A sword is a wonderful thing to waste. Standing here, beneath my banners and above my enemies, this is the thought that echoes through my head. A sword is a wonderful thing to waste.
A thousand lives escape into the soil around me, one drop at a time. A thousand sons and daughters, a thousand brothers and sisters. Potential, draining away and decomposing like so much meat. Possibility evaporates, and the future grows darker. So much squandered, so much ruin. My sword drips with what could have been, its razor edge having hewn those futures.
When they gave it to me, they said it was a gift. A mighty tool to keep those I loved safe. That it would make me mighty. That it would bring us peace.
I only hope that those who lay around me have peace, for I know I will never have it. I close the eyes of my nearest victim with a loving brush of my hand. I'm sorry.
My king approaches, and I sheathe this terrible burden that was given in the guise of a gift. Would that I had cast it away when I had the chance. He strides to me confidently, joy exploding across his face.
I will kill him now. Perhaps then his heir will see.
A sword is not a gift. It is a wonderful thing to waste.
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