In the days after my family's home had burned down, I developed something of a grim ritual. My parent's rooms had survived, and my siblings' rooms had been completely consumed.
My room, however, was different. It was partially burned, but some portions remained somewhat intact.
And so every day, I would wake up early in the morning, drive to the wreckage, and sift through it from dusk until dawn, searching for something, anything, that may have survived the fire.
After a few weeks of this, word traveled throughout the family of my macabre crusade. And one family member in particular took a growing interest in my comings and goings.
Then one day, while I was amongst the wreckage, they came upon me, and grabbed me, dragging me kicking and screaming and wailing from the ruins, ordering me to get back in my car, and to never return, upon penalty of damnation.
For some reason, I obeyed their command. But I hated them for it, and for years thereafter I saw them as being my mortal enemy.
As the years stretched on though, my opinions slowly changed. I matured a bit, and eventually realized that this family member, far from being a villain, had indeed been a friend. For I could have wasted the rest of my life digging through charcoal, and finding nothing of value.
I suppose the moral of the story is that, in the thick of battle, it can be difficult to distinguish friends from foes, and villains from heroes. One can only trust in the powers of Divinity, and not stubbornly fight against anyone and everyone who intervenes on one's behalf.
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