CW: This book contains violent imagery and mentions of self-harm. 

One stood alone, surrounded by a gruesome sea of bodies. He was leaning on his sword, his chest slowly rising up and down as he took in this sight. Bodies, limbs, and innards were scattered across the field, piled on the ground, slung over crimson-spattered trees. 

Though his sword was sharp, and his arm well-trained, the blood that had dried along its blade was that of its owner. His arm was criss-crossed with deliberate markings, and his head swam with the curses and spells that he had repeated. Over and over. Each phrase had been wielded as a weapon, devastatingly deadly, horrifyingly accurate. 

The person stumbled across the battlefield, surveying the broken bodies at his feet. There was one he sought in particular. 

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The price for one’s dignity is a heavy one. It would be too simple to calculate it by counting one’s scars or victims. The darkness, the regret, the burden...who could say if these outweigh hopelessness? When decades of desperation force one’s hand, who takes the blame for the destruction that ensues, for the cycle of violence that unleashes?

How does the saying go—that love and hate are two sides of the same coin? Had one witnessed such a massacre, they could perhaps say the same of love and war. Both begin with small acts of reciprocity, exchanges paid in blood and heartbeats, and escalate into frenzied campaigns over hegemony and sovereignty. And neither can boast the definite conclusions only found in fairytales. Victory is fleeting, momentary, as is death.  

But, enough with such involved metaphors. Love and war are nothing more nor less than acts of rebellion, of defiance. In few do the rebellious spirits necessary to spark such chaos reside.