As a child, we would wait. He'd watch from far away. He always longed to join them, to play and be carefree. To not be weighed, ruled down by a destiny on his shoulders. To not be pressured to carry on a legacy, like his brothers. He'd watch out the window, or nearby the courtyard, in the training grounds, as all the other children, royalty, visitors, peasant children, would all play. They'd get sticks and 'sword fight', while he had to lift a heavy sword, who's mass surpassed the child's, and actually fight for his respect. They'd play war, and battle each other playfully. He'd one day have to go to war, witness the heartbreak, blood, the agony of the battlefield.
He couldn't think about how the people he was killing, probably had families. They were most likely drafted, for the war his father had declared for his own sick pleasure. He couldn't think about a little boy or girl crying themselves to sleep every night, from the moment the general appeared on their doorstep, telling them the grave news of their loved ones. He couldn't think about how most of his slaughtered were going to be children, barely under the age of 16.
He couldn't. He just couldn't. They would play hide and seek, create monsters and run away. He would have to train with strategic skill to dodge the blows of his instructors, enemies, brothers...and father. He would learn stealth, to blend in to his environment. And if he was found, goddesses help him.
But he always knew, he would be the one to work hard, to slay and protect, to demolish and destroy, while they would laugh and be happy. While they would play and squeal with delight.
When he was young, he would lay awake at night. After a long day, he'd tend to his own bruises and cuts, scrapes and scars. He always had the mindset, it would teach him survival skills. Its what he tried to convince himself. He would lay awake at night, and dream. He would dream, plan, scheme of all the things that he would do when he was older. When the was was done. He would escape his father, he'd become good, a celebrated hero. He'd travel the world, demolish and obliterate evil. That dream, would be the only thing that kept him going everyday. Especially on tough, near-death days. It'd bring him hope, but he knew deep inside, somewhere down there, that it was just that. Just hope. Just a dream.
And now, here he was. On the battlefield.
The sky bathed in red, clothed in clouds of dark gray of the smoke of fires. Bodies of innocent, helpless people falling dead by the second. And he couldn't turn away. He would have to watch, to harden himself. He'd have to cut them down, trample them and destroy the sad light in their eyes, if they had any left during this bloodshed of a war. And he'd push himself to the brink, fighting goddesses, fairies, heck, even beasts.
Surrounded by his over-shadowing brothers, who could do what he couldn't, he would have to try. They'd earned titles, such as Zeldris the Cruel, Estarossa the Wicked. Because unlike him, they could kill a child, split a babe's head open and still laugh about it. They could joke and report to their father about things like this. They excelled at a young age, while he struggled to keep up, to get his neck above it all. So no.
He can't turn away now.
Because, since birth, he's been bred to be a warrior. He was a warrior, a demon, a sinner. And he was supposed to love it. He was a warrior, and he built the town of his sins. The town of his regrets, sorrows and guilt. He was the warrior that built his town.
Eventually, somewhere down the line, the time came. He had done it. He had hardened himself, he had become emotionless, and he hadn't cared. He rose above the rest of them, above his brothers, getting to his fathers level. He rose above the rest, and he proved himself. In youth, he was weak and worthless in his fathers eyes. But he forged himself, and he proved that his spirit, his power and ferociousness alone, would never die. He had lit a fire, and this, he was recognized for. His spirit, would never die.
And hundreds of years later, the time had come. The king stepped down from his throne, and let chose him, the previous runt of the litter, the weak and puny of the bunch, now the strong, tough, stone-hearted warrior as king. So he took the throne.
Soon he was over thrown, by the jealousy and rivalry of his brothers. Soon he was disgraced by his race, by everyone he knew.
Everyone he loved.
He had made some friends, and sure they weeped. They cried for the friend they thought they knew, they weeped for their future of their children, of themselves. But he told them, before he left, that they shouldn't. Because of what was to come, what he had done, was his labor. The labor of his dream, of his hope he was going to make true.
The labor of his love.
Because he was a warrior. He was strong willed, hardened, but he knew what was right. He knew how to be strong when all hope is gone. He knew how to be brave when looking into the fires of hell. He knew how to have heart, when no one else would help those, who needed it more.
And he built his town, which would forever last in his soul. But he built it, and it would remind him. Remind of him of the demon he once was, the pain and torture he went through. It would remind him of his dream, of his promise to himself. It would remind him to be strong.
Because he was a warrior.
And he built his town, from dust.