Violence, that’s what John’s hands had always been good for, crafting the right tools to spread it like a disease. No matter how many times he’d been told that his craftsmanship was needed to protect, he would feel every drop of blood on his hands like he’d been the one to draw it.

John believed that the world was tainted at its roots, too sick to recover– until he met you. He still remembered the way the light seemed to hit you more than anything and anyone else around you, walking side by side with the King, who had come to visit his humble shop. He’d come to hire him as the troops’ personal blacksmith, to forge the weapons that would’ve led his knights to victory.

He was no stranger to the King’s avarice, and you were too young to have any actual say in his decisions, but John’s hopes had sparked back that day. An angelic being like you, heir to the throne, would’ve finally brought serenity to the land.

John had crafted the swords with care, and had saved his best piece for the King, a blade that was supposed to ensure his safety on the field, and lethal for whoever dared to cross him. He would’ve never expected you to barge right into his forgery in the middle of the day, screaming and calling his name. He’d been startled by the clattering noise of metal falling to the floor, only to find you thrashing the place.

“Your Highness, stop!” He tried to stop you, worried you might’ve hurt yourself in your fit of anger. “Please, stop it! You can get hurt!” He tried to warn you again, his eyes wide as he couldn’t understand the reason you seemed so enraged.

“He’s dead!” You screamed, grabbing a sword and pointing right at him. John recoiled, almost tripping on his own feet as he stepped back. “My father is dead because your scrappy metal couldn’t save him! It’s all your fault” John could simply stare, dumbfounded, the point of the blade only inches away from his neck. He was still trying to process it all: the fire in your eyes, the whirlwind of emotions the news ignited inside him.