My samurai wrote a death poem from atop the castle, seeing the demonic horde approaching the last standing town of his fallen nation (important to note that his nation fell because he was taken into the Abyss after trying to use dark magic to sway a 'final battle'

Hail, Warrior! Nameless, Timeless

His once-eager, now cursèd countenance betrays his macabre and unfulfilled wish; and his sorrow for lost war; and for his end, now overmuch delayed. His once certain and resplendent fate now naught but dust; Only dust, and nothing more.

Why should I, O Fate, be forsaken and passed o’er by the wings of the valkyrie, and be denied the Flag of God and country draped o’er casket and placed in mother’s hand? A final comfort — warmth in death’s cold embrace. O Fate! Your cruelty I decry.

“Does not every man die?” he’d always espoused, bearing the glorious and vain indifference of youth, borne to him on the wings of legend and story, of hopeful notions of death and glory, of his battle-lust now turned reticence.

A martial death was all he’d plead, it mattered not whether swift or days-slow and full of pain; cleaved by blade, filled with lead, or chok’d by gas, blood, bile. Aye, to die by his own hand in trench or street or castle would, an act of sacred suicide, some semblance of honor bequeath.

The man, young but now also agèd, he of grave marked but unfilled, before his due time has grown obsolete, archaic. Men died by his sword-hand. One? Few? Many? In truth, he knew not, cared not. But nary an adversary deigned to reciprocate, a final non-act of the cruel barbaric.

So now he walks, lone amongst scattered swords and blood-slick mail, stepping o’er discarded shells and fallen comrades, relics of the mere minutes which would serve this unending mortal cycle by inspiring youth to take up axe and sword and rifle, sending war-whispers into hearts untarnished, angelic.

Neither first nor last to stand here, might he fall upon his trusted and blooded blade? Or embrace his still-smoking barrel in a licentious kiss, his purpose deplete? Or burn upon the sacred pyre of old, and thus release his sunder’d soul to whatever may lie beyond, fleeing as both victim and harbinger of deceit?

In his final act, an act of contrition, of acquiescence, whilst the taste and smell and radiant heat of blood and smoke and death his senses do assail, the warrior kneels, and prays.