Dear favorite character,
There’s no easy way to cushion this blow, no delicate way to break this news, so I’m just going to say it:
You’re going to die.
I’m sorry. There’s no avoiding it. It’s a curse I’ve inflicted upon you, one neither of us can reverse. It’s easier to simply try to accept your fate, as I do. Once I realize who you are, I know it’s over. There’s no hope. The ending is written in blood. I’ll still mourn you – gods, how I’ll mourn you – but I know it’s inevitable.
Please don’t ask me for exceptions to the rule. There are none. It doesn’t matter who you are, whether you’re just a minor character or on the cover of the comic. You might be a villain who just redeemed themselves, or a friend who just betrayed the good guys. You might be the antihero, the best friend, the mentor, the star-crossed lover, the silent guardian, the cute sidekick. Human or animal, young or old, good or evil. It doesn’t matter. Nothing will keep you safe.
Even the form of media doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you live in the book; you’ll die in the movie (I’m looking at you, Muldoon). It doesn’t matter if you live in the movie; you’ll die in the book (and you, Malcolm). It doesn’t matter if you’re off the show; they’ll bring you back in season four just to kill you off (I can’t say your name yet – I’m not ready). You’ll be the only one to die in a Disney movie or a children’s book. On a show filled with violence, in a movie where everyone dies, your death will still be the worst. There’s a very good chance you’ll be played by Sean Bean.
I can’t tell you for sure when it will happen. It may be when you’ve just grasped a small measure of happiness for the first time; it may be when you think you are most triumphant or have revenged a lost lover; it may be after a long, painful battle against your worst enemy or a cruel illness. It might even be so completely unexpected, so shocking and nonsensical, that your death will leave me staring wordlessly at nothing, trying to comprehend what just happened. You might even do it yourself, as if hastening the ending you already know is inevitable.
I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to get you messed up in all this. You’re just so interesting or creepy or cute or cruel or tragic, and I like you, and now you’re completely fucked. That’s just the way the world works, apparently. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. But I’ll always remember you.
P.S If you have white hair, I’m especially sorry. And no, I wouldn’t ask why if I were you. Some things are better left unknown.