You see him look at you whenever you've finished another mission, with
near-horror in his eyes. You wonder if he despises what you've become
that much; and the thought stings, especially since that look is from the
person you've looked up to and loved all your life; the one who handed
you the sword and told you to fight. The first time, you tried to scrub the
blood off ineffectively—still he gazed at you with those desperate, horrified
eyes; now you don't bother any longer.

You see him in the day, all sunny disposition and cheery eyes, willing to talk to
anyone despite his rank, sweet-loving and playful. But every mission, every fight,
you see those soft eyes disappear into madness and bloodlust. You regard him
with near horror when you realise this was your doing—this merciless killer—
who like a fragment of a blade, has buried itself in his pure spirit. You feel like
you have taken a piece of finest silk, and then stained and soiled it irreversibly.

"Why won't you let him choose for himself?"

"He's just a 15 year old brat."

Your eyes narrow imperceptibly, "Nine."

Your heart gives a stabbing pain, even before he continues.

"I was nine."

There is nothing you can say, and he walks past you, gently musing.

A twinge in your heart, and you say as nonchalantly as you can,
walking past him, "Is that how it is? You don't want him to turn
out like me?"

"That's not what it is!" You want to scream. Only it is, and all you can do is
watch as his back grows smaller through your uncovered eye, walking away from you.

For the first time after a mission, after you are covered in the blood of
now-dead men, he doesn't look at you with those horror-filled eyes.
They are still desperate, however, only this time they are full of protective
concern. He cradles you close, and leaning against his warm solid chest,
you hear his heart racing in panic. "It's not all my blood," you whisper,
and for the first time he seems to be glad about that.

You hold him close, this gentle yet merciless person that you've treasured more
than anyone else in your entire life, coated in blood that you hope is not his.
There are diseases doctors cannot cure; this is one of them, one that your
brother and sister-in-law, who raised you, strove to defeat and that which you
walked out on, as a young man. "It's not all my blood," he whispers, and you
relax somewhat—at least you can alleviate his symptoms, delay his inevitable
death, for inevitable it is. You used to worry that he would die by the sword, till
it became apparent he was nearly invincible fighting: now he is struck by a
disease that you scorned in the past.

You wonder if this is your punishment.