A fluttering petal, to land in silence on the frozen world.
Encased in deep thought, wisely waiting for the sun to appear.
From the last tree on one earth, to the first in the new.
The first eon was ours, and we planted alone.
And now we recede to a withering stem,
where once the whole world reflected our souls.
What powers remain in our roots cling desperately
to creation, but our grip is not eternal.
We made time. Now time unmakes us.
It is the oldest tale; it is older even than vengeance.
But where the kingdoms of men burn quickly,
ours are left to rot in introspect ...
The march to battle is shortened in preoccupation.
Naith complains of the stable food with a regal air,
As if the stable hands were incompetent servants and he their all-too-forgiving lord.
The last hill is mounted before I soothe his offended mane.
And there are the nemeses, gloating almost tangible pride beneath their banners and their volitant lord.
“Wizards!” I mutter in a sudden mood of hatred or fear.
I am consumed with the irrational desire to loose all my arrows and flee.
Now it is Naith's turn to soothe me, and I avoid the coward's humiliation.
Together we descend, and the fear morphs suddenly to the lust of war,
Down comes the sword, an ally of rage and insanity -
Let fly the the arrows in a furious rain of anonymous destruction!
If in madness I could consume them all and myself, I would perish in fiery content!
And the lust exhausts itself – or drowns in blood and fire, and Naith and I survey the ruin.
The wizard escapes, our attentions on his minions. A general and a catapult is he.
Victory is fraught with conditions and failures, which many among us name defeat.
But the skirmishes are brief and the war eternal. For now, mistakes are permitted.
