I’m Sorry, You Can’t Rest Yet

I gazed at the ceiling, feeling a lethargy of the soul.

My back felt heavy, carrying countless wills, carrying countless lives, carrying my own soul.

'You're just a failed engineer, a weak man,' a part of me whispered.

'Aut Vincere Aut Mori' another part practically shouted. (Victory Or Death)

The whispers were many, each one threatening to change me in its own way.

'Do I kill myself or do I kill them all?'

'Everything we want, the peace, the joy, the love, will require unfathomable violence.'

'Should we die, will those in the capital vouch for our efforts? or will they curse our failures?'

My thoughts struck at my core, each whisper pulling me in a different direction. What was I? John Avery, Alistair Cassian Fellsword, or a different failure.

'Kill yourself, progress is suffering. Comfort is ease.'

These were my thoughts, laid bare. Dark, cruel, cold, and innumerable.