My name is Aric Bale. In a sense. In another, I have no identity.
I was trained long and hard with sword and shield, fighting for my family, my community, my kingdom. In a sense.
In another, I am but a pawn, a supplicant of this mage who has summoned me. This... planeswalker, akin to a wizard like a candle is akin to the sun itself, gazed upon my likeness on one of his many journeys to all the worlds of the multiverse, and clearly liked what he saw, forging myself from that memory.
I know Aric. A loving wife, a young daughter, both of whom he rarely sees. He of sound mind would never simply fight alongside a planeswalker solely for a purposes of an egotistical duel, nothing at stake but fleeting pride. And yet here I stand, compelled to do exactly that, as if I know nothing else.
Which I do not. In a sense.
It matters little. I exist for the purposes of this mage and whatever his master plan is, I must obey. I am willing to fight. I am willing to succeed. I must, for I have no other option.
His opponent- my opponent- does not seem to grant me the respect I deserve. He chastises my master, wondering aloud why he would bother to summon such a "lame creature."
Lame? I am certain the spirits of those who have died by Aric's sword would claim otherwise. Not that I imagine this fool would ever stop to listen to them. In any case, gazing upon the battlefield shows me a variety of warriors the likes of which Aric would never dream of seeing, much less facing. Cats and goblins standing alongside, vampires, elves and skeletons standing across. I suppose when you have the entire multiverse to call upon such squadrons would be commonplace.
Yet my opponent is still not impressed. He looks at me with personal disdain, and furthermore insinuates this my master must be some sort of novice to planeswalking. As though who one wields such power could be considered a novice at anything.
Aric knows little of wizardry and planeswalkers other than their existence, and with his military training I find it difficult to blame him. His expertise is not with the spell, but with the sword.
And by proxy, as is mine. I am ready to fight. I know naught but to heed the command. But I must wait as it is my master's rival who strikes, his vampire lifting into the air, sailing forward for an assault.
I gaze up at the summon. I can do nothing else, or so I believed. But my master is shrewd. He anticipated this battle plan with the wisdom of a veteran. A wave of his hand and the blink of an eye, and I have wings.
It is my purpose, my destiny to destroy this scourge. I rise up and meet him before he can engage. I stand ready, feet grasping nothing but air, a sensation I am certain Aric has never felt. But that does not alter my purpose. No, it clarifies it.
The vampire looks at me with a disdainful smirk, mimicking his master, not that I would expect any better from such a fiend. No matter. Time to end his arrogance.
I plunge into him with my sword just as he finds an unarmored piece of skin to deliver a powerful bite. His look says it all. He expected a much easier fight. The look turns to sheer blankness as he begins to fall.
But then, so do I.
Not my wings, but my essence, my life force itself I feel fading away. I thought I would emerge victorious, but it was to be nothing but a draw.
And yet, with my final gaze upon this earth, my master looks pleased. His rival seems frustrated. Perhaps this truly was a victory.
I can only hope Aric is lucky enough to have the same dying thoughts: that he had served his life's purpose, and he had done well.
For now I know, that in this brief moment that was my life, I've done well.
I can die happy.