A crystalline fog hangs low above the battlefield, a transparent veil which traps all ghosts from ascending beyond their lives, lost to this senseless conflict of the now.
I cannot change the way I love you : Obsessive, all-consuming, destructive, possessive.
All of these paths lead to violence.
This was not a war we were fighting. This was not a duel between opponents. This was self-harm through another.
I wish that I could do half-measures, dull the edge of my blade so as not to hurt you.
But that would make me powerless to fight the battles which I must wage in my own life.
Were you to submit to the insane demands of my boundless, deviant, bloodthirsty imagination, it would not be you anymore either.
What's the point of fighting an enemy, slaying it and reviving it only to slay it again? What is to be learned from such necromancy when the outcome is already known? This battle is lost even if one of us yields, to make the other enjoy the brief, illusory taste of hollow victory.
I wave a white flag high above the corpse-littered valley between us.
The fog will dissipate in time, the carrion-eaters will play their role and the air will become breathable once more.
Sit across the field from me then, contemplate the rising sun and embrace the warmth of this peace that I grant you.
In the end, we're only playing ourselves.
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