June 6th

“I don’t like the look of this at all,” Christian said.

“Neither do I.” Angel took a deep drag off his cigarette.

“Knock it off.” Christian elbowed him. “A sniper can see the cherry of your smoke from miles away. You’re gonna get yourself shot.”

“I noticed you said nothing about me getting myself killed.” Angel smiled grimly.

Christian closed his eyes and felt the rock and sway of the boat, wondered what one of his past incarnations would have thought of climbing into a giant metal death trap and hoping to float on the sea. “I’ve learned by now.”

“Good.” Angel flicked his cigarette over the edge of the boat. “I think this will be my last battle as a peon.”

“Oh? And how do you figure?”

Angel snorted. “You don’t know what it was like before. I’m a general by birth and by training. Taking orders like an automaton isn’t my thing.”

“And yet here you are, enlisted again.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure I can wrangle getting killed once we storm up this beach.” Angel closed his eyes and sighed. “Will humankind ever tire of wars?”

“No,” Christian said. “Somehow, it’s also in our blood.”

“You’re not humankind,” Angel pointed out rather undiplomatically.

Christian rolled his eyes. Then he sighed and shifted his gun, rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. “What time is it?”

“Oh-one-hundred-thirty-seven,” Angel said without looking at his watch. His sense of time had always been uncanny. Christian wondered if it was a telekinetic thing. “Technically it is now June 6th.”

“Normandy Beach, here we come.” Christian closed his eyes.

“Here we come,” Angel agreed. “Our last charge, right?”

“The last.”

(281 words)

She Would

“Leave us,” Arcturus said, and his knights bowed respectfully, ducked out of the tent.

Elaine continued fastening his armor with steady hands, as if this were any other battle, but she knew that it wasn’t. They had been at Camlann for three days now, and both of them had seen Clarent shining in Medraut’s grip on the other side of the battlefield. Arcturus had Caledfwlch and Rhongomyniad, but Elaine had seen the end, and she knew it.

In all her years serving Arcturus, in her years training the young lad Arthwr, he’d never questioned her presence at Emry’s side as anything more than a dogsbody and a master-of-arms, but now she realized that he had suspected the truth all along, that he knew the truth of their power.

“I’m going to die out there, aren’t I?”

“You will kill Medraut.”

“And he will kill me.”

Elaine focused on fastening Arcturus gorge plate, fascinated by the soft, smooth skin at the nape of his neck. He sighed, and she knew that sound, lifted her hands away obediently. He turned to face her, and she kept her gaze obediently averted; she had become too good at playing a servant after so long in the role. He sighed again, and she felt the cool leather of his glove as he tilted her chin up.

“Elaine --”

“My Lord.”

“You never call my Arthwr anymore.”

“You are my king.”

He arched one eyebrow. “I was never your king.”

“You have always been my king,” Elaine said softly, and he had been her king in her dreams long before he was even born.

“You know and I know that this is my last battle,” Arcturus said. “As your king, I ask you to grant me a last request.”

“Anything, My Lord.”

“Call me Arthwr.”

“Yes, Arthwr,” Elaine said. She swallowed hard.

He stepped closer, and his hand slid to cup her face. “Elaine - kiss me --”

She shook her head and stepped back. “My Lord - your queen --”

His green eyes were wide, almost boyish in their fear. “Elaine --”

“I cannot,” she said. But she knew she would, when she was kneeling on the battlefield with him in her arms, listening to him breathe his last.

He bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Elaine picked up Caledfwlch, pressed it into his hands. “I would forgive you all, my Lord, but there is naught to forgive.”

(400 words)

The Last Dance

“The night is almost over,” Tobias murmured in Veronica’s ear.

She nodded against his shoulder. “Indeed it is.”

“Is there no way to slow time?”

“I haven’t found one yet.” Veronica smiled faintly.

Tobias buried his face in her hair and sighed. He wondered if it was a high school cliché, to say that tonight had been the best night of his admittedly short life, and he didn’t want it to end.

“We still have the last dance,” Veronica said. They’d been swaying to slow music for the last fifteen minutes - straight duck walks, all five songs. Tobias thought a good stroll or jitterbug, a jive or a swing might liven things up - it’d be a great way to end the night, breathless and bright-eyed in each other’s arms. Veronica was a terrific dancer.

