He fell, the sword still in his limp hand, not even knowing that he fell. There he lay in the mud. There, in the darkness of his mind, he dreamed. A soft hand, a gentle kiss, and a voice that was laughter and love and home and all good things. She, the one he loved, that one long forgotten, he found in the darkness, and she spoke to him of things he could not later recall.
The limp hand gripped the sword, and the bloody figure crawled onto his knees. Laughter, harsh laughter surrounded him, but died as he stood.
Tale Told 