I never had a choice.
Not in my life, did I make a choice of my own destiny; it has been planned out, every second, millennia ago. Mere mortals create their own destiny, I merely face the one Fate chose for me.
I merely face it. I gather up my courage, gird my loins, thread my tattered soul back into the fight each day that dawns. I have no choice but to fight.
It isn't my fight. I am not of their people; I was not born of any of their women, fathered by any of their men. Magic was a dream I wish would be true.
Now, it's the nightmare I live.
Once I found a bottle of red latex paint, the type found in most high schools. Instead of painting on the wall or a piece of canvas, I painted instead my body. A stroke everywhere I had bled from a wound, painting several layers where I wounded more than once.
I ran out of paint before I ran out of wounds to paint.
I faced an uphill battle that I must win, to be free. What freedom that will be, I do not know. Perhaps only the choice left will be dying.
That hurts--should I die before I have the chance to live my own life? The Goddess is not intentionally cruel to her tools, but that's all I am, a tool.
Sometimes the best tools break.
No choice.
