Sweet blood glistened on his lips. A black blindfold obscured his eyes from the world, and the world from his eyes. He was on his knees; his torn trousers caked with blood, sweat and mud. His hands tied behind his back were blood shod.

His body was covered in bruises and fresh scars, the proud marks of his struggle. Around him were spears tipped with liquid death. He was drunk with fatigue, unable to stay upright.

He could feel Death's cold fingers sliding down his back, sensual, tempting but cruel. Her lips were kissing him, succumbing him to sweet slumber.

Make it quick. He told her succumbing to her powerful hold. Show me an open door. Please have mercy on me. Take it easy on my heart and theirs. Please have mercy on them too.

Her sweet voice laughed Of course. She answered. Of course.

Suddenly Death's hand clasped his shoulders and pushed him towards her. The fatal spear was only a millimeter from his chest when he heard them.

The voices were loud and brash, roaring from the chests of the very comrades who marched with him once upon a time. Now they were prisoners of Death just like him. He couldn't make out what they were saying. He couldn't hear one word. But the camaraderie, love and passion that encompassed their indefinable words had not lost their hold.

He jerked upwards. For now Death's seductive hold had been beaten by the power of Love and Camaraderie, Even though his friends, his comrades had good intentions it was tearing him apart. He needed Death to set him free. So whispered out her once again.

Please have mercy.