Maverici Inter Seraphin

I packed the concluding clump of soil into the burial mound, proceeding to place his broadsword directly atop the embankment of entombment. I studied the charred sepia mesa, confirming with my irascible conscience that he’d have desiderated to be sepulchered in his homeland. From here, inhumed within this escarpment that overlooked the bleak, monotonous acreage, he would serve as sentinel to his homestead. The woe of his passing was not that he’d linger nameless in my remembrance. The dolor of this man’s cessation did not lie in the verity that I alone requited regards at a paltry surrogate of an interment. No, the tragedy of this transcendent warrior’s death was this: his burden as guardian of this plateau left him to defray his lifespan bulwarking the oasis metropolis he would never set foot in nor so much as behold. His provincial obligation left him an infinitesimal allotment in an interminable lineage of Cerberuses all beguiled to never procure their congruous prestige in history. This certainty prevailed erroneous to my very core, and abruptly I doubled back, took hold of the sword hilt synchronously between my hands, and orated to the subsidiary gale itself the motto of the Maverici Inter Seraphin: “Ego sum a insurgo inter angelus; meus mores es diversus quod ego sum.”