Lost Honour by Hal Horn
	Dust swirls and billows behind the hooves of the tired horse. A metallic clanking fills the dust-laden air as the armour of the horse's rider gently bumps against the horse's rough and dull leather saddle. The weary knight lets his exhausted gaze flow jarringly across streams of crystal blue water, flower-embellished fields, colorfully clad people, neatly kept yards and houses, tall green trees, and a light blue sky. The knight pulls his worn but still sharp sword from its scabbard and stares at the reflections on its blemished surface. The reflections flash by as if they were images of the past, semi-bright and blurry, just barely recognizable. Memories of the past circle in the knight's head as if a great dance, some are of friends dying in battle, lost loved ones and hard-won victories. As a few people start to run up to him, the knight, tormented with his memories, spurs the horse into action, galloping away from the little village, but still not leaving behind the past. After riding for a few miles the knight orders the horse to stop, leaps from the tired steed and drops to his knees to vomit. Why? Why am I alive when those of greater importance are dead? Why was I saved? I am not worthy; I deserve death for my cowardice. As these thoughts run through the knight's head, he continues to vomit, hoping to purge his system of his cowardice. Ripping his armour from his weary body, the knight plunges into a nearby sparkling stream. Fish scatter as his body slices through the clear water, aiming for the bottom of the stream. Seeing a rock half buried in the mud, the knight tries to anchor himself to it, hoping to end his nightmares and the battles in his mind. To his dismay, the rock pulls free and he floats to the surface. In disgust, the knight kicks for the shore, swearing at the rock for coming free. Spying his dirk lying beside his crumpled armour he walks to it, and picks it up. Turning the deadly blade over and over in the bright sunlight, the knight wonders what the dirk would look like smeared with his life. Holding the blade to his throat the knight tries to end everything but can't. In utter horror at his cowardice, the knight throws the blade to the earth. Staring at the blade, thoughts race through his mind. What would his friends think of him if he did take his life? Would they hate him? Call him a coward? Think him weak? Probably. Then that was his answer, though living with the memories of his weakness at not being able to die for his loved ones and friends would be hard, giving up his honour would be far worse. But how could he go on and still honour his friends? As an idea flashes into his head, the knight once again grabs his dirk and with the tip slices a thin line onto his face, the line going from his right temple to the right side of his chin. Finally, feeling that he has honoured his friends and their sacrifices, the knight again dons his armour and mounts his horse.