Hector's defeat.

I have no more will to fight.

I have no more will to fight.

I have no more strength in me.

It matters not how many weapons are strewn at my feet.

It matters not what foul words you hurl at me.

I just have no more will to fight.

Have your victory.

Tie my heels to your gleaming chariot,

Cast your whip across your stallions,

Drag my limp, lifeless body through the dirt.

Dance in your victory.

Stand pride with my dead soul beneath your feet.

Howl your victory cries over your comrades.

Have your moment.

Relinquish it.

Ravish it.

Have your men stab me and laugh in glee.

Spit upon my unarmoured bodice and curse at my afterlife.

Have your winning joys.

But do not insult me with your petty martyr woes.

Do not sing of regret.

Do not sing of a would-be beautiful friendship.

Do not mourn for my loss for it was you who struck your spear deep into my heart.

It was you who tore my flesh from my body.

It was you who jeered at my pain.

You.

You who stomped over me.

Do not tell me that you cry for me now.

Do not tell the living of your petty repentance.

Live in your glory.

That you have rid your world of the horridness that is me.

Live in the joy of causing my pain.

For stretching ever ounce of pain and made me beg.

Made me beg.

I was a mighty warrior.

I was a mighty leader.

I was a beloved soul.

None of that now.

Do not tell me that you would return my life if you could.

For a loss can never be gained in the same form.

Look at my dead, lifeless body.

Look at my unloving eyes.

Look at my stone cold stare.

There is nothing more for me.

Nothing you can give me.

And certainly none that I wish to give to you.