The DJ announced it, the last dance, the last three minutes Tobias would get to have Veronica in his arms, and he closed his eyes, ready for another pathetic duck walk. He loved feeling the warmth of her against him, of feeling her heartbeat against his, but this was -- too slow. He was restless, she was energetic, and...

The music that poured over the gym was a tango.

Tobias grinned. He pulled back, offered his hand and bowed. “May I have this dance?”

Veronica grinned right back at him. “You may.”

(226 words)

Hold Back or Hold On

“This is it,” Dylan said. He leaned against the railing, gazed out at the skyline where high-rises made it jagged, unnatural. He would miss the way the blues and greens played on the edges of the bay, the twinkle of the cable car up to the peak. He wouldn’t miss much else, not as long as Celia was beside him.

“The last fight,” Celia agreed. She nudged his shoulder with hers, the gesture subtle but comforting; he could feel the warmth of her through the sleeve of his jacket.

“I won’t hold back,” he said.

“I don’t think you ever have - at least, not in the first fight,” Celia said.

Dylan ducked his head and sighed. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“You thought I was a boy.” Celia smiled easily. She turned more fully toward him, pressed herself against his side. “You really thought I was a boy?”

“That jacket doesn’t fit nearly as well as you think it does,” he said.

“Yes, well, they’re one size fits all, and we don’t have money like you do. We were lucky to get cute matching jackets at all.” Celia fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve experimentally. “It’s a good thing Tiger has retarded notions about the 1950’s, eh?”

“Indeed,” Dylan agreed, tone mock-solemn. They stood, gazing out at the skyline in comfortable silence. Then Dylan sighed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Celia said. “You know I’m a capable fighter.”

Dylan turned to her, tugged her close, arms wrapped around her waist. “I know you are. It’s just --”

Celia’s golden eyes gleamed. “We have to make it believable. Give it your all, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Okay,” Dylan said. “One last fight.”

“Last fight,” Celia agreed, and kissed him.

Dragon pulled back when a car horn sounded from the street below. Soren and the others hollered for him to come take a ride.

“Catch you later, Demon,” Dragon said.

“Later,” Seal agreed. She watched him vault over the side of the balcony, shimmy down the tree with the agility of a professional acrobat. He had no idea what would hit him.

(362 words)

Last Kiss

James sat in the waiting room at the hospital, staring at his shoes. He had his hoodie pulled up to hide his face; he couldn’t deal with fans right then. He could remember, with painstaking clarity, their last kiss. It had been - innocuous. Soft and brief, the press of her lips against his as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her shoes.

“Going for a run,” she’d said, leaned down and pressed her lips to his. “I’ll bring back some fresh bread and cream, all right? Maybe some strawberries.”

“Fraises,” he’d murmured, half awake, drinking in the sight of her backlit by the morning sun.

And then she’d gone.

When Tobias stepped out of the little side room where the doctor had asked to speak to him, James knew. Tobias’s face was pale, expression dangerously blank - especially on an actor - and then he spoke. James saw Tobias’s mouth shape words, heard syllables, but nothing made sense.

After a few moments, he buried his face in his hands and cried.

(173 words)

Supper, First and Last

“What are you doing?” Jade stood in the doorway of the tent, arms crossed over his chest. Without his curls he looked older, more dangerous. With the curls, he’d looked benign and boyish. Puppy-like.

Tobias was kneading dough with easy hands, humming an old jazz tune under his breath as he worked. “Sourdough bread. Homemade. Family recipe, as it were. Some of the boys said they were hankering for good sandwiches, and wonderbread doesn’t cut it out here.”

“You say it like it’s their last meal,” Jade said.

Tobias glanced over his shoulder; his eyes were dark. “For some of them it is.”

Jade took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his cheekbone where he’d caught some flak from an explosion earlier that day. “Right. Now that I’m - “ he gestured at himself vaguely - “I forget it’s so much harder for everyone else. To survive.”

“Yes, well, I figure some of the grunts deserve some good food. After all, it’s my last meal.”

Jade looked confused. “But...you don’t have to eat.”

“I know,” Tobias said. “And since I don’t have to eat, there’s no reason for me to waste upwards of three hours a day cooking for the troops, is there? The Commander needs me for things.”

