The Burning God

And before she could lift her arms to the sky, they opened fire. The world erupted in scattered dirt and orange flame, and for all her bravado, all she could do was kneel on the ground, wrap her arms around her head, and hope that death came quickly.
“Rin.” Kitay shook her by the shoulders. “Wake up.”
She tasted blood in her mouth. Had she bitten her tongue? She turned to the side, spat, and winced at the crimson splatter on her sheets.
“What?” she asked, suddenly afraid. “Was there—”
“Nothing’s happened,” he said. He pulled down his lip. Angry scars dotted the inside of his mouth. “But you’re hurting me.”
“Gods.” She felt a twist of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Kitay rubbed at his cheek and yawned. “Just—try to go back to sleep.”
It struck her then how incredibly tired he looked, how shrunken and diminished, so wholly different from the confident, authoritative persona he acquired during the daytime.
That scared her. It seemed like physical evidence that

These soldiers fought under her command. That terrified her. What if they died under her command?

It said, Do it.

Take what you want, it said. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you.

Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you.