Loss begets losses
Misery, forged from fire
Born from deep within
A broken womb still gives birth
To hatred all consuming
I recall the chill of the morning. Avalonian winds carried the sweet smells of late spring as it faded into the excitement of summer. It was after conception, but before the breaking. My heart soared, nearly beat it's way out of my chest, like a caged hummingbird when my hand maiden spoke his name. Cain. She said it with apprehension, fear, a terror which was far beyond my comprehension at the time, and as such, I did not notice it on her. I went with him with out hesitation. I was reshaped, made stronger, forged in the fires of Blackmarch, but dead within. Childish innocence replaced with the fear, the pain, the fury, and the sorrow of such strengthening. My heart still reacts to him, quickening and beating strongly, though now it sinks instead of soaring. Some day, it will end, one way or the other. One must die and one must live. One will die and one will live.
