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Thrice Pitied, Thrice Lost

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It wasn't supposed to start like this. It should never have happened.

I was old, tired, lonely. Two moirails lost, and I sent them both to their deaths. I promised myself, never again, never again shall anyone suffer from my curse. Never again shall I pity; the suffering from the loss is too much. Once is enough. Twice is torture. Thrice is death.
And then I met him, and I felt my world fall apart. This spunky, winged troll, so full of energy, completely alive- and trying to kill me. He's good, interesting; dangerous, but still not. Chasing Pyralspite, and me; I protected her. The last thing I had left of Redglare wasn't going to be lost to a young brat.
A young brat I kept on tending each time he was burned, or his bones broken, and he was so angry, so hateful, wanting to get away. From what? The monsters of the hive.


No, not me, he didn't fear me. Why does he fear the monsters that don't exist, and not the one in front of him, I wondered? He's still a child, I realised. A child full of courage, power, and with a dangerous future ahead of him.
I knew this. His ideas, his... thoughts, they were dangerous, and had already sent hundreds of trolls to their death. So, why was I so pale for him? Why did I want to care for this foolish troll, so young, so naive, while knowing quite well how it all would end?

We were terrible moirails. Rarely agreeing with each other, constantly at each other's throats- but he provided a closeness which I missed so, and it felt nice, finally taking care of someone again. Not that he ever listened; he was far too stubborn, stupid.
... Stupid... Yes, indeed, he was. I didn't know how to react when he told me about his matesprit, the pirate of the seas, the lady who has slipped through my fingers, causing the death of my dear Redglare. Anger, anger and pure hate; why him, and why with her? Fate is a cruel thing. Cruel, but, I am not, not to him. I never forced him to leave his matesprit, never told him it was a bad idea, never told him of her deeds. Letting the fairy live in his tales; that would cause no harm, I thought.

I shouldn't have been so kind.
One day, he came in. Silent, bloody, angry. Outraged, much like my own Signless, at the time of his demise.

And much like my Signless, he hated me.

Death to all highbloods. Death to our moirallegiance.
And so, our bond was broken; along with it, my heart.

Was the suffering worth it? Yes, I never regret it. But at the same time, I regret everything. I could have done something to stop it, I told myself. Could have saved him from this pain. But, no, fate appeared to have been set in stone. This had to happen, and I was to suffer for my own foolishness, my own stubbornness, believing that everything would be fine. He would live; he would live, and he would stay with me, and keep me happy.
I should have stopped dreaming long ago.

A revolution was started. I wasn't surprised. How did he react, when he met my troops? Did he expect me to fall back, hide away? Or did he expect this to happen, knowing that in the end, I am a monster, just like the other highbloods?
Hah, monster- the word has never been more fitting. I never hesitated to attack him, never hesitated to take down his men. Bonds were broken; he wanted me dead. I only did what I had to.

That is what I told myself. I did what I had to do, and it’s true. A leader of an army, a leader of a religion; my own feelings, my own thoughts are to be set aside.
There was hate in his eyes when he saw me, pity in my own. Pity, disappointment, pain. Pain and rage, as I battled him, over and over, location to location, neither of us ever winning, nor losing.
I held myself back. It would be so easy to kill him, to take him down, but I didn't. I couldn't. Not him, I must let him live.

He came to my hive a final time. The last time, and much like our first meeting, he tried to kill me. Much like our first meeting, he failed.
Crying. Frustrated. He couldn't take it; he was so tired, so angry, too much in pain, with no one to go to anymore. No moirail, no matesprit; around him, his men were falling, and in front of him sat the monster he once befriended.

I should have killed him. This story could have ended there. But the story continued; I won't let this one die, not by my hand, not again.
He left, and much like our first meeting, he didn't thank me. And I didn't want to be thanked.
Because in the end, I was just fooling myself. I was a complete fool to believe that this would mean that he would survive. He'd win, and there would be one less death on my mind.

But, I was a fool. A revolution is bound to fail.
He was anger, he was hate. He was an idea which lead the oppressed into battle, towards their own demise. And, he was naive, so stupid, so immortal in his own mind.
The Summoner, the revolutionist, the winged brownblood visited me one final time.

At least, the bodies of him and Pyralspite.

Nobody knows who took him down; nobody knows who shot the final arrow, which pierced his chest.
All I know is that I failed once again.