Her First Knight

	Countless soldiers lie dead at the Battle of Golgonda- People, now reduced to objects. Blood soaks the dry earth, forming rivers and lakes where the land gives way. Perhaps, in time, the blood drawn here, from a battle of right and wrong, a conflict of ideologies, of war waged over a simple disagreement of mankind, would nourish new life upon these barren wastes. For now, they stand as a fetid reminder of the carnage wrought by man's anger.
	Standing at the center of it all is another soldier now nothing more than an object- Once, he was called Roland. Now, he would be remembered as "Chariot". A sword clasped in both his hands in an outside stance, with the hilt held up to head height, blade only now sagging from exhastion. If the sword was allowed to stand on its point, its length would easily match his own height. Blood runs down his sun-kissed face from countless gashes- At least, what little face can be seen beneath the remnants of his helmet and the rest of his black and red armor. The setting sun drapes over him from behind. Though his eyes remain open, the object remains unmoving. From life to death, this "knight" served something beyond himself. Here, at last, he will finally die for something he believes in: A future worth living in. At least, so it would be for others.
	As for this knight, the time has come for him to become but an object, a note in history that might be remembered and then later forgotten. Its sword falls, point buried into the ground. It follows suit, crumpling to one knee. Soon, it would fall under the weight of its armor, and join on the ground the sea of corpses that remained in its wake.

	The sea.
	"Get up," A voice commands in its head- Familiar in that grouchy, too-cool tone of an apathetic goth who had neither the sleep nor the patience to let anyone decide for her who she is. The waves lap against its mind, crashing and cresting upon its walls.
	She calls to him.

	The sea. The sea. The sea.
	The corpse shudders. Instead of taking what little strength remains to lie down and allow the earth to reclaim it, it struggles against the inevitability of its own mortal limitations. This corpse made a promise. It has completed its mission, and now it must return.
	It must live. It must.

	Water all around. The blood, the dirt, the grime of the past wash away so easily.
	"Get up, idiot! There's no way! There's no way you're dead..." A gentle hand caresses its face- It's her. It's truly her. Only once before had she sounded so desperate. She's right here, talking to him. Had he not given the order to retreat? Why would she be here? She wasn't part of the operation. And yet- "C'mon, get up! Please...?"
	That seed of doubt, which had taken root when he had first come to understand her suffering, seen the beauty beneath the broken mess, now flourishes, blossoms as blood vessels bulge from under his skin, blackening like a drop of ink swirling about in clear water. He falls over himself, hands scrabbling back up to his neck, trying to pry himself free of his armor, of his neck that was keeping him from breathing, of his body that kept him from fulfilling his promises. A gloriously bloody carmine colors his eyes, glowing faintly.

	Yes, let it all float away, away, away. Sink deeper, until only the oblivion of the abyss awaits.
	He is still, but only for a moment. She awaits him. He must answer Her call. Stiffly, mechanically, he rises to his feet, gripping his sword tightly as he marches forward. His sheer strength pulls it out from the ground.
	Even should all of Terra forget him, they WILL remember. They will remember the promise he made to Her. They will remember him as Her first knight.

	The sea, the sea, the sea, the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea-the-sea--
	The sea. Awaiting him there is Her.