All that is gold does not glitter... Not all who wander are lost... The old that is strong does not whither... Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken... A light from the shadows shall spring... Renewed shall be blade that was broken... The crownless again shall be king...
-J.R.R Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings
A wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of death within it. Blood soaked the sand around him as he stared at the man who was once his father. The young man breathed heavily with a scimitar clutched in both hands while blood, sweat, and tears mingled together on his tanned skin. The tears ran from his eyes and from the dead man's that had long ceased. The sweat intermixed with his father's blood that was spattered on him and his blade.
The young man dropped the blade with shaking hands as he dropped to his knees in the hot sand while the sun beat down on the both of them, even as it was just a little after sunrise. Slowly, he lifted his shaking hands up to examine them with growing horror.
Blood...
His father's blood...
He looked to the swarthy skinned man whom he had known all his life.
"What have I done...?" the young man whispered as tears came bubbling back up and spilling over, making his face sting. But he did not care.
"Oh, Father...why did you attack me?" he whispered again, this time to the unresponding corpse.
"WHAT EVIL CAME OVER YOU?!" he said screaming now.
Then...the young man wept...