men fight men for control of so very little. I have been taken into the fight against my will. I am not a fighter. I feel fear. I can taste it. I hear it in my breathing. I am awash in an ocean of fear. My soul is afraid and my heart trembles. I am a coward. I am amongst a thousand brave men, and fear is my only friend. I am alone in a great crowd. Any of a hundred men beside me would kill me if they knew the base and empty character of my will. But I am what God has made me.
A battle lies before me. Not a sword had been drawn and not a drop of blood shed. But the battle is soon. On the field stand a thousand men of common ancestry before my master, a nobleman born rich and raised in high fashion who tells us of bravery past and future. We will be that future he says. “Fight bravely and join me in victory, join me in the eyes of God as Heroes.” I would kill him had I the chance. This bastard with blood the colour of silver and gold is going to offer my pain and my life so his body can enjoy more comforts unknown to me. Poor, simple wretch that I am. And coward that I am, I want to kill him as much as he wants to kill the enemy.
The men bearing arms around me feel no such fear. They have hearts like lions and are eager to taste the blood of their wounds mixed with the death of the enemy. A scar to bring home to entice the ladies. Proof of manhood and ability. “Bed me maiden, and I will tell you great tales of sorrow and victory.” I have no such desires. I want no maiden in my bed, I want only warm pillows and the nobility of singularity. I desire no high standing nor merits to my courage. I desire nothing but freedom from fear. That freedom lies everywhere but where I am. I am captive to my Lord and master and there is no escape.
He speaks and speaks, that jeweled bastard of a leader. There is a great wind blowing from his mouth, crying out to rally and charge, to kill and rejoice in killing. My legs are weak. His mouth moves and flails at us, encouraging death to those who share not our cause. I have no strength. He is raising his arm, his sword in hand. I am going to be sick. I want my home. I want my bed. I want my miserable life. His arm is falling. My God the men beside me are moving, running towards the enemy. I want to run away.
I’m running along with the thousand men in a violent rush to meet the foe. Where is that bastard? Is he at the front or the rear? Is he hiding like I wish I could or does his character show the iron in his will? How can I run when my legs are so weak? I’m being carried in a river of inevitability towards an end I have no control over. I am going to suffer pain, I know it. I know I won’t survive. That bastard made me do this. I am not a soldier. I am a worm looking for a hole. And I would gladly accept that fate would it be that I was not here. Where is that bastard?
My God, the front rank has joined the enemy. I hear cries and screams. Why am I here? The worst place in the world and I am being dragged into it. This is not a place for me. I want my bed. I want so much to be alone. I do not want this fight and yet I am going to die in it. Where is that bastard leader? If I kill only one man, by God’s grace may it be that bastard who led me to this. Please God, let it be so. Men with swords are running at me. Oh God Where can I go? I want…
All is quiet. All is black.
The emptiness moves around me. By any standard of Angels and Heaven I must be dead. They must have struck me with those swords those men. I am aware but not in control. I feel no movement but still there is a sense of great change. I can see shadows and shapes. I am above what I was. I must be dead. I can see people moving about in slow steps, bending over bodies and praying. I see me. My God I am dead. There is a man standing over my body. What is he saying?
“He’s dead Lord Stanley. A shame. He was a good dog.”