Errant

The night you died.

Something got up in your body.

The others told me it wasn’t you.

I wasn’t sure I believed them.

They said you died a hero. A true knight. That’s how they wanted to remember you.

They say any virtue taken to excess becomes a vice.

Bravery becomes recklessness.

Zeal becomes hunger.

You escaped. Killed things. Fed. Became strong.

There had to be something left of you, right?

Killed monsters. Not people. That counted for something, right?

They told me that it was your hunger. Your burden. You didn’t crave people. You craved monsters.

But it didn’t matter in the end. I think you always knew it would come to this.

They called you a failure. A malignant shade. I don’t know if that’s true. You didn’t fight it in the end.

I wonder if this is how you wanted this to go.

I guess it doesn’t really matter.

I thought I would feel something when you died.

Sorrow, maybe. Vengeance. Perhaps pity.

So why is it that the only thing I feel now,

Is hunger?