The corners of Jade’s mouth turned down as he considered Tobias’s position, and then nodded. “I guess you’re right. Asia always used to tell me you were the best cook, you know. When she was training me to fly. I guess if you’re never going to cook again, you might as well go out with a --”

“Fondue,” Tobias said.

“Right,” Jade agreed, and grimaced at his poor decision to use a cliché.

Tobias used his elbow to point to a rolling pin. “Ever made pie from scratch?”

Jade rolled his sleeves up. “No. But there’s a first time for everything.”

“And a last,” Tobias agreed.

(316 words)

Knew it was a Lie

Joe glanced around guiltily as he ducked from the lighted street into a partially shadowed doorway. He pulled the door closed firmly behind him and made sure it was locked before he even turned away from it.

The hall that stretched before him was illuminated looked like any other hallway in a city condo building. Joe paced down the carpeted alley; making no noise as he passed five doors; three hundred paces to his final destination. Joe raised one fist and knocked gently.

The door was pulled open a crack and then shut again, he could hear the chain rattling on the other side of the wood. As soon as the door was open wide enough he slipped through and gently shut the door behind him so that no one would notice his passing.

The room was dim, though he could see well enough. He knew these rooms like his own and didn't hesitate as he toed off his shoes by the door and hung up his jacket. He could hear breathing coming from his right and turned to face Jen.

Joe took two steps and was enfolded in a soft and sensual embrace; his lips eagerly seeking out hers. Kisses that were soft and urgent quickly turned demanding and passionate; teeth clashing and tongues entwining. Joe quickly lost his shirt as he was backed up against the wall.

Hours later, he slipped quietly from the apartment on stockinged feet.

Each time Joe told himself that it was the last time. But he knew that it was a lie.

Overview # 61 - Poetry

So I was on a roll this week, but I ended up stumbling at the end of the week. I did turn out some poetry that I thought was rather well done and some that was not so much. I must say, writing the Dance club poem for me was intense as I remembered. Funny how memories can be so potent, and others that are just as important begin to fade...

Project #63: This is the Last Time

So...last times for characters. The last time David saw Ari alive. The last time Asia kissed James. The last time Joe held a gun. It's the last time for someone, so make it good. 100-400 words.

Overview #62: Poetry

So I started writing for this challenge at about 4 a.m. Sunday the week it began. The challenge was poetry, and the wordcount was unlimited, so I thought - well, what type of poetry represents an unlimited wordcount better than epic poetry? Of course, I'm no poet, so taking on an epic poem was really quite delusional of me. And it went pretty badly - it started off in the present tense, and switched to past tense, and then somewhere along the way I forgot what the verb tense was for each section anyway. It was a whole lot of description, similes and metaphors piled onto each other to make pointless things concrete. Some of it was real (like I google the directions from Glastonbury to Bath and then from Bath to Dinas Emrys), and some of it was totally made up (Arthur had no reason to be really hanging around Aquae Sulis), and some of it was more old-fashioned than necessary (Caledfwlch for Excalibur), but it was fun to write nevertheless, since I've been digging on Arthurian legends as of late. I structured the poem based on the typical conflicts found in fiction (self v. self, self v. another character, self v. society, &c), and I had a lot of fun with it (although technically there are seven standard conflicts; our weekly challenges only leave room for six.

So I was overambitious and under-performing, but it was good fun this week.

Six Conflicts: VI

Denouement: Magic

The green waters of Aquae Sulis
Wash over him,
From crown to toe,
Warm and cleansing.
He breaks the surface,
Motion clean as a knife through flesh,
And he tips his head back,
Parts his lips in a breath,
A prayer to the stars.

He dresses as he did
At the last battle,
With his own hands –
Linen and gambeson,
Hauberk and pauldron,
Greaves and cuisses and gauntlets.
He smoothes his hands over the lines
Of his surcoat,
Of the blood-red and the dragon-gold,
And then he reaches for his helm.

The final battle is
Without opponent or spy,
Foe or troops.
It is for him alone,
And the voice calls
More urgently, pleading,
Come to me,
Free me,
They need you.

I need you.

He walks longer than before,
One foot in front of the other,
Head held high,
Gaze on the horizon,
Feeling the tug of destiny
Low in his belly,
Like the needle of a compass
Swinging toward Polaris.
Days and nights pass,
Cars roar by,
People yell and shout and cry,
What are you wearing?
Where are you going?
Are you mad?
But he ignores them all,
Because he can hear the call.

