Will they come, really? Will they cross the river, a horde, a pack, with torches and insults and threats and weapons? Will they bare their teeth to their brother, the lonely brother, the monster from Hell? They left me on the other side of the riverbank. They left me here in a world of ashes and graves and moans. The leitmotiv of Fate became my music, and the beauty of dark eye-socket my art, and love became grief. Won’t they allow me rest, won’t they allow me this sole respite?
