The old man sat down beside the prone form, his creaking joints testament to his age and produced a white cloth.
"Never mistake confidence for arrogance. Tears for sadness. Lust for love...." his weathered hand closed the cloth over a slick blade and with his eyes his voice trailed off into a distant thought. Hands moving according to ritual.
"...age for frailty...".
Sheathing the prone man's now clean blade he spoke, melancholy settling over him "we could have traded words, worlds. Enriched one another's lives with bold deeds and tales. Grown wise with shared knowledge and young once more with laughter" he returned the cloth to the folds of his cloak and his gaze lingered on the ever slowing rise and fall of the prone man's chest.
He met the eyes of the dying man and whispered "This sadness now in me comes from the knowing that I'll never know your story nor you mine."
After a moment he slowly got to his feet, the last breath sighing from paling lips.
Bowing deeply, a hardness returning to his voice he said "If you choose steel and steel alone then you must prepare for the end. For it is easier to swallow your words than to eat your blade."
YOU ARE READING
The old man
General FictionLooks can be deceiving and some choices are met with a finality that cant be undone. The brashness of youth and the tempering of old age.
