The blood on his hands was slowly turning to rust, but still he wouldn't wash it from his hands forever. It filmed his hands a constant reminder of the service he had done, the sacrifice that had torn his soul apart. He stared at how it was thicker in the cracks of his skin, how it felt rough against his skin. His mother took his hands up scrubbing them with a coarse cloth smelling of lavander, he eyes unfocused. A part of her mind would forever be bound to the destroyed man lying, still at their feet, his body as icy as the blue of his eyes. Tearing his hands away from his mother, he crouched by the body, and reached over to close the eyes of the man who had caused him such torment, his hands
(his bloody, bloody hands)
briefly brushing the pallid skin. He stood up, wiping the grass from his knees when a thud reached his ears. The same thud the body made when it breathed it last breath at its son's Hands
(his bloody, bloody hands)
Squeezing the eyes
(the icy, icy eyes)
which had seen horrors incomprehensible to most men
(you aren't a man)
squeezed shut as he turned opening only as he stood before her, the dagger stuck in her heart,
(her broken, torn heart, ripped by you)
No sound had escaped her as she joined her husband in roaming the earth as silvery wisps of air,
haunting their son's mind for all eternity. Returning to the house, the house full of memories
of chilly christmas mornings, forced smiles, and a twisted, twisted love.
(Love your kind)
But he had always been there, even when he lingered in the forests of Albania, dominating the mind, crippeling the love, making it
(twisted)
elemental. And the duty was always greater, always powerful. The elements fought bravely, but it had always been there, it had always grown, mutated, until the branding
(like cattle)
had drowned the water, handged it with its own leash, never making its hands
(bloody, bloody)
The wrinkles around his eyes grew, they grew duller, but he saw the blood on his bloody, bloody hands as clear as it hand been the day he became a
(monster)
murderer, a souless man. And always he asked his daughter to wash his bloody, bloody hands.
(Honor thy father and mother)
And she did
(or your hand will grow out of your grave)
and the bloody, bloody hands carassed her head as the souless man breathed his last breath and joined his guilty, guilty secret, roaming the world as wisps of smoke, always, always washing
(his bloody, bloody hands)
his legacy of blood.
(can souless men feel guilt?)
R/R please