I thought you dead.  But an echo revives your shadow flame at vision's edge.  The flicker of burns at my nape recalls the whisper of your fire's song.  Before you have left me ash: charred and rotten, tremulous and corpsed.  What does your coming beacon?

I thought to play with these small quiet things.  Happily, no content.  Content to their easy patter, their simple song.  Attainment to a quiet care.  To take the light through trees for stars.  I could walk this cold forest, inside and with.  A hundred years to thousand.  Or perhaps to lie, this rock my bed.  A thousand, a thousand thousand.  My feet do not falter.  My weakness here is cared.  The gentle stream the succor to my feeble limb.

Yet to boon or to doom you arise.  To tempt me to the darkness outside.  I can only chase you blind; my eyes mine enemies or do they see you true?  Your honey, your venom trails beyond the treefold.  Into dust and ruin, but you promise a... thing.  A what thing?  I am not worthy or wise in ken.  

Do I wear this flag?  Do I mark myself for defeat?  In surrender do I take up this name and betray myself?  Or is this life?  Is this the death-life of which I am promised?

One hundred wounds is your name.  One thousand ills your love.  Can I not break these chains?  

To dust I step.

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