A ruinous rapture swells forth from the ground;
Purple pillars of soul pirouette as Hope’s crowned –
Mistress of darkness, or daughter to death;
Perhaps neither nor, but by something else blessed?
‘This power it swirls,
I have grown back my curls!
This strength in my bones,
How my cracked skin, it tones;
I am reborn afresh
In my much younger flesh!
Bask in my glow,
Pretty death you shall know.’
‘I’m not lost to you yet;
You were naught but a pet –
You think I fear youth?
Countless eons of truth
Rest so lightly these shoulders;
Ancient fire still smoulders.’
Infancy faces its old foe forebearance,
Though strength relies rarely on outward appearance.
Saplings may bloom, while the weary, entombed,
Know that nothing is certain, while still in the womb.
Next to you I’m angelic;
Can you not feel,
I have broken your seal
That you thought could control,
Take the will from my soul.
No more says I!
Die, remnant, DIE!’
‘You think me vestige?
I am royal – your leige.
I’ve tore kingdoms to dust,
While they worshipped my bust;
I have slaughtered all manner
Of men under banners.
Your death will come sweet,
Next time that we meet.’
Unable to challenge the force of Hope’s will,
In her weakened state, Aubryn loses her kill;
Escaping to ponder, or plot or to panic –
She saw in Hope’s eyes something bygone, satanic.