[ WP ] Then suddenly the steel felt so cold in my hands

At midday, the King signed me off with his sword and the waive of his wrist. My death rite, the last honor, to hold the same steel that I had betrayed my brethren with. They frowned down at me with scorn. Years of service forgotten. For a memory, of a memory, of a newcomer's whisper held more weight than my sword itself. 
 
 These calloused hands would never grip a friend's again. These feet, never to ache under the march of heavy mail. My hair never to feel the closure of a helmet. My tongue the taste of beer it would mourn. Nor my spirit the raging passion of a battle cry. 
 
 I turned the blade toward me, suddenly steel I knew so well felt so cold in my hands. We enter from a warm womb into an icy world. Why had I expected going out to be any different? 
 
 Piercing my intestines, I felt blood ooze out onto my innocent hands. A soft whimper escaped my lips, adding more distaste to the scorn of the onlookers. It's one thing to be a false criminal, and another to suffer your King's judging eyes. I would rather be gone, than live with either. 
 
 I hacked fresh dots of red into the snow. Letting my memories flash by. But as the world slowly slipped away, the wails of a widow guided me, into deaths permanent embrace. 

