The arrow shoots from my hand, whistling pass my cheek and pass the reverberating wooden bow. It wobbles in the air, twisting as it strikes true. It buries deep in flesh, a gurgling cry of blood the last sound to leave the lips of the tyrant king. His body crumbles, I see his eyes dull before he is surrounded by his advisers, and nobles. I smile, knowing my job is done. I do not flee, like his coward folk.

“The dear King.”

“The good King.”

They cry and weep, they plead for an answer.

I’d spit in their faces if I could, but they bind my scarred hands. My bloodied hands.

“Death is never the answer.”

The words are whispered in my ear like cold Death himself. But no one is there, other then my captors.

The headsmen looms, is axe sharp and swift.

The block is crusted in the blood of those nobler then their butchers. I am knelt before it.

The crowd of simpletons boo and cry. They point and jeer, faces contorted in fury and despair.

There is no trial, but I expected none. I was and am the sacrificial lamb, to start the war and end it in one blow. The tyrant lies dead, his bloodline already slain and I am at peace.

As the axe swings down towards my neck, I know the truth.

Death is always the answer.