I wield the sword of a champion; I raise my shield in defiant salute. All around me are the bodies of the weak, they swarm beneath me to form a hill of rotting flesh. The stench of defeat is in the air, it reeks of death. A bright sun glints off my armor, but I do not notice. I am the victor, the conqueror, the superior one. The rivers of blood pay tribute to me with a splash and a gurgle. Wretched, the crushed shall stay broken, the splintered spear will till the fields, the men will toil like womenfolk under the heat of day. The acrid taste of blood on the air, the haze of fire from burning thatch, the neighing of horses sensing their demise. None stand to oppose me. I bring the shadow of death and the footsteps of doom. Destruction, ravage, pillage, stab, death. They have all fallen, and there are none left to kill, none even to see the might of the captain surveying his own carnage on the gruesome mound of bodies.
Over my head, vultures begin their descent. They will go for the softer organs first: the eyes and tongues, the intestines and other organs. By the time anyone comes upon this ruined mess of humanity, there will be little left of them, but for the meat on the legs.
I let the blood dry on my face. Felt the gore crust up in my hair, basked in the smell, and the decay. There is nothing more beautiful than the destruction of what once was. These men had led families, slept with women and fathered children. These peasants had hope of life and virtue of work, the dirt of their hands. Now they were inanimate fountains of blood, organic waste. Indifferent to the fires raging through the village they had built. Apathetic to the man who slew them.
They would return to the earth and decompose, or if anyone came to dispose of the bodies, they would burn until their ashes flew like flakes of snow. Death turned the wheel of life. It was the zenith, and they had all had their nadir. Full circle. Perfection. And blood dripped off the tip of my sword. I was their captain, and their ship had set sail. Their time of Earth was over, but their time beyond it had just begun. I had set it in motion. Me. Others would wish to take revenge. But what did the living know of the dead? Revenge is selfish. Revenge means that the dead person meant more to you than any other life that might be lost. And honor? It is nothing but an excuse. There is no honor, only folly. But I am ready to fight those who come seeking it, defending it. I will send them on their journey or they will send me on mine, and we will all return to the dust of the Earth from whence Man first came. We will weigh anchor on the ship to the Beyond with sails billowing, the setting sun kissing the salty water of Ever After.