Those were her very words just that morning.
The morning that seemed a thousand years ago.
I found it hard to believe she said that.
I didn't say anything.
Maybe I should have.
I guess she knew I was confused.
She laughed and told me that a sword doesn't have a choice.
It will always be forced to kill.
At the time, I gave it some thought and did end up agreeing with her.
And now...
Now I want to blame that damn sword so, so much.
She lay dying in my arms.
All because of that damn sword.
And he stands before me, sneering, laughing.
I don't care.
All I care about is the angel dying in my arms.
My cheeks are wet.
I guess I'm crying.
He rips my gaze from her dying face, and forces me to look at him.
He smirks, and his mouth moves.
I can't even hear what he says.
He lifts up his sword.
That damn sword.
And as he raises it, I realize something.
She was right.
Never blame the sword.
Blame the bastard holding it.
