Is it not hard,
still, for him—
to stab a friend,
or strike down
a heroic figure?
The man who saved him,
his family,
all he held dear…
yet duty demanded
he cast him out.
He knew the folly.
He knew the wrong.
But he cannot disobey.
He is only a cog
in the great machine—
to stop, to refuse,
would shatter the cruel life
we cling to.
This is never
entirely his fault.
He has mouths
to feed too.
He wants to live.
Though it sickens him,
he must follow through—
he must obey.
He has lives
depending on him.
Even if the world
calls him unjust,
rude, false,
he has to.
It was an order.
He cannot say no.
But it does not mean
he wants to do it.
It does not mean
he loves being the villain
in someone else’s story.
He was ordered.
So were his companions—
they too owed debts
to the heroes,
and yet they obeyed.
They had no say.
They were painted as villains.
But that was just their Monday.
And the next few days
will be no different.
They will laugh as usual,
speak foolishly,
live as if
nothing happened.
But the life
in their eyes
will be gone.
Their burdens unseen,
their scars unspoken,
etched in silence.
They will bear them
until their names fade
from their gravestones.
They will be villains.
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