The Poor Knight

Hans Armerritter was a rather accomplished man and well respected in his profession. He was rather dashing in a suit whilst on the job, a travelling salesman with his suave wave hair which shone from the endless amounts of excretes sebum. He was, by all means, an average man, but was in so many ways an extraordinary man. He always worked hard in each task that was given to him, no matter the difficulty, it was completed to the best of his ability. There was no concept of cost to him, things just always had to be done, that was the only chip he had left to bet. He wore his heart on his sleeve, a brave man indeed. A son of a widowed mother, an older brother to a few other, safe to say he was raised to be responsible and providing. Nobody ever heard him cry and call out "help me please", or "I am in trouble". Supposedly at least from what the others had said about him.

It seems at some point in his life he wished for invigoration, he desperate for a refreshing experience outside of the confinements of consumerist practice. Quite a viable reason to accept the call to arms and join the army. Patriotism and pride fused together with his role as a guardian, it really was a rather fitting position. But the army isn't for everyone, even the mature men like him, dropping out after only a few weeks. Where did this leave him, absolutely nowhere of course. It seems he was forced to leave after standing up to a senior officer and protecting a fellow soldier, but there is no record of this except for disobedience. It seems his discharge from service came as a disgrace, even after all he had done, he was cast aside by his family. There are tales of his mother eyes, melting from a beautiful gleam of womanly innocence to the menacing pupils of a demon which gnaws at your soul. The people of his village followed suite; he was now a man discharged of his livelihood.

The details from this point on are not clear. Where did he go? Nobody is too sure. But I am sure of how he felt. A severe and bitter frustration, which was reasonable since all he had built up had crumbled before him for something as fragile as national and familial pride.

Decades later, he resurfaced from the penumbral shroud of purgatory. Standing before the newly reconstructed entrance to the village, he took in a deep breath of the cold air of Bavarian alps. On that day he was willing to forgive all the mistakes of the townspeople, but most importantly, to reconcile with his detached mother. The early winter wind pushed against his face and the shallow snow pulled against his feet as he walked towards the family home. Against the struggles, he reached the undressed pine door and knocked. It opened to reveal a woman, she screamed, hysterical bodies piled up around the building. It seems as though even after the passing decades he was still not welcome.

The audience scorned the poor Hans, the man who was foolish enough to willingly walk to the hallows without a trial. Stones soared through the crisp German air and struck him all parts of his body. The man fell to his knees, he had lost his way, during the hike to transcendence he had somehow arrived at Golgotha. I am sure he felt an inexpressible emotion during those moments, a pure anger which surpassed the combination of all horrors of life. He pounces towards the woman, and with cold hands, he strangled her. As life drained from her eyes she cried, the people who removed him tried again, the children cried, but Hans was tired of it all. He had waited a long time for this moment, and it was all relieved when he took the life of the mother.

In the Munich court, they discussed all such details of his life. But one particular was his stern, cold and devoid face, a rather new characteristic which provoked the jury. "There is no doubt he is a murderer," they exclaimed, "look at his vile face!". The judge slams his hammer, "silence, there will be no more hearing, a monster cannot be allowed to roam freely after such actions. He will be executed at noon."

The face of Hans had not even twitched at the announcement, our poor knight was tired of it all, he was chivalrous and defended his family, but he was betrayed in such a savagely petty method. He fought for his life and died. After death he fought the battle for redemption and was humiliated for his efforts; and his crimes. But a man cannot die twice, that is his only saving grace.