Never blame the sword.

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.