I AM EXTRAORDINARILY PATIENT,
PROVIDED THAT I GET MY OWN WAY IN THE END.
-- MARGARET THATCHER
Night.
He steps in and out of the thick glom, weaving his way through the marsh, recalling the waterways and the treacherous portions of the swampland, where even he does best not to step. By now he knows this wretched place better than most, spending hours sifting through the stench of decomposing bodies and putrid water. His thin shadow is at home here: among skeletal trees and mossy vines, an absinthe-green rash that covers the pale and withered trunks of the trees. Skywalker hates this place, however – this is no home fit for him, this blasphemous place cannot contain a creature like him and he finds it absurd that he should have to hide in the company of corpses and lunatics.
He considers the future and how painfully impossible it looms over him, glaring and sneering, claiming that it is incontestable and that he, nightshadow, is bound to fail. He thinks gravely of the thin lines of their miserable army, the paucity of their alleged prowess – the thought is as vile and disgusting as the bubonic plague. His jaw is taut with discontentment as he walks through the marsh, impatience filigreeing his thin shoulders and a slow, hateful gleam in his eyes. In due time, they would take themselves a proper home – of course. But for how much longer would they squander amidst the flies and shadows?
He sighs, his mouth dried by a winter of discontent. And then there is a bleak shadow that appears a short distance away from him, riddled with mist and unfamiliarity. Skywalker narrows his icy gaze and redirects his attention – surely, another useless lunatic, but in the choice of loneliness and company, the thin stallion is inclined towards the latter. Strangely enough;
“Stranger,” he calls softly into the wisps of mist, “show yourself.”
S K Y W A L K E R.
Seiren
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[O] And now that death will grow my jasmine ; Seiren
