"There's a line men like us must pass, one in which you will find gruesome in your mind's regard of everything. It will consume you, make you someone you're not, it will kill you. Yet, you will be born anew, for better or worse. Weaving the winds of your final breaths, there will come a time when that thing that concocts your very life will stop blowing and the wind will no longer howl. Silence will be of virtue, not of choice, not of will. This is not death, this is war, this is chaos, this is hell."
These, the words you once told me. The winds are now dying, and silence has become my partner of grace. I am dying now friend, through my men, through my own cruel, twisted consciense. You said this was not death though, and you were right. This isn't because of the end, this is because of who I am, what I've done. I face myself now, yet not so, for it takes new form. It takes the form of death.
My sins, they shall be withheld in either such event. It takes a strong man to forget all he's done, and die, but it takes a stronger man to remember all that occurred in the wreckage of the desolation and live. I have a choice now, one that shall never be reignited in the name of God. What is my will, does it even exist any longer? I have crossed the line you spoke of, and now, gun in hand, I must decide.