She wasn't that hard to spot, you know.
Freshly 18, all tied up with a bow and a label, waiting on my
doorstep that one fateful morning. She had a note attached, but to be
honest I never read it. Perhaps that one misstep is what eventually
led to my current situation, but you know what? If I knew then what I
know now, I still wouldn't change a damned thing.
Just turned 18. She was still a kitten,
and she was labeled for me. What had I done to deserve such fortune?
Of course, her captors had drugged her, knocked her out, and had her
bound tightly with silk ropes, so getting her into the house was a
bit of a struggle for me. But it was worth it. Once I had cut the
rope away from her body and gave her a good, long look-over, I
definitely believed the struggle was worth it. 'My very own
catgirl,' I thought to myself.
'Perhaps my luck is starting to change.'
---
Blood. I hate it. The smell. The feel. The power. The 'bond.' No matter the color, it all still spills the same, for the same nonsensical reasons. It is the one thing that makes all races equal: the spilling of blood. We all do it.
War continues. It shapes planets, changes landscapes, breeds greed and power, anger, fear, weakness, death. Always death, never life. War is the end-all, be-all, gain-all, lose-all. Find something with which to end war, another begins to brew. War itself never changes, just the means. The outcome stays the same.
Blood in my palm. Sweat on my brow. The feeling of steel in my grip. His life, his legacy, his rule... his life. One life like a single drop of rain in the desert. Whether or not it survives its descent into madness depends on my mercy. But shall I relinquish mercy upon one who does not contain it?
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