The Mercenary

The rain splattered on his helmet

Like a smith’s ringing hammer beating on scorching steel

It ran down his face in torrents

But could not wash the stain of blood away.

He sat under a withering and rotting tree

On the cold, forsaken ground

But the rain still ran down his sword

As he ran the whet stone up it.

His purse clinked dully

As he slowly sharpened his sword

It sounded oddly like a lover’s last remnant;

It sounded like a scream.

He stared at his ice-cold sword,

Slick with rain and blood

And he slowly turned and stared with horror

At the blood and rain on his hands.

He could still see the sightless eyes;

Could still hear the screams.

He could still feel the air of death;

Could still taste the fear.

He felt his rage boiling inside him,

Rising in an insatiable wave.

His malicious sword stared down at him

And drove itself straight through his heart.

It was only fair, he thought at last,

For him to die in such a way.

It was ironic, he thought,

That the sword that had killed so many would now be stained with the killer’s blood.

It was funny, he thought,

As his gold spilled onto the ground,

That what he had prized so much would be covered in blood

When it had been in payment of blood as well.