For a man to walk so,
Unsleeping, unstopping,
Without food or drink –
He knows the hunger and
Fatigue settling into his bones
Like the weight of his armor trebled –
The unnaturalness of it all is a sign.

Magic.

Like vanishing into thin air
With an icy blizzard for a wake.
Like razing an army with a handful of lightning.
Like summoning a lady –
Gleaming, glittering,
Beautiful beyond words –
From a lake.

The tower is in shambles,
A collection of rocks
Like a handful of pebbles thrown down
By a giant child
(Whose father he had likely slain).

The call tugs faster,
More insistent, vibrating
Through his blood like the
Buzz of battle.
He has Caledfwlch in his hand,
And he stands over the heap of stones,
Listening to the please please please
And hearing the song of the stars.

He drives the sword down,
Into the stone,
Into the earth,
And he knows that he can never
Pull the sword
From the stone again.

The ground quivers.
He casts about for balance,
A new sailor at sea,
And the song of the stars
Becomes real,
Dancing on air,
A weaving of notes
And whispers,
And then the earth opens,
Lips parted in a prayer toward the sky.

Emrys opens his eyes.
Rex quondam rexque futurus,
He says.
Arcturus holds out his hand.
Our people need us.

Six Conflicts: V

Society

The map is shiny-slick
Between his fingers,
Littered with tiny lines
And letters-numbers-words,
But he remembers
Broader maps of
Mountains-rivers-kingdoms
And he knows how to get
Where he's going.

Were he at his best –
Armored,
Weapon-strong,
Well-rested and well-fed
On freshly-caught venison
And thick stew from
The Chief Cook's hand –
He could march it in one day,
Imagine the steady
Thump-thump-thump
Of his knights and soldiers
Behind him
Beneath the fluttering penant
Of gules on a dragon passant.

But he is barely stronger
Than a boy,
Thin-limbed and frail
From sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
So he folds the map into his pocket,
Seeks the skyline to divine
The compass point,
And he walks.

The grassy roadsides,
Gently-sloping hills,
Footpaths worn by marches previous –
They are his trail,
Cobbled together by questions,
Answers from a man outside a pub,
Puffing on a pipe
Who rolls his r's like the Sons of Orkney,
A group of giggling women-children
With painted faces and innocent-wide eyes.

Those lightning-fast machines,
Cars – steel and cold,
Wild beasts
Without the familiar
Affection and courage
Of a destrier raised from colt-hood –
Speed past,
Littering the air with
Mocking cries and
Honking horns
Like an army of jeering geese.

Only a madman would walk,
Or so these people think,
But then they do not remember
The long marches of tired men
In battered, blood-stained armor
That united this country.

He sleeps beneath the trees
And the stars –
Sky and Starlight –
Until uniformed enforcers,
More brutish, less trained
Than his shining ranks of
Knights upon knights,
Nudge him awake with their boots
And grunt for him to Move along, move along.

Why has he no food?
Why has he no clothes?
Why has he no money?
He is mad – he should be at home.
But he needs none of these things,
He explains, hands still, cautious.
They offer him help, assistance,
A bed for the night.

He cannot explain
That even a king
Can sleep in the dirt
Of his kingdom,
And a man on a quest
Need only be led
By the stars.

Earth and Sea

I see you clearly on the path;
You are borne upon a gale.
Shrouded round in mystery;
From unknown lands you hail.

A boat to be your chariot;
A star to be your crown.
The wind to be your calling trump';
the world to gather round'.

The sun shines from your blazing eye;
O God of earth and sea.
And I would to thee worship;
If thou look'st on me

Six Conflicts: IV

Destiny

In the daily struggle of
get up
get out of bed
feet on the ground
push buttons
in the proper order
of one two three
red blue green
He forgets why he is
Awake.

Awake –
Not trapped in a cave
Beneath a winding sheet
Caged in rusting armor.
Awake –
Moving through a world
Of sound-light-air
And plastic-paper-electricity.

Destiny, he has heard
From the homeless man on the corner
Dirt-streaked and God-preaching,
Comes in visions
And dreams.
When he sleeps –
Back against the wall,
Clutching for Caledfwlch
With empty hands –
He does not dream.

