#drumroll pls

The sound of his blade clashing against that of his sparring partner was enough to drown out the noise of the true clashing blades that seemed to haunt the very back of his mind, no matter whether he woke, whether he slept; the sight of those who were so high above it all seemingly ready to throw themselves to the wind, to whatever darkness had awoken with the Falcon King. 

And his blade continued to clash, hammer down as he thought of the pouring rain within the Valley of Bronze, how he would have prayed to feel the rain hammer upon him now and wash away the sins it felt like he was drowning in. For his screams into the abyss to be drowned out by what felt like the very veil of time and death itself.

And his blade continued to clash, each movement contained and yet none would know the emotional turmoil that seemed to spur each strike of steel; only the warm face of the King that had wanted a better world, and died for it.

The brother he had failed, in his desperation to save him; he who was never the same once the Stranger had welcomed him with open arms. And how it had been him that had made that choice, that choice not to disarm, not to injure as a Knight of the Vale with his years of training and experience could have done; but the choice to end it all. 

End it all, was such a gentle way to speak on what the Kingslayer had done, was it not? His house and his reputation, the legacy of his family, would be tarnished - and they remember. His opponant’s blade was disarmed, sent clattering to the floor and the Hand of the King...which fucking King?