A World In Flames
I'm dying. Soon I will be dead. The world will go on, but I will not. They'll all live in fear for a while, expecting the good knight Odin to ride in on his white horse and end their worthless lives, but then they'll realise that I'm not coming back and they'll start to forget me. My life will pass out of living memory and into the history books, and they'll set about imprisoning the last of my spirit between yellowed and mouldering pages. My deeds will be sanitised into stories to amuse children, and I will become nothing more than just another monster under the bed. My entire existence will have been irrelevant.
I'm dying. This wasn't supposed to happen. It's almost amusing to become a victim of cruel and ironic fate. I created the black mages as helpless tools to be used as I desired, not knowing that Garland had done exactly the same thing twenty-four years ago. I was the perfect angel of death, scattering the souls of Gaia before me like leaves before an autumn gale, and all the time my own soul trembled in that same wind. How Garland must have laughed, even as I killed him. The old bastard always did have a love of the poetic.
I'm dying. I won't die alone. I am still the angel of death, even though Garland has torn away my wings and thrown me into the abyss. My damnation will not go unregarded. I'm going to make sure there's nobody left to forget me. I won't let the world carry on as though my death means nothing. Maybe I'll finally be able to shut Garland up before I kill him for good. He thinks I'm a defect, does he? I'll show him how wrong he is.