I sit along a quiet trail filled with the clammor of despair. Recently, I had to exact justice from a pair of brothers who stole coins from the local noble's domicile.
The door of their hovel broke inward after the booted kick of my foot. In the small dwelling, the two brothers sat counting their bounty over a small meal with their mother and father. God's will told me that justice was mandatory.
While one of the brothers uselessly stabbed at my chest armor with a rusty pitchfork, I thrust my sword into his stomach and lifted, splitting him apart. His last vision was to see his blood spray the hilt of my sword, now buried in his brother's neck. The brother briefly saw God's wrath in my countenance.
I reclaimed the noble's petty treasure and as God's presence left my swordarm, I witnessed the despair of the parents -- pleading, begging for their lives and the wailing sorrow of the sudden loss of their sons.
Here I felt a stab of empathy, and the harsh awareness that I am both man and servant of God. That I must do what I do for the purpose of my religion, and still suffer the morality that is the aftereffect of my service.
Knowing that I had a hand in changing the future of these people, I left and did not look back. And I am reminded of the King I once served, whose malice was added to God's decree.
So today, as the sun sets to ashed embers, I let the man separate from the divine instruction, and I lose myself in the sum of my loss, if only for a moment.
My Lord, let it pass.