Arya: A Retelling

Struck down by a mortal blow, and writhing in pain,
he begged for a swift death from her merciful hands. A giant felled by a vicious sword. She happened upon him. He tots loudly his evils, the wrongs meted out to those she had loved, their lives snuffed out by the cruel winds wrought from his massive hands. “Kill me,” he pleads, “For your brothers. For your father. For your friends. For my sins.” But her hands would not be incited to quick vengeance. Today she was as fluid as his blood, merely an omen of his impending death, justice silent but certain, spilling slowly and excruciatingly from him, all the way down the mountain and from his wounds. Justice today would be solemn and slow, echoing through the wind, carrying his pain-etched wailings all the way deep into the night. Clean were her hands and her violence sheathed in silence as she walked on…at last.

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