We are warriors fighting back to back. Our foes surround us. There is no hope, no escape, only the bloodbath of battle, the baptism of fire, the purifying embrace of our impending annihilation.

Survival is not an option. For us, there is only the glory of battle, of fighting to the end and then fighting some more.

We are out beyond the city walls, beyond the last posted guard, beyond the place where the furthest outlying patrol is sent. We are on our own.

Our dreams are dreams no one else can see, that no one else can believe in. With each step we take into the dark, our complicity grows.

There was once a middle ground where we could have turned back, where the pleasant sounds of the old, safe life could still be heard. But out where we are now, there is only the howling of the wind and no turning back. At night, the adrenaline scent of adventure is a thick, musky smell that does not let us sleep.

We accumulate scars. Where once I fretted about losing my innocence, I now cherish the wounds and how they transfigure me. Each scar is a battle faced squarely, engaged and survived. I am still here. I have not run. In our scars I can trace our journey.

One can run from the inevitable – or charge into it. I want to stare it in the face, spit in its eye and dare it to come and get me.

From the moment I met you, I surmised the journey and its end.

This, my dearest one, is love.