The white knight lay still along the sanded stones of a pathway chosen not oft by the present village inhabitants.
The night was over.
The early morning had just begun.
A single figure stood above the corpse, a blade methodically dripping of something once stilled.
What a pity he was so loyal.
What a shame he had to die.
Still a greater shame, should he have lived for the sake of the one woman who had wronged the figure.
In every way possible.
The man, the figure, the dark soldier, the slayer turned to wait in hefty silence for the woman in question.
Even more to pity was the slayer himself.
Because, when you're so in love that you go crazy with want, it's quite hard to see reality.
And when reality becomes skewered, it slowly cracks, then shatters, and all you have left are mangled pieces to watch in melancholy.
Before long, that reality seems fake, and all you know are the twisted pieces you created from it, in hopes of putting it back together again.
And before you know it, you've gone mad.