TRIGGER WARNING: Implicative themes of self harm and suicide.
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Solfos dreamt that night of someone who once helped him. He dreamt of a man whom he hunted, a man who he didn't have a mark on. Someone he thought had robbed him of someone else. A man who indirectly broke someone's heart so fiercely that she took her own life. That one. That mixed bag.
In the dream...
He crept into the quaint house. A dim candle barely lit the unclear window. The door was unlocked, the silence was deafening. Through the dark hall, down to the last room. Parchment on the door reads, 'I couldn't do it anymore.'
Solfos bursts into the room and is met with it once again. Crimson stains over pale wrists. Hollow eyes tell him all he needs to know. He approaches the corpse and kicks the discarded blade to the side. His eyes sting, and he grits his teeth as he looks at his old rival's face. No...his old friend.
"Not you too..." He chokes.
Solfos woke then, panting. His bride to be is asleep beside him. He swallowed and felt at his aching throat, nearly cut open a few weeks ago, now mangled with another ugly scar. He jumped out of his bed, and went to find some parchment to write on. He didn't know how, but he had to try. He began his letter...
'Even If We Hated Each Other...'
