It feels like murder every time.
I understand what you experience. Short of dying in actuality, I have no better way of knowing what those last few moments are like before you slide away. Can you ever feel it? Do you realise what I'm doing to myself while I whittle away the last few sickly strands of your defense?
Sometimes you are someone actively looking to pick a fight, and the reason ultimately doesn't matter. You find me, and engage me, and reluctant as I am I'm forced into retaliation. Or perhaps you are fiercely safeguarding what I, as a representative of the Order's wishes, am after. It's true that there is always a choice whether to follow through with a matter or not, but when we confront each other I am given only two options, and by all that I am, I am not permitted to run.
Your face is different every time. Sharp, blunt, masculine, feminine, stoic, fearful, leering. I hate it when you look pleading. There's nothing I can do; I wish you would realise that. Your every throe