Death Is Not My Enemy — The Brave

By Matthew Schmidt

Staying still had never felt so wrong. The soldier's hands drummed restlessly on the hilt of his  sword, his heart pounding rapidly against his breastplate, yearning for battle. His horse was impatient too,  its hooves beating steadily against the ground, longing to burst from the ranks. The soldier gripped the  sides of his steed with his knees, using his full strength to restrain the beast. 

“Not yet,” he promised. “Our time will come.” 

Another horse strode between the mounted soldiers, adorned in leather armour studded with  jewels. Its rider boasted similar decals, embedded in his iron plating. 

Our king. 

He was not above the soldiers, but one of them. He would not shy away from the wars he started.  A hero. A champion for the people and a role model. His deep voice bellowed from beneath his helm,  audible even through the pounding of spears and impatient cheers. 

“My brothers!” he cried. “The time has come!” 

A roar rose from the men. 

“We have been beaten, tortured, imprisoned! We have shed blood to the ruthless blades of the  enemy! They have stolen our wives, our land, our food! They have burned our fields and enslaved our  children! With cruel blades, they have taken the lives of our brothers! But my friends, they have not taken  our dignity. They have not taken our pride, our strength, or our will to fight. We are not cowards! We will  not shy away from a fight! Let not your brothers die in vain! Avenge your mothers and fathers, your wives  and your children! Ride now, warriors, for glory, for freedom, and for victory!” 

A triumphant howl erupted from every mouth in the field. The army rushed forward, at last  breaching the top of the hill behind which they had waited. They brought their battle cries with them,  angry and fearless. 

The soldier urged his horse forward, but it did not need the push. He felt as if he were floating as  they leapt from the grassy slopes toward the waiting melee of the enemy. He could not contain his grin as  he, at last, drew his blade. It felt as natural and effortless as holding a quill or a spoon. The sight of his  opponents did not fill him with fear, but provoked him to ride faster. He could almost feel his sword  begging to be swung, urging him to make haste. 

As his brothers breached the ranks of the enemy, he felt an inexplicable joy in his heart before he  fell in at their heels. He lifted his sword with one more deep yell before bringing it down on the head of  the first wretched foot soldier that crossed his path. He revelled in the blood spilled, justice for the blood  his own friends and family had shed. His blade met the chest of another as he rode past, then another, and  another. He never hesitated or slowed down. 

He reached a break in the enemy forces, filled only with corpses his brothers had left in their  wake. A brute of a man stepped into his path just ahead, his armour coloured with the mark of the enemy.  It was the mark that had been raised on flags when the soldier had lost his homeland, when he had lost his  wife and children. He sneered as he fiddled with the sword in his hand, impatient to be swung. As he  approached, his opponent swung at him, and he brought down his own sword behind the strike of his foe.  Again, it felt as if he were floating.

But he was floating. 

Time slowed as he rose into the clouds, and he realized he could still see his body atop his steed  below him. He watched his sword fall on his enemy, mere moments after the enemy had pierced his heart. 

As the scene faded to darkness beneath him, he realized what had befallen him. But the soldier  did not cower, even as he ventured into the unknown of the next life. A voice from nowhere whispered: 

“It is time.” 

The soldier did not question the invisible messenger. I played my part, he thought. His death was  just one of many unfortunate realities of war. His sacrifice would not be forgotten. When victory came, it  would be thanks to those who gave their lives for the freedom of their families, their friends, their people. 

For glory, for freedom, and for victory, he repeated, closing his eyes and letting the mortal world  fade away.

By Matthew Schmidt