• Two shadows stood against the dying sun as screams of horror ripped through the scarlet sky; the shadows of the evening sun sending bloody streaks across the evening expanse of red. Screams of horror sounded from all around, blood cloaking the trees mimicking the dark omen of the cloudless sky above. Blood ran deeply, its fresh scent obscuring the senses. They stood in deadly silence; a man and a boy of equal stature. The boy stared up at the failing sun, the sword in his hand dripping with a murky, crimson liquid. His gaze found the man’s and his grip instantly tightened around the slick hilt of the blade.

    “Put it down, boy.” The man ushered gently the boy’s mind swimming with his words; his mind weak with grief. “Come now. What do you have to prove? Put the sword down; you have no chance against my hand. Do you really wish to give up your life so easily?”

    The man’s words where coaxing; such a tantalizing suggestion to simply give up and rest his weary mind. But no; lives could not be taken back once the breath of life had escaped their lips. “Wishes are for the self conscious.” He managed to murmur, his breath coming in quick gasps. “I fight for glory; for the honor of those who’ve died before me and those that will fall after. My friends’ lives are wasted if I don’t find justice for their slaughters. Justice is the crowning glory of the virtues.”

    And what did this man have to say to his words? He laughed. A laugh that ripened the rage he held within; a red flush creeping up the back of his neck.

    “Boy, I will give you two choices: Drop your weapon here and now and live another day or fight and fall beneath my feet.”

    The boy stared down at his hands, feeling his grip loosen. He would give anything to lay the heavy metal down and walk away from the sea of lifeless bodies but there was still a sense of justice that stirred within. He was only a boy, too young to understand the fear that death brings. With his spirit still ripe with young age, he had yet to realize his own mortality. He was a child as all children seldom think of the future. Their innocence leaves them to enjoy themselves but the day they fret about the future is the day they leave their childhood behind.

    He was just like them, the boys who lay slain on the ground around him. They gaped up at the heavens, their faces distorted with pain and hate even though death had already taken them. He was like them, a boy without a name. They would never be remembered, their bodies would lie still for all eternity and the sound of their names would never again dispel the silence of a lonely day. Could he just run away or should he stay to honor his friends? His family waited for him to return but he knew his friends were watching him from above. Could he live with the horrors of war and the death of his friends? Was he to shrink back home and live a comfortable life among loved ones?

    Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds attain is the ability to cope with unbearable amounts of pain. In this, logic shows that there are four doors that we eventually meander through according to our needs.

    The first is sleep. The door of sleep is a retreat for the vicious sting of pain. It marks the passing of time and as most know, time heals most wounds but not all. Some wounds are simply too deep to erase. This is the mind’s way of protecting the consciousness from pain but it is only temporary and the person awakes to the same ache.

    Second is the door of forgetting. Wounds that surpass time are easier to forget than live with. Memories are simply too painful and only leave the wound raw. Damage that exceeds the healing discipline of time are hidden behind this door.

    Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt a blow that renders the first two doors useless and bars the way to healing. These are times that reality is cruel and nothing but pain interludes with the necessities of life, so the mind feels it must leave this reality behind.

    The final door is death. The last resort. Nothing can hurt us beyond death.

    The first time the boy killed he had let sleep take him. The day came when he found he couldn’t bare the memories any longer and locked them away behind the door of forgetting. But how far was he from the third door? Perhaps he was already mad and this was an alternate reality. Maybe he was at home now, safe with friends and family. Or maybe he was on the verge of sanity, one foot teetering off the precipice of insanity. His thoughts told him otherwise; so weary and yet aware of everything about with a sharp instinct.

    No more pondering, he had decided. His grip tightened. His breath quickened. The boy’s muscles tightened. In an instant he was on top of the man, cruel blade glinting in the light of the dying sun.

    The man was quick to react, flourishing his weapon to meet the boy’s cutting edge. “You fight for honor? Glory?” the man spoke in a cool voice, a voice of a man who had killed without shame. “How will your death bring you valor? Will you die upon a blade greater than your own? Your blood will dirty the hands of a better swordsman than you. Where is the honor in that? You were beaten so where is the glory? Or perhaps you will be slain with a lucky shot, by a warrior no where close to your talent. How undignified. Or perhaps you will be the best, no one will ever beat you, and you will live to a ripe age. And people will whisper there goes a magnificent warrior. And you’ll die of old age, just an ex-warrior who couldn’t hack life any more. You will be nothing but a graying man no longer able to fight, too crippled and old. You’ll be a has-been. So where is your glory now? You will die and your sword will mark your grave; a tombstone with no name. Until the metal rusts and your body has rotten into the earth. Nothing lasts forever. And the truth is you look at yourself with disgust, because you are limited like all mortals. You can’t live forever; your blood will stain the ground. And some day you will draw a breath that will be your last, it will merge into the gale of death.” The man spoke, a sliver of anger running through his callous tone, each word mocking his blade as it palpitated the boy’s floundering sword.

    The blade in the boy’s hand blocked the flurry of attacks, each one leaving a resounding clink to resonate into the atmosphere.

    “Can you hear it howl your name?”

    “At least I still have my dignity.” The boy whispered, the splash of crimson across his skin told him it had all ended. His hands went limp and his legs gave way to the hard ground beneath them.

    The fourth door had finally opened.