“If you had the chance to change your fate, would you?”
He had been asked this question before.
By himself, several times. Could he, would he? Would he change the way things were, forge himself a path paved with less misery, less guilt? He wasn’t so sure. All the anguish, the agony, it had led him here, bleeding and tearing as he was dragged across sharp, jagged realities. Flesh and red were left to mark the trail he’d traveled, and though there was less of him left now, the parts that remained were better, smoother, harder. He was complete, only by stripping away from him by force. No, he would not change his trial by fire. He needed it, after all.
In a faraway dream, where the answer had been different... not for himself, but for his comrades, he had dared to change the outcomes destined for them. They did not deserve to die a cursed death, lifetimes away from their homes, in a desolate land that knew no time or law. Yes, he’d screamed to the heavens. Yes, I will change it. I will tear down the foundations of defeat. I will let myself be the bridge to hope and victory. And he had.
By those around him who knew of his fate, and some who knew nothing at all. No. Without a thought, no. Because he was something of an example now, something to prove that struggle, even pointless anguish, could be rewarded in the end. It was inspirational, and he was a prideful man-- it made him feel strong.
❝Not likely,❞ he answered at last. ❝Some things need to happen, hard as they may be.❞
