He looks down at his hands.
They are caring, comforting, and firm—
The hands of a father,
A husband,
A king.
Loving hands—
The same ones that held those of his dearest on their wedding day,
Full of adoration and love.
Never wanting to let go.
Gentle hands—
The same ones that caressed his son’s soft skin as he kissed him goodbye,
Tears staining the blanket.
I will come back, he promised.
He looks down at his hands.
They are calloused, bruised, and deadly—
The hands of an archer,
A craftsman,
A soldier.
Cunning hands—
The same ones that brought victory to him and great sorrow to the enemy,
Deep in the dark crevice of night.
Vengeful hands—
The same ones that brought long-awaited doom upon 108 men,
Spoiling his halls with evil.
Guilty hands—
The same ones that held a sword dripping with the blood of his comrades,
His best friend, his brother, his men.
He looks down at his hands.
They are stained with blood.
They always will be.
They are his hands, after all.