Bringing your sword to your heart, the blade smooth against your gloved hands. This was what it was all about, the way the light glinted on the folded steel, the way the handle rested perfectly into your grip, the warmth of the blade as you press it to your nose. Honour is what brought you to this position. You were the one who fought those wars; you were the one who battled those non believers. You slew many but you did it for honour. Many feared you. Many shivered at the mere mention of your name.
You were unstoppable. You were the power of the army, the only one your queen needed. But at what cost? Your hands are stained with the blood of some innocent men who weren't even supposed to be there, you showed no mercy, you did as you were instructed. Emotion had nothing to do with it. Until now.
As you held your magnificent weapon before you, you wonder if the Queen had rewarded you because of the fact you killed so many of was it because she truly realised that you did that task for honour. It pained you to think that perhaps that the blood spilled made this sword, it made the sword perfect. It made the sword fit comfortably in your hands; it made the blade warm to the touch. Did it even matter anymore? She used magic, things made for her disposal. Just pointless creatures made of mist and black magic.
But now you are stuck with menial tasks, you are no longer feared. Magic and eidolons are. Was this the honour you wanted? To be set back after you were praised so highly, after you defeated a million men single handed? Now you must watch the queen you respect and honour play with magic and allow her army to go to waste.
This was all there was left. The sword in your hands.
The proof of your honour and power. And yet even that didn't mean anything anymore.