A silence fell over me as the tyrant died, as he gurgled in his blood. A great man, in a way; not good, not loved—perhaps someone did love him—but great. Mighty, clever, and even, someone might add, wise as the world counts wisdom. I think, had he been good, he’d been a man to know. And so, I stared down at the dying man in reverent silence, for he was a man, like I’m a man, and like all men, he had to die. I clean my sword of his blood and see my face in the steel.
Waiting to Die
Tale Told 