I walked alone, amidst great dunes of sand. Bloodied hands and dry mouth, I looked for sanctuary but none were to be found. The sun burned hot cooking me on this sandy skillet. Slowly I reached for my canteen, lifting it to my lips I felt only dust trickle out. My armor, heavy, weighing me down, slowly bringing me to the sands. "I can't die like this." I said to myself. I stripped off my armor and dropped my sword. Now only in robes, I feel the gentle breeze. It did nothing to cool me, only threw grains of sand upon my face. I'd stop to pray but I'm afraid if I do, I'll die.
I have fought for God, in way to reclaim his holy land. He should see me safely across this desert. But if God is there, then why do I feel so alone? This cross on my chest, is it sewn in red stitch? Or is it painted in blood? I cannot feel his presence, am I alone in this acervulus wasteland?
On the horizon I saw a fellow soldier. Red cross painted on his chest, another crusader. He stood in his plate, sword dashed into the sand. A red foxes pelt thrown over his shoulder. As I approached he said nothing.
"Thank the heavens, I thought I was alone here." He didn't respond. "Do you have water fellow knight?" Still no response. I raised my hand to shield the my eyes from the sun. Looking to him, I saw his face, gaunt and lacking emotion. His skin dried to a husk and his eyes blackened. He slowly raised his claymore above his head, it gleamed brightly in the sun. Like a cut of meat he carved me, my blood spilling out onto the fiery grains. Every inch of cold steel cut fiercely through me, lacerating my very soul. He left me there, on the sands, to die. To cook on this endless range until the vultures were ready to feast.