He remembers –
Jenny, pretty Jenny,
All golden-haired and wide-eyed
And traitor-queen-wife;
Chasing arrows through
A brown-green undergrowth
For snarling, posturing Cei;
The wizened old man with the
Nut-brown, wrinkled face
Who was more handsome and
Youthful
Every day that dawned.

In the middle of the shop
He calls work –
Where he answers to
Oi, Pretty Boy
and not
My Liege –
He remembers the voice,
Whisper soft and piercing,
An arrow through his heart.
He remembers come to me
and your people need you.

He remembers
Stars and Sky,
Gentle fingertips brushing
His eyelids closed in a final
Farewell,
For the next time he sees 
Stars and Sky
It should be hello.

Aquae Sulis is the answer,
The place of prayer and
Cleansing before the
Old Gods.
Kingship is for the pure in heart,
And he has been empty of heart,
Empty of mind with the
Constant pressing of
Buttons buttons buttons.

He closes his eyes and remembers
The Voice
Calling Sire, and My Liege
and my friend.
He remembers the promise
He kept,
He gave.
When your people need you.

I will rise again.

Reviresco.

He leaves the buttons behind.

Arrow to the Mark

I never thought that I would fall in love.
There were so many I had admired.
But none that found my heart;
sure as an arrow to the mark.

I wasn't sure that I could love.
And you can out of the blue.
I was stunned by what I had discovered;
That all I wanted was you.

My day begins when I see your face;
And night falls when you are gone.
Now it is perpetual night;
And I don't know how to be strong

I hold you in my memories
And kiss you in my mind
I want you to come back to me
And bring again the sun.

Six Conflicts: III

Technology

This modern world
- modern; he likes to roll the word
On his tongue
Like a sugary lozenge
That he unwraps with careful,
Weapon-scarred hands –
Is a curious combination of
Inaction and speed.

The pushing, tapping, poking
At buttons while seated and staring
At things bright and glaring
Is enough to drive him mad.
The rush of wind through his hair
- the ghost of fingers
in a hazy caress –
On the buses, trains, cars
Is an unexpected thrill,
The thrust of blood
Through his veins
In the last moments before the herald
Called Slay on.

He feels feeble, less of a man
To press a button and watch a fire burn
Than to perspire over the heave of an axe
And the minor thunder-crack of
Splitting logs.
He feels cheated,
Aching with unslaked vengeance
When police swarm a criminal,
A foolish boy who thought to
Take on a knight.

He is still a knight,
Armor or no armor –
He can hear the clamor
And screams,
Steel on flesh,
Arrows zipping through air
At Badon Hill
and Camlann's green.

A man's strength,
He ponders, and he misses
The comforting weight
Of a sword at his hip,
Like the familiar presence
Of Cafall trotting at his heels,
Is lost to the strength of machines.

The world is clean lines,
Too-bright lights,
Inhuman precision in
Razor-sharp corners on tables
And crow-flight straightness
In the legs of chairs.

The roughness of wood
From a man's uneven strokes
By blade on branch,
Curved to fit human hands
Is evidence of effort,
Blood, sweat and tears
Poured into the soil
Of the harvest of a man's labor.

Under cover of darkness
He roams the cool grass,
Barefoot to slip on dew,
Ears alert for the song of a
Grasshopper, the call of a
Bird, and winds his hands
In the motions of battles gone by.

By day he smiles,
Presses buttons,
Hands slow and clumsy
And deliberately gentle.
He learns to move to the unnatural
Thump, thump, imitation war-drums
Modern children call music
And ignore the constant noise –
Chatter, pings, flood of information –
But Albion sings in his blood,
And when he kneels in an open field,
He can feel her.

I am alive.

Time's Running Out.

Each precious second
slides into the past
Ticking of the clock
echoes heartbeats

Time running out.

Leave an impression
the world to remember
Leave them with laughter
Memories of the joy of days

Time's running out

Watch a brilliant sunrise;
count the evening stars
Dance upon the dewy grass
Sing a joyful tune

Time's running out.

Give to those who gave to you;
love that they can keep
Leave them with a gladdened heart
When you have gone to sleep.

Time's run out.

Six Conflicts: II

Character

She screamed first,
A maiden confronted by a dragon.
But he raised his hands,
The age-old gesture of surrender,
And spoke slowly, softly.

