From the stained pages of a particular young man's journal...
Why did you beg me to do what I did?
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I have never been a man of pride, or of vice. I enjoy only the rare glass of vodka, or a crisp cigarette when I am especially suffering from stress. I do not think of myself as exceptional, in many regards- most seem to agree. Many within Achyon likely do not care that I am gone. Many more do not even notice. That is fine, I think- It is better to forget someone like myself.
Yet you did not agree, did you? You believed me different because of what I believed. I do not know if I still believe in that peace, my friend... but I know that I deserve far worse. You are remembered as a hero, Delun, and I am not. I am vilified- demonized, just as you refused to. I had begged you to hate me, to despise my home, my people, me, the way your forefathers and your allies would. To not see me as some- cause, worth redemption- because now, I will never receive it. They say the battlefield brings the worst out of men, but so to does it drag out an honest glimpse of who we are. And I have... shown the world I am a killer. A remorseful, pathetic, apologetic killer. A cog who cannot even slay a knight properly.
A bitter taste remains in my mouth. I know- without fail- if our situations were fully reversed, they would not cry for me in Achyon. No song will be sung, for this forsaken pawn of war. Not by me- not by my family- not by my home.
My life hangs by a thread. You are at peace, that which you sought forevermore, which you begged me grant you instead of letting the abomination the drug-fiends keep as a pet consume you. Delun... We were the same. All we have known is war, and death, and mistakes. Helfire...
. . . what have I done?
necrosocialism