>>6007408The hungry, hard-riding, half-starved rider that yet clings to her saddle as her fellows fall like arrows upon a well fed, well watered, well armed, well armored, well mannered expedition has glory in deed and valor in thought when she pledges her own skin and bones against the full might of a professional fighting force, knowing, in truth, that scant javelins will find their purchase and few spears will pierce the forgecraft of those she fights. And when she dies from the lacerating unimaginable pain that is a gut-wound, she will die knowing that she did so fighting impossible odds for the thing she fiercely believed in the company of those she treaured and she will have ripped from your short flicker-flit conscious sensing something of incalcuable worth
What glory can you find to match, here, in the backlines, sheltered by an officer's command and the arrangements of bodyguards and the retinue of associates and the full panopoly of every hard act you ever had to do being a burden borne by others? A soft man speaking soft words cajoling something so much vaster than yourself for nothing more than seflish, petty need to be beheld, as if valour in deed was ever brought forth by first shouting " behold ", as if glory could be reached when the dying is done in the lines ahead and you but give the order for some measure of bright candles to splutter out, you pathetic little snivelling fraud.
You turn the very concept into a malediction.
There is no power here that will ever be yours. There is a brittle invective slipping from your lips like a poisonous curse, a thing that should be more joyous and wilder and freer than the wind harnessed by the chains of your own decreptitude. As if you had the first inkling of a shadow of a notion of an outline of the idea of sacrifice, you sapiophagic abomination, you parasitic anathema, you leechsouled, midnight minded, bleak boned, spineless little *bag of flesh* wrapped around a thiefs concept of virtue.
There is no dream impossible to the will that acts with a heart of glory
Straighten up, softsoul. No boon ever falls to the beggar from the worm that seduces the hearts of men with dreams of glory.
*GIVE*. Tomorrow draws ever closer. To shift the wheel from the path that is due, is to push until your own bones are powder and then to keep pushing.
*GIVE*. The mire of the path you are on requires wrenching your boots from the sinking pits of your own foibles, even if so you must cut off your legs.
*GIVE*. The first and only law there ever was and ever will be is that of *sacrifice*. If you want it, come and *take it*, for glory is not a granted quality that pitiful little mewling of worms may simply demand until they have had their fill
You wrench glory from the weight of tomorrow, though the wheel breaks you and the tracks betray you and your very heart burns out in the doing so
GIVE
>. . . But what? 