The Inevitable

    One man, covered from head to toe in shining steel armor, colorfully decorated in breathtaking blues, reds, and silvers, stands, alone on a battlefield of a million deaths, his feet blanketed by the freshly killed undead army, dead again by his once-mortal hand. His only weapon, a shining silver waraxe, is held to his side in one hand, his left, who's gauntlet depicted on the back of his tightly clenched fist, one symbol, one of anger, one of rage, one of honor. A single Tsunami wave, encircled by smaller waves is the centerpoint of his left gauntlet, the symbol of Poseidon. The raging god of the seas gave this lone warrior, through his armor, passed down from generations long passed, the strength and rage of all the seven seas, the strength enough to overcome any foe.
    No family; no one to turn to. No friends; life of servitude. The only thing awaiting him: death. The only thing preventing it: himself. But he is at his wars end. He knows they are coming, no army of a million undead though, that slaughter had passed without a second glance. This time it would not be so easy; he accepts this, "The inevitable." He thinks. He knows he would be able to make it but his veteran muscles are ready, ready for the eventually inevitable that every man must face. But different from every man, he has a choice, the choice to fight, with Poseidon's embrace, his protection, and unhuman strength, or to shed the ties to his god and still fight. He could not only stand there and let the inevitable happen. He could not only embrace death, he has to fight it, but as a demigod no longer. He would race into battle this time as a man, with nothing but his beloved waraxe. Nothing but his honor.
    He lifts his waraxe to meet his right hand, gauntlented, the same as his left, but without the seal. He raises it to the heavens; an offering to Olympus. Slowly he bends to one knee and places it on the dirt in front of him, the only soil visible under the reaking corpses for miles. Over his prized waraxe, he stands and removes his shoulder pads, the buckles snapping freee after years of strain. His chestplat moans in the same manner as the first piece of metal as he removes it. Unbuckling his girdle, his glistening abdominal muscles break free; years of strain, pushing against the armor, breaks free. He goes for his left gauntlet. The sound of marching millions attack at his ears. Without looking up, he slips off the empowering gauntlet. The power of Poseidon bursts out of his limbs with a force equal to the Tsunami depicted on it. He lets out a gasp as if Hades himself had stolen his soul. Falling to his knees, a single thought trudges through his mind: "May the afterlife prove more rewarding." The rest of his armor shatters as the last and most powerful burst of godly power leaves his body. All that is left of his clothing are his undergarments, a sweat stained red tunic and torn leather leggings.
    As he reaches down for his waraxe, he looks up. All that is fisible is a sea of grey flooding over the horizon; the execution party of ten-foot, blood thirsty ogres armed from head to toe with death-dealing weaponry. From his knees, the long weathered warrior stands, waraxe in both hands, mind at the ready. He thinks to say one last goodbye. "What for?" He thinks again. He has nothing in this world now... Accepting his fate a final time, he grips the waraxe and clenches his teeth. He rushes forward, to death, running with a speed equal to Hermes'. once the faces of his foes become visible, Poseidon's rage fills him again and he lets out what he thinks will be his last warcry in the mortal world. Giant grey men surround him as he lets out the first swing of his waraxe, into that sea of grey, into the inevitable.