hel forrester / district 7

People always say life is too short. I've never really understood that concept. For as long as I can remember, I was taught that while life is fleeting and oh, so precious, it is never meant to last for very long. We are fragile creatures. Born to live, yes—to laugh at the good times, love those around you, and lament the hardship—but meant to die all the same.

From the moment we take our first breath, it is the beginning of the end. But the beauty of being a Forrester is that death is never the end. Through humble worship and selfless sacrifice, you are granted entry into the Garden, where every Forrester that came before awaits you with open arms. What greater gift is there?

Each year the elders choose someone special, a member of the family that has proven themselves divine in more ways than one. But it is my father who swings the sword, who bears the cross of death. Each time I take a life, I serve Them, he tells me, pride swollen in his chest and glory shimmering in his eyes. 

The daughter of death, they call me. If I were anyone else, perhaps it would bother me. But they speak from a place of ignorance, clinging to their New World god like he's the only one watching over them. If only they knew of the dozens or so that lurk in the wood of Seven. If only they believed in the gods and goddesses of old, the ones we worship from dawn till dusk in the heart of the forest. 

Maybe then their deaths would actually mean something.