Have you ever felt empty? So lost that you can't breathe? Like all the life has been sucked out of you and there is no hope? You're wrong, everything you've ever done is useless, and all you are is a shell. That's what the darkness whispers.

There are two ways you can go. You can believe the lie and let the darkness consume you, create you into a ghost. We all have our ghosts, someone once said. But what they didn't say was that we could become the very ghosts we fear. We allow ourselves to stop feeling, stop caring, selfishly afraid we'll be hurt once more. It becomes a downward spiral till at last our life slips away and leaves us with empty hands. Empty, that is, but for regret.

This is only one path. But the other path is harder to follow. It involves fighting. Fighting the despair, pushing back against the lies and ripping away the darkness. To reveal the light. The light that warms us and fills the emptiness. It restores life, slowly. You do the hard things, move on but not forgetting about what you lost. A hope starts to grow, murmuring against the whispers and growing stronger till the murmurs become words, the words become shouts, and then the shouts become actions.

Hope is what pulls at someone and creates a want. Then hope becomes a need.

How fickle we are. We want happiness, joy, love, and peace without working or risking anything. Without that risk, without failure, victory and accomplishing such goals is nothing.

Sacrifices must be made, pain, agony, and loss are part of life.

My friend, Astinros died on the field because he saw I was to die. The spear he held in his hand could not stop the arrow heading my way.

We had been fighting the dread Persian scouts all day, our fortress- the acropolis- withheld most of the attackers. The ages were held by Astinros, myself, as well as other men.

"Stand firm!" Astinros had ordered as we stood, shoulder to shoulder in a phalanx, "Give no ground!"

Time and time again we had pushed back the attackers only to see those we killed fall and others take their place. The rest of the army had arrived.

Then the archers gave us a taste of death within our own ranks. Germanus of Crete died first, then Thermos of Athens fell. They had been only travelers and now they were dead.

"Vicadus!" Astinros shouted, pulling me down as another arrow made its descent.

Astinros saved my life. Only at the cost of his. It struck him full in the chest, burying itself deep within his body.

"Astinros," I cried, catching his body as it fell. Others took our place as I pulled my childhood friend away from the conflict of battle.

Others of the city took him from me and I stumbled after them, like a drunk, as they took him to the surgeon. The white-haired man could do little more than administer poppy seed to ease his pain and snap off the shaft protruding from Astinros's chest.

"Vicadus," The surgeon addressed me, "go back to the gates. There is nothing more to be done here."

My footsteps carried me back to the wall, where I stood gazing at the terror and bloodshed of my people as they fought to protect what was theirs. My shield and sword were heavy, hanging limply from my grasp.

Long had I pondered life and its many mysteries, logic had no purpose on the battle field and no I had a choice. Remain with Astinros's body and mourn him till the gates fell and I too died or I could go back into the battle and take hope that maybe others would survive to live another day and warn the rest of Greece of the Persian invasion.

Hopelessness or sacrifice lay at my feet.

"Stand firm," Astinros had said, his words echoing in my head.

My hands gripped my weapons tightly once more.

No more logic, no more reasoning. Nothing more for I, Vicadus, but sacrifice.

And so I fought.

And so I fell.

Here I lay, among the fallen bodies of my comrades, at peace. My city remains standing, my people live.

I chose my path.

What is yours?