[ PI ] Make me cry . Write the saddest story you can think of .

*Seven years ago. * 
 
 Dieter goes rolling across the training yard floor, the hard packed dirt doing nothing to soften the blows as he tumbles. He then comes to an abrupt stop, his head banging against the railing. Only the steel of his morion helmet and thick padding underneath keep his brains from being knocked out of his skull. Still, he is disoriented enough as it is. Coughing, he rolls over unto his hands and knees. It's then he hears that loathsome voice which has plagued him his entire life. 
 
 `` Get up.'' Says the voice. A harsh unrefined man's, with not a hint of kindness in it. `` Up I said.'' He punctuates the remark with a vicious kick to Dieter's bruised ribs, sending the youth sprawling to the ground. `` You will stand up or by the gods you will stay there.'' This time the man lashes out at Dieter's head. The hollow ting of boot meeting helmet echos in the courtyard, causing the clustered observers to wince in sympathy. `` Get. Up.'' The voice says menacingly. 
 
 
 Dieter's eyes flick up at the figure standing overhead. The gray pupils within seething with rage. The same eyes look down at him. Gaze never wavering, Dieter spits to the side, blood tinging it a pinkish hue. Shaken, he rises to his unsteady feet still staring at his opponent. His foe waits patiently, holding out Dieter's broadsword hilt first, contempt on his face. Wordlessly, Dieter clasps his hand around the worn leather binding, bringing it into the guard position. The man chuckles grimly. 
 
 
 `` I know what you're thinking Dieter. You want nothing more than to run than blade straight through me. You want me to die, to die slow and painfully. Good. You know what I am doing? I am forging you into the weapon. Hate me. I want you to hate me. Hate makes you strong. It allows one to make the difficult choices others wo n't make. So go ahead, curse my name and my actions. But when you are where I am now, and your son looks at you with venom in his eyes, you'll thank me for this, for making you hate.'' 
 
 
 Dieter merely nods in thought before pointing the tip of his blade at his opponent. He spits again, this time on the man's boot `` Go to hell, father.'' He lunges forward.
