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My king, you who were once like the most radiant of sunrises, are now nothing but the ashes of that intense fire.
My king, I now see clearly what you are, what you never were.
I let myself be deceived by your scorching sun. It was nothing more than a corrosive illusion that poisoned me from the inside out.
No, I must no longer call you king, much less mine.
In a dialectic of love and hate, your memory grows dim.
No, I must no longer love you. Why I can not forget you?
Like a rat to putrid memories, I chew and ruminate. They poison me, but they keep me alive.
I search for the sun in these eyes blinded by you. The light fades on my skin of darkness—please, if you're going to kill me, do it once and for all.
Why does the sun answer its creature of the night with silence? Tell me, why leave me wounded, lost, and blind, if this poor servant of yours loves you?
Before me looms the darkest of clouds, in a green halo—like your eyes—it surrounds me before I can react, deeply focused as I venture into your garden, flooded with memories.
I unsheathe my sword, the great Aorimeithen, ready to face whatever challenge may appear. On guard. It could be an ogre or a witch emerging the moment the mist clears. And I wait. Alert. I hear nothing, as if my senses were dulled and no longer able to discern the song of crickets, the whispers of the castle.
My senses return like a blow of reality, in a shiver that runs through my body as I hear the first BOOM. Suddenly, I am no longer in the inner garden of the castle, no longer in your rose garden. I find myself on a battlefield—towering entities reaching the sky unleash their fury on the villages in their path. In a scene that makes me believe I am in hell itself.