The merchant

He had such a mournful look in his eye.
Others saw death, cold unforgiving. He was a merchant after all. I could see this but still… There was a twinkle beneath the black. A shimmer. So much death stood between that soul and I yet it was clearly there. Defiant sorrow. Unrelenting remorse. Powerful justification. Staunch belief. Yet one could tell, if they looked closely, that he say their faces still. Wether he wanted to or not they were there. And it was these faces, of those he’d never known, and determined to never discover, these faces that stood between I and he.
Yet, to be treated as an equal was all he wanted. No medals our commendations, just a brother, a citizen. As noble as a plumber… at least. But.
But.
He was a merchant. Skilled beyond question, Yes, but a merchant nonetheless. Dealing for his uncle, that cared not for soul. So they questioned wether he cared for his.
It was obvious he did but some things are more terrifying than death. Or dealing it.

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