Why speak of thy sorrow as though fate had dealt it?
When in truth thou hath made the choice?
A deal made in the salt of sorrow
A choice made by thine own hands nonetheless.

If these hands hadn't faltered as thou dealt the blow,
Then why weep now?
What use is the thought of folly
When thou hath condemned a man based on conjecture alone?

What good are these queries that plague thy mind tonight?
Does the proximity of kindly death
Remind thee of his face, or is it his words that haunt thee?
A man whom thou oft called father in thy dreams?

If thou broke thy heart too
And watched it bleed upon the polished Curia floor
Did thou believe it was worth it?
Or was it a fable to soothe thy burning soul?

Behold! They call thee the noblest of them all.
Little do they know thy ache, thy fantastic pain
As with tremulous hands, thou yield the blade
That will take thee to the one whom thou hath slayed.

~•~