Where the kings met on the crag of a tower, and I licked my wounds. That broad lady tapped, but where to? To a place seven years in the making? I was frozen like a Vesuvian statue. I was rank and file, but I kept a flame. Our future selves were beckoning.
“Wait for paradise, Half Blood, and I shall prepare the way.”
A voice of one calling in the wilderness:
Prepare the way for the Lord.
Make straight the desert
a highway for our God.
I should have known. That pale nurse was too familiar. Her stain glass words. The iron gaze.