Her words were a tumble of vowels,
Foreign, incomprehenisble,
The song of water over rock.
She wore nearly nothing,
Boldened to show knees, elbows, throat,
And she carried
A man’s tools,
Metal, massive,
Cave-breaking.

He tried other languages
Rusty from disuse,
Infrequent use,
Disdain for boyhood tutors.

Her French was accented,
Awkward, filled with
Foreign sounds,
But the trip-hammer of his heart
Against his hauberk calmed
At her first, Je m’appelle Celine.

The hunger that overtook him –
Ripped through his limbs
Like lightning across the sky –
Overthrew any doubt
- guilt, awkwardness –
Of walking with a woman unchaperoned.

He followed her,
Wobbling fawn-like on legs
Unused to the smooth, stony black
She called road.

Her food was bright,
Soft, too sweet,
Too light,
And he fumbled at the shiny-smooth
Packages, at the parchment-thin glass
That crackled like popping fire.
But the hunger in his belly subsided.

Hands on skin
Made him shiver, blush
Like a lad at his first tumble,
But she was clinical, neat,
As she peeled his hauberk away from
His skin, eased the weight of battle
From his aching shoulders.

The things she called clothes –
And the whispering voice in the
Back of his skull that
Prodded at his thoughts
And curled at his ear
Like a lover's caress
Taught him words
Phrases,
Hello and jeans –
Were sturdy, strong,
Ill-fitting as if he were
Attempting his father's garb
Attempting his father's crown
When still just a boy.

Aquae Sulis
He was looking for.
Complete with scrubbing and
Praying motions,
Clumsy by his fighters' hands.

She pressed a map –
Shiny, colorful,
Roman tiles polished to gleaming
In sky-grass-earth
Blue-green-brown.

Bath, she called it.
Goodbye. She hugged him.
Good luck. She waved.
My King. She bowed.
He bowed.

No one's King.

Not yet.

I'm coming.

One Night

Eyes meet through masses of bodies
Everyone moving in time to the beat
Pounding rhythm that vibrates bones
And sets the blood racing.

Raised eyebrows and a beckoning gesture
And you are with me. Moving,
Bodies meeting in a wordless need
To be held, to forget and just feel.

Time looses meaning as the beat rages.
Intertwine together, merging in need and desire
Pulling close, teasing, sweat dripping
Every sense heightened.

Muskiness at his throat; feeling his pulse,
barest stubble along his jaw.
Hands exploring, running over body contours,
Firm chest, strong arms, sensual hands, soft lips.

Mouths meet, hungry yet gentle;
exploring. Intoxicating darkness
envelops dancers, hiding them.
Pull me close; hold me tight, move with me.

Satisfy my need for one night only.

Six Conflicts: I

Self

It’s the call of two best friends
Sky and Stars
Who’d join hands
In a jar full of fireflies
And decorate the firmament with
Constellations.

It’s the sleep earned by kings
Fallen in battle
Whose nations are footnotes
And fodder for bard songs.

It’s the war of the two
Clamoring in his head.
The call begs him rise, come,
Step out of his stone-walled prison.
It’s a voice on the wind,
In the crashing waves on the sea.
It’s begging and pleading.

It echoes a memory,
A woman kneeling at his feet,
Sobbing,
I love you both.

Pleading tastes of ashes
On his lips,
And he wishes the sea
Would wash away the taste,
Replace salt for salt.

Come to me.

The lure of sleep is calm, lulling,
The sway of tall grass in the breeze,
The rough, solidarity of wheat
Between his fingertips
As he reaches out for a handful of field.
Sleep promises
A cocoon of warmth,
Sunlight on a spring day.

It echoes a memory,
The broken sound of men
Weeping, creaking in their armor,
The scratchy-warm half-comfort of the linen
Shroud they wrapped around him,
Round and round, winding,
Wound.

And then they lowered him
Into the ground.

Sleep forever.

Behind his eyelids,
In the hollow in his chest
Where his heart used to beat
Two voices clamor
For answers.

Come to me.
Sleep forever.

Sunlight breaks upon
Starlight.
Fireflies dissolve from between
Fingertips like
Wheat crushed in a gauntleted fist.

Voices clash,
And it’s a tug, tug, tug,
Of war,
Of strength,
Of wills,
Of ex calce liberatus

And he opens his eyes,
Rex quondam rexque futurus.

Your people need you.