I do not fear you. Yet, I know I should.

Blood covers your face from ear to chin, some half-smile of a man too far gone. Blood always covers your face. I know it won’t come off. I’ve seen you try your best at it, too, but blood remembers. I think you’ve grown the like the smell of it, the feel of it as it splashes onto you. You used to hate it, you know.

I stand upon the peak of a battlefield, surrounded by your fallen men. You use the word “our,” but I know better than to confuse the two. I am your echo, only heard when you finally shut up, which isn’t often, mind you. You’ll never guess how many of your men died today; not because of inaccuracy, you have the estimate just fine, but because I know you don’t care. I’ll know, though. I always know how many have died in your name.

And now that I sit here, the moonlit night towering well above, dutifully cleaning off your dirtied sword in my room, which you’ve long forgotten, I realize how far I have fallen. We—Saints how I hate the word “we”—grew up as one, both capable with a sword and even more capable with words. You said one day we’d make the world kneel. Yet, somewhere along the way, we settled into a dynamic of not a partnership, but one where you were the cause, and I, merely the effect. I’m not sure when I realized; one day I woke up and witnessed how the world laid in wait for you, and you alone.

I see now that I will not be remembered as your equal, but as an estranged companion lost to time. I wipe the hardened blood off the icy metal. You are sound asleep, or perhaps alongside an esteemed general of yours. I run a finger alongside the blade, watching as a line of blood blossoms beneath its breath.

You’d be so easy to kill, yet even then, I would only be remembered as your killer. I wonder: Is it better to be remembered for someone else or forgotten entirely?

Outside, footsteps tap upon the stone floor. I know it’s you before you enter; you walk in the most peculiar manner, like a man both afraid of making a sound and equally afraid of being silent.

“Alister,” you pause, “you hurt yourself?”

You stare at the blood pooling on my finger. You know I’m careful with weapons. I’ve never nicked myself on accident, you know that as well as I do.

“Must be tired,” I shrugged.

I grab the sword by its hilt, unsure what to do. You look at me, unafraid. You don’t expect a thing. You don’t fear me. You should fear me.

Yet, I don’t do it. I hand you back your weapon.

We talk for a bit in the way we always had, and that’s the end of it. You go back to your room and I remain in mine. I should’ve done it. Should’ve plunged your sword into your chest just as you did your enemies. I tell myself I will next time. I won’t. I never will. I know I won’t, but it’s comforting to think I can.

Maybe I don’t need to be remembered. It’s not like I’ll be around to know.