I begged, I pleaded:
Give me not comfort-
give me the harbinger,
they who sing in slashes.
One to bleed for my cause,
one to die with holy purpose.

But the altar did not answer-
only silence,
heavy as ash.

Until a voice,
low as hunger,
said:
"Look at your hands."

And lo, I beheld-
not mercy,
not miracles,
but ruin,
tempered.

The blade I sought
was not given.
It was
remembered.


Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 15th of Haernos, in the year 11 AC.