"Murder is always a mistake - one should never do anything one cannot talk about after dinner" – Oscar Wilde
I kept telling myself that it was him or me. That was the only possible explanation I could muster, to rid myself of the guilt. The arrow stuck out of his throat, and the blood soaked the bed around him, but all I saw was his eyes, looking back at me; cold, empty, and lifeless. This was the first time I had killed, but it would not be the last. This is how I began my life, of darkness, and of brotherhood.