Forged in the fires of rage, shaped on spite’s anvil, quenched in tears of sorrow, I am born. Hatred is hammered into my every part. The twisted metal of envy lies at my heart; my edge is cutting grief.

He polishes my surface: my layers are revealed as a pattern of gleaming love, a mirror to beauty locked in his memory. He holds me aloft, turns me left and right; I respond, dance in his hand, seek my foe. He smiles at one corner of his heart. He knows anticipation; he is as eager for the kill as I. My father.

He carries me to another place, a place full and empty, sets me down amidst his other children. They are crying, weeping for one who is not there. They too are beautiful for her, but lack my keen edge, the cool blazing of my spine. Their purpose is lost; mine is true.

He goes to another place, the emptiest of all, to rest from long labour; yet he can sleep no more than I.

Now we are clothed in deceit. I am thrice sheathed: within his scabbard, beneath his cloak, behind his smile. This place is crowded: joys and boredoms, hopes and pains, lusts and sorrows surround me. Many are lost, but we are not. He steals through the press, not too fast, not too straight, but ever towards our goal. I feel the tug of our foe even now; I know the way better than my father.

We are close now; I yearn to spring to my father’s hand, perform the elation for which I was born, but it is still the time of caution. We enter a new place, climb trepidation, anticipation, stairs. My father’s heart is fiery cold as mine. We reach a door, a barrier, shutting out curiosity, holding in passion. Suddenly my father burns white-hot; I am in his hand. The door defies us, but its will is weak; the latch parts like water before me and the door yields to my father.

He is there, across from us with nothing between: my enemy. She too is there, for whom I was made; dread freezes her. In her presence I ache the fiercer for my foe. I point at his heart and pull my father lunging across the room. Our enemy is surprised, alarmed, desperate, relieved. His fingers have found steel; his ardour turns me aside.

He boils with scorn and slashes for my father, but I am there: I catch his blade on my quillon. His sword is balanced but detached; it cannot match his passion. Again he throws a blow; again I catch. Confidence spills from him to my father. I swing now at him; he blocks, but I behead his sword. He panics as the lifeless blade hits the floor. My father’s glee is savage. We know he is dead surely as his sword.

Suddenly recklessness overwhelms terror and she is there, between father and foe; she blocks me with compassion, with pleading, with outrage, with love. My father’s resolve weakens; he holds me less tightly; relief wells up.

I slice cleanly through compassion, pleading, outrage, love, slay relief: my purpose is true.

The wail of my brethren carries even to here, my birthplace; my father’s ire burns hotter than the fires that forged me. I do not understand, my father! Did not our hearts blaze as one? Was I not your truest son?

Hammered by loathing against grief’s anvil, consumed in the fires of rage, I die.