This is a dedication to the dead and trapped of Wolf's Rain, written from the perspective of someone for whom nothing holy is dispensible, and who believes that writers have as much duty to their characters as to their readers.
We are hated.
We are traitors.
We are the used.
We are the dead.
When did it happen that lives suddenly meant so little?
Why did compassion die?
Where did anyone get the idea that one can betray without fault,
Whereas no other can?
Whether we became child's toys apparently doesn't matter.
Winter leaves us unforgiven.
Winter makes our bodies writhe.
Winter reminds us of what we had done.
Winter reminds us the time is come.
Winter makes us twisted replicae.
Winter leaves us weeping.
Many we led to her.
Many she made us.
Many we fed to her.
Many to jade us.
Mother Earth didn't see fit to save our stories!
Made Father Time a circular man!
Mired us in a cycle of naught!
Miracles died at a scriptwriter's hand!
Millions of lives sacrificed for Paradise.
Maybe it wasn't our fault.
Maybe death came too swiftly.
Maybe we forgot who justice was.
Maybe we forgot she's still spinning.
Maybe death and life are dead.
Maybe it could have been a straighter path.
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P.S. I really, really did not like the end of Wolf's Rain. In case you didn't notice. The rest of it was fantastically excellent. Beautifully done, artful emotion, endearing storyline, pleasant lack of severe and irreversible death of both humans and wolves followed by a truly disturbing discarding of whole lifetimes and the idea that actions accomplish lasting results. Episodes 27-30? Absolutely aweful.
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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
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Then again knowing you, you've probably re-written the parts you disliked already anyway biggrin .