A Knights last prayer.

He reached the church, the same one where he had been baptized, where he had prayed, where he had sworn his vows as a knight.

He walked past the priest and knelt before the altar. He laid his sword on the floor, next to a row of other swords that belonged to his ancestors. The knight looked at his sword. It was stained with blood and dirt, chipped and bent from countless blows. It had been his faithful companion, his weapon of choice, his symbol of duty. But now, he felt nothing but shame and sorrow.

He closed his eyes and prayed silently. He asked God for forgiveness, for mercy, for peace. He asked God to take away his sword, to take away his memories, to take away his life.

He opened his eyes and saw the priest standing next to him. The priest put his hand on his shoulder and said softly:

"My son, you have done your duty. You have served God and country well. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing to be sorry for. My son, you are not alone in your pain."