Blood

This was not something he had expected of himself. This anger, this fury that poured from his soul, it was not himself he had expected it from. Yes, he was a warrior, but a warrior is precise, a warrior does not allow emotion to override reason for fear of death.

But he had let it overtake him. He had let the anger, the heartbreak, the pain, oh the pain, separate him from his own mind. It had all grow and twisted itself into that gnawing hatred, that hunger for blood.

Blood to end the pain.

Blood to drown the heartbreak.

Blood to soothe the sorrows of a son.

But blood could do nothing but feed the anger.

The death of a king is not so easily prepared for. Tradition can only make easier the path of succession in state affairs. A son cannot prepare for the death of his King, his father.

Father.

Blood could not bring him back, bring him home.

Death might be a stepping stone into peace, but it is still a step away from everyone left behind. Blood could not change this.

He had forgotten that as he stalked his prey. He prowled through the shadows that let him creep ever closer to the man that had stolen his father from him. The man he thought had stolen his father from him.

Hadn't stolen his father from him.

Hadn't stripped the King of his mantle.

Hadn't forced it onto the son.

Hadn't done anything other than be a friend, a protector, a caregiver to another a lifetime ago.

The mantle of the warrior hid the grief of the prince raised to King.

Blood could not make him prince again.

He knew that now.

It had finally been shown to him how little blood could, how empty the burning rage made him.

The cold seeped in from the Siberian snowfall and filled the emptiness left by fire. Ash piles in his heart crystallized in the cold. Light lit not by fire started to shine in his soul again as he recognized how little he had done to mourn his father, his King. How little he had done to tend to his own wounds in the pursuit of blood.

Blood could do nothing, but acceptance could spark life even in the most desolate.

Acceptance in grief, not loss of grief, not abandonment of mourning, but acceptance nonetheless. His father was dead, and he would mourn him, but he would not seek blood where it was not needed.