Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

I worked until it didn't hurt any more.
Til I was a hoarse mass of sweat and screams.
Too dry and angry to carry on.

I worked until the cries were grunts.
Til the grunts were hollow.
Til the nails driven into skulls became uncountable.
Til the great cleaving hacks were a reaped field of enemy.

Til I wasn't lonely.
Til I wasn't empty.
Til there was just tight heat and mad drive.

The strikes became clumsy
the guard all but forgotten
nothing but rage and ripping sinew

Trembling when stilled.
Digging a sharp, itchy abrasion into cheek and bare chest.
Cooling.
Damp.
Heaving.

Fight.
Howl.
Defeat.

Was I the last?
The only?

Did I care any more?

Win?
Lose?

Hate.