Sacrifice

This cell is hardly clean; rats run amok across the greasy, fluid-stained floor like they were enjoying a day at the festival, and the smell is enough to cause a man to relieve his stomach at least twice a day. I do not complain, though. I've resigned myself to this, awaiting my final moments in this captive's box, with a nice view of my demise, and the future I helped to preserve. My daughter was just down the hill there, in the playhouse that can be seen through the thick iron bars that decorate my windows. Or was she my daughter? Is she yours when she has no memory of you as her father?

It occurred a few short years past, when they invaded the small village we'd come to call our home. They came with a mind for expansion, and although the villagers didn't care who owned the region, they did care for their lives. I heard the shouts a few seconds before the first of them burst in to my hovel, and beat me with the pommel of his sword. I tried my best to fend him off, but a second, and a third soon joined in his macabre entertainment. My daughter, a mere twelve, lay huddled behind the bed where I'd told her to hide until she saw me in my sorry state, and screamed for them to stop. Their attention turned to her. They left me thoroughly brutalized, an itch for illicit deeds in their loins as they descended upon my daughter. This I couldn't allow, and here is where I made my choice. I took from one their bloodied blade, and ran him through. The others, now unclothed and unprepared, followed their friend in death. My daughter was unconscious from shock and fear, but was otherwise safe from harm. I took her, and fled. I knew we wouldn't be safe from our pursuers, and I knew the only way to save us both was to give something up; ut was it to be my daughter, or myself? The choice was obvious, and leaving my sobbing child at the door of some aristocrats mansion, I returned to give myself up for sacrifice to their God of War.

I scratch my flea-ridden form, emaciated from lake of nourishment, and think upon that sour time. I had heard, from various contacts within and without this prison, that my good child was accepted by the family I'd abandoned her to, and raised her well. Raised her as their own, and that was the problem. I wasn't her father, I was a face that appeared in her nightmares, a hazy image that haunted her hidden thoughts like some ill-meaning specter. Often, while trapped in this place, I wonder whether this entire thing was worth it, whether I'd made the right decision. I was sitting, mere hours from my death, with nothing but this standard-issue loincloth - not even pleasant memories.

Before the invasion I'd lived with what I believed to be a good woman. It just so happens that the only thing of worth she gave me was our daughter. For years I care not to count she was with numerous other men, in numerous paces and at numerous times. Friends who are friends no longer threw the fact in my face after having her. It was only a matter of time before she left with one of them. She didn't want our child, so I took her.

So it was finally that time - but it's alright, I'm ready. After all of this thinking, that chopping block is even starting to look appealing. I still had my doubts, and I have them still as they tie me up. I have them as they march me outside, and up the small incline that leads to the Butcher's Platform. They set me to my knees, and the Executioner placed his mask upon his face to hide his shame, polishing the blade that would be my undoing. At least it was a nice weapon. I could hear sounds from the playhouse below, and there, shining like the angel she was, was my daughter in mid-performance. She was even more beautiful now as the child of a noble. The flash of the blade briefly caught my attention as it rose above my slaughterer's head, but my head was turned away to listen to the applause that greeting my kin. She was smiling, and as the blade fell, I smiled too.

Was it worth it? Oh yes, it was worth it.