His sickle was sharper than I expected.

-

Of course I heard him coming.

The clump clump of his absurdly loud footsteps,

The clinking of his armor (he’s deaf, I’m sure),

His pitifully raspy breaths,

How could I not hear him?

-

Standards are falling, I mused,

If he’s considered crafty.

If he’s considered a warrior.

If he’s called a hero.

Even in my sleep, I found it amusing.

-

I was sorely tempted then.

It’d be so easy to admire his features,

So easy to make him stay,

So easy to make him admire me.

A quick glance, and that would be that.

-

But no, I thought, let him be.

He can keep his armor, his sandals,

He can keep his helmet, his wallet,

He can keep his life.

Thus I decided, to do nothing, knowing he’d fail.