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DEATH HAS MANY COMPANIONS; anger, depression, resentment, loneliness, and destruction.
But Death has only one friend:
War.
One is often associated with the other. Companions of pain and despair, the pair walk hand in hand across the galaxy, every galaxy, consuming flesh and skin and bone and tearing deep into souls.

War comes first.

Begrudgingly, at first. It shows off gracefully, worming into the minds of man — all species, all persons, no one is safe — and nestles into one's very essence. It berates and tantalizes and parades as a victory, drawing out plans and revolutionaries and forcing good men to become the very monsters they fight against.

And when it's claws have finally broken skin, have molded the perfect vessel for complete annihilation, death steps forward.

It claims the lost ones, the victims of War's wrath, climbs the tumultuous waves of agony left behind.

War conquers and claim and maims, it creates bloodshed and wreaks havoc among all creatures until all creatures have a final purpose.

A final place.

Next to Death.

In the end, everything ends the same. Some take longer than others, some are quick and painless, others are lifetimes of torment and struggle. But eventually?

We all die.

It's strange to be one of two exceptions to that rule.

And it's even stranger that the person I love is the other.