The bloodied gray wolf laid at his side. It’s maw lay open, pale tongue lolled out between it’s fangs.

He wiped his sword off with his white surcoat, a red cross emblazoned on the course fabric. His armor squeaked as he moved, blood beginning to rust the joints.

A small herd of sheep watched him cautiously from their field, their nostrils flared at the scent of blood. They bleated, sensing something in the tree line.

He looked up, holding his sword at his side.

A lamb, white as snow stumbled it’s way out of the dense bushes. Thorns snagged at it’s woolen coat.

The small lamb shivered as he neared. He ever so carefully freed it from the barbs and picked it up. Holding it against his chest of chainmail. He carried it back to the field, placing it gently upon the soft grass. It frolicked away towards the herd, bleating for its mother.

He returned to the dead wolf and continued his watch.

Non Nobis Domine, Non Nobis, Sed Nomini Tuo Da Gloriam.

Not to us, Lord, not to us, but to Your name give the glory.