In his final hour he wrote a letter, addressed and mailed it off to his brothers.
There are spies all around. Watchful eyes that see everything. We are outnumbered. Those who remain are dwindling quickly. They’ve tricked us into believing it’s just a game. That way we’d accept the idea of winners and losers. Learn our place as the ones who have lost. They are waiting for me to accept defeat. To admit I’ve lost. With each attempt they get closer. Topple me from my throne. They have the strength. They have the desire. They have the numbers. But what they don’t have, I won’t tell. I won’t speak those words. I won’t give away our secret. They have not yet won. And as I go to my grave, this is how it will stay.