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  • Subject: [Short Story] Unnamed Honour
Subject: [Short Story] Unnamed Honour
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So I was digging around for some of my work to show to some other people, and I thought I might post it up here too for feedback. So this is just a small metaphorical piece, which will become clear at the end. For this reason, I suggest you read it twice and compare the similarities between what was written and what it's a metaphor for in the second read through.

Any feedback is welcome... loved!

Unnamed Honour

He lay there, silently, patiently, for he knew it would take time. Perhaps when he first had fallen, he had expected it to end there, but no. Death was cruel, and it would take its time, constantly looming over its victims.

The wind blew, knocking a block of concrete from a war torn building off. He watched as it slowly fell to the burnt road, sending dust in his direction.

He did not cough. He did not acknowledge this unpleasant event, for there was no point.

His fingers curled around the handle of his gun, but he could not bring himself to use it. Perhaps if he had had the strength, he would have defeated Death itself, but then, many had tried before, and very few had succeeded.

If he could reach his helmet, he thought, things may have been easier, more comfortable. For even in this dark moment, the darkest of his short life, he thought only of honour, of his people, of the people he had saved. Yet it stayed lying on the burnt road, the black colour matching the road almost perfectly, a shy strip of yellow being the only difference. It lay facing him, begging him to put it on, if only for one last time, but he knew he couldn't.

He couldn't for Death was watching him, and should he try, Death would stop him, he thought. But perhaps it was worth it.

And so, with his last ounce of strength, he threw himself across the road, hurtling himself passed Death itself, evading its mighty slash, landing by the side of his helmet. He looked up at Death, a smirk on his face, for he had beaten it. Maybe not entirely, but he had outwitted Death, and now... Now he would die with honour.

He placed the helmet over his head, waiting for the cruel swipe of Death's furious blade. He had disobeyed Death's only order, to surrender to it, and for this Death had to show authority, but by doing this, Death would lose the battle.

And so, Death used its swift, burning blade on him, but it did not matter.

For him, losing with honour, was winning.

He knew he would be punished by Death, and he would happily accept it, for he, he was ODST.

  • 01.18.2011 5:53 AM PDT
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Bungie.net member Since 2001

"A hero need not speak. When he is gone, the world will speak for him"
"You are the last of your kind: bred for combat, built for war. You're the master of any weapon, pilot of any vehicle, and fear no enemy"

Very nice.

  • 01.18.2011 12:27 PM PDT
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Thanks, did you get what Death was a metaphor for?

  • 01.18.2011 1:59 PM PDT

My Screenshots / My Group / Remember to follow the rules or you will get trapped in a box.

An elite zealot with an energy sword.

  • 01.19.2011 3:43 PM PDT
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Alright, just wanted to check that it was clear. So did you enjoy the piece overall?

  • 01.19.2011 4:11 PM PDT