The only possibility remaining is that he can stop it. He simply chooses not to. The children snatched from parents’ arms. The endless plains of unmarked graves. The deathless Dead who hunt us in the light of a blackened sun. We are prey now, mon ami. We are food. And he never lifted a fucking finger to stop it. He could have. He just didn’t. Do you ever wonder what we did, to make him hate us so?
