Like a child he reaches, but he cannot touch. Like a child he crawls, but he cannot move. Like a child he watches, but cannot see. The despair flowing through his mind, like a leaf in the wind. The unexplainable sense, the drop of death in his eyes. As the last drop of sweat plunges from his head. The last single unlawful creed that he must endure. Death without mercy, like a child in arms. The dark despair he feels when the dark silhouettes crescent the cliffs like wolves. The arrows stretch and the men with burning souls take a bow. "Is he ready to die like a gentleman?" Generals bloody and putrid sneak grins with the blazing glare in their eyes. A Spartan is a Spartan not Jonathon or James, for what would Spartans be with names? The oath he took to die a nobleman, but it all comes to a sense; a sense unlike any other. The sense of the last Spartan. He crawls ever so painfully, as his swollen open cuts crease against the sharp jagged rocks. The Spartan reaches for his shield, defiant and determined not to look up. One last gasp, one last breath before a blanket of darkness; tens of thousands of arrows cast upon him inch to inch. The desolation, the fear, the myth he knows he will become. The Spartan looks for a man to hold his hand. A man to give him one last step, one last breath of hope. Like a child he lay naked in the arms of God. His fortune leaps to an unbearable sense. Not fire, nor ice; but the abrupt lonesome feeling of death. Like a child he cries, but no one ever hears him. A child named Spartan and nothing else.
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