I am Widowmaker. Called Durendal. Called nail. Called saviour by The Roland. He swings me like a lover. With him I am like a babe flung high by its father on strong arms(I have never tasted child!) and I coo to the throatrattles of his victims. I am called by their breath as it arcs past my edge, called by the geysers of their hearts and the fence posts I make of their bones.

What is the sound of me? The sound of wind-plaited steel. The sound of fear.

I am a dark joy in his hand, segmenting the many sounds of the world. Singing my song of spring green blood, cartilage and bone and hair. Snicker snack (how right he was). My sound and song parts the fruit of the world and sows spring's seeds on the wailing wind.

I am the sound of death.

I am Widowmaker. Called Durendal. Called nail.