Dagger

balasta1

Again, I slice my palm with the dagger my father gave to me. As the drops of blood swell into the ink blotter, I reach for my worn feather stylus to, once again, relate my story. I am young but very, very old. As a lad, I watched the raiders sweep into our fair countryside. Pillaging, <font color="orange">HAMSTER</font>, destroying everything that was my world. My dearest father and my beautiful mother were lost. I hid, desperately, shamefully.....I would not, could not help them. I called myself coward, unworthy of the love that I had always known. After the onslaught, I crept from my hiding place. My parents gone, perhaps they survived? I could only think that perishing might be better than stumbling down the long, hard road of slavery. On that day I took an oath. I swore upon the ground that gave life and the heavens that took it....I would NEVER speak until I learned my parents fate. (As I take another bit of blood, life, from the other palm) I write these words to all the gods, and pretenders, all who walk the face of this dark and fallow land....I shall have justice....I shall have revenge....I shall look into the enemies' eyes as I plunge this same dagger into their hearts. BEHOLD, I am my father's son and my mother's joy, and whomever Lord's upon the gates of hell, may they NOT have mercy on your soul.
FallenStag