As the Old King stared out upon his lands,
As the crops burn,
The village set ablaze,
His keep being ransacked,
His line  being ended.

The Old King reflects on it,
On his decisions as the invaders closed in.
Was it because he got too greedy?
Or perhaps he'd been too harsh,
Too violent in his actions,
To haste to lay down the law when there had been an alternative.

The Invaders they gotten into the room,
The rasp of a dagger as it's drawn.
Not too long now.

The Old King reflected on his family, Surely slaughtered by now.
Did they cry out for him to protect them,
As the sword blades and axe heads descended upon their heads?
He had failed them.

The Old King,
Who once stood tall,
Towering over anyone who would try to cow him,
Now stood with shoulders stooped,
An old sword,
Predating time immemorial,
Was held loosely in his grip.
The Assassins stepped closer.

One last glance,
As if to burn the sight of his dying Kingdom into his brain.
He was ready.

The Old King stood tall once more,
Taking the last chance he would ever get to do so.
His grip tightened,
The ancient leather creaking in his grip.
The Old King turned,
Sword held high,
Rushing to meet his executioner