Templar

A chalice raised to my lips, red wine slipping over the brim, drops of ruby red like pearled blood, running down my chin, dripping onto my white tunic, adding a bright red stain next to the red cross emblazoned on my chest.

The wine tart, sliding down my throat, a harsh, bitter unfermented grape, raw, it burns as it absolves my sins.

On my knees, bread placed upon my tongue, dissolving like acidic flesh, I am cleansed with the certainty of duty, to the death, and to the glory of my order.

The Royal Arches loom above my head, keystones bearing the weight of our history, the cathedral dark and damp, with sconces burning with an oily smoke, the vaulted ceiling as black as the burnt souls of the Damned from whom we cleaved from flesh.

Rising, hands upon the blade guards of my broadsword, the pommel leather bound and cured by the blood of the Enemy, I rise to my feet, the cold damp of the rough hewn stone felt through the thin soles of my leather boots and seeping through the wrapped leggings into my cramped leg muscles.

I stand, my armour clanging with the effort, chain mail clinking, then silence, my words of prayer whispered into the darkness of this holy place.

I grasp the pommel of my sword, and with a mighty roar, thews flexed with muscle memory, swing it above my head, the shining steel whistling in the frigid air, the combination of raw steel and the hissing promise of death, sounding like whispering angels intent on their lethal purpose.

As blade meets flesh, rending limb from torso, and heads roll from shoulders in a bloody spray of contrition, covering my tunic with the crimson stain of iniquity, of the ultimate sin.

Howling with the power of the unholy possession, I cast off my helmet and visor, my hands guiding my blade as if possessed.

Silence.

I stand in the dark, the blood of my duty flowing at my feet, stones awash with the tide of the blood of my countrymen, of damnation I am certain.

I stand here, the last of my kind, the blood of my faith pouring down my arms and side, mixing with that of my brethren, mortal wounds drain me, as I sink to my knees, sword point embedded in the stone.

As I fall, with the last of my strength, I lean my weight upon my blade, and with an echoing crack that can be heard in Heaven, my blade snaps in two.

As my body strikes the stone, before darkness sets in for my eternal damnation, I rest easy in the knowledge that our legend will stand the test of time, and no more will our faith and duty be betrayed by Kings.

As with my sword, I break the last bonds with treachery, my duty now only to atone for the blood that stains my palms, feet and tunic, so saturated, that the crimson cross is no more, invisible, deceived by the unholy alliance of greed and expediency.

Death greets me with a gentle hand, and with my last breath, I surrender myself to Judgement.

So mote it be.