“Hope is the rejection of reality’s uncertainties, and with hope comes reality’s deconstruction. These wants and wishes that plague the mind can only bring forth ruin unless one has the courage to hold onto that hope; waver and one’s fate is sealed.”

Thunder cracks the sky into wet falling pieces. Another flashing streak across the sky reveals the shadowed forms of horned giants that towers above even the large winged creatures that are ceaselessly pouring into the valley like a flood of animate bird carcasses so torn and dripping with slimy blood.

“When one’s hopes are overly strong, the hurdles ahead will too be overly overwhelming. But does that mean a feeble hope begets not woe? The more certain victory is, the more vibrant the flames of hope, then therefore will woes arrive anyway.”

A cloaked figure hovers into the air and spreads both arms wide to the side. An orb materializes to shoot off in the direction of the routed army.

“Struggle endlessly for an endless struggle, for that is the only salvation one can attain with hope. If one fails, which one eventually will, hope would fade and so shall the Shades.”

The knight shields the goddess from the blast which explodes with tides of flames. Emerging from the smoking ruins, the knight falls to his knees and leans on his propped-up sword. The goddess places her hands on his back, her touch radiating with reinvigorating warmth, but the incoming wave of enemies swiftens its advance, and the pair resign to their fate.

“Alas, there is always hope.”

The voice returns to the void, and the world darkens.

------------------

The knight lifts a heavy hand onto his knee, the gauntlet so shattered that the bloody shards of steel dig deep into the skin underneath. He could not stretch his fingers, and he does not want to. He tries not to picture the mess they must be now. Already numb to the pain that was so searing two moments ago, he also tries to decide if he should groan again. He just needs that hand to be there, on that knee. Yes, just like that.

His back against the hard stones – Ah, his back, the pain that has dulled – he shifts his head to glance through the large crack in the wall. He wonders if the remaining walls could hold up the ceiling. He wonders if he should figure out a way to crawl to safety – wherever that might be. Could the fragile stones give? A glance would not hurt, he concludes. There is not much to be safe for, anyway.

The bodies are strewn about in tangled and deflated heaps, both of dead knights and dead beasts. The weapons of the former lie abandoned, the fangs and talons of the felled demons embedded in their owners. A trail of blood lends to the imagination of someone attempting to crawl away. Or, perhaps he was being dragged. By comrade or foe, however, who knows now? Soon, there might be no one left.

But there are still the clangs and rings of steel on bone and mighty rally cries far off in the distance. The remainder of the legion has advanced into the shadowy fortress, and the lone knight can only watch as large wings emerge from within the fog and listen as their shouts grow louder. Then the wings are engulfed by flame, red and purple and black. From the victors: a loud cheer which dies as quickly as it rose. A while after, the eerie silence deepens.

What was that about? Might be he will not see the end of that tale lying here, helpless and almost lifeless, just barely clinging on. Maybe not: maybe the knight will be fine after all, but it does not matter anymore. For now, at least. He forces a short chuckle, soft as it starts. But as he channels his remaining strength into this one strenuous act, his laughter loudens. Still, he could not quite hear himself, for his helmet is in the way. Or maybe his ears now hang in ruins, crushed by that blow he received to the side of his head? He goes on laughing anyway, fearing what might happen if he stops.

What else is there to do now? The others are out there, either dying or chasing victory. The knight assumes that they are close now, his legion, to the conclusion of this expedition, whether it be glorious or tragic. He notices that he has grown quiet again. Is he afraid then, afraid that it has all been for naught? He might never know. He will be wondering until he cannot any longer. How much longer can it be? He thinks he may soon find out.

But before he can bring himself to resign to that notion, he tries to shift, to adjust his weight on the broken stones, to give himself one final comfort, to no avail. He tries something else: to move his hand from his knee. Yet it is stuck there now, glued as if turned to stone. Would the legion come upon him in their return, should they find victory, only to find a lonely statue? Oh, but still, it could be such a sight: a stone statue of a knight in broken armour, resting against the broken stone walls in such a broken stance on the broken stone floor, a forlorn scene fully cladded in cracking greyness. It could be something, he cannot help but smile to that thought, albeit sullenly.

He imagines himself turning to look out of the large crack in the wall once more, and he imagines his hand reaching out to a blinding light peeking out from ashen clouds, and he imagines himself saying: “Dreaming is only for the defeated. The successful are distracted. The successful are satisfied. Let me dream. I want to dream, do I not?” but in a somewhat mumbling tone, just loud enough to be heard by himself and by the blinding light.