What’s left after all of this? After the last skull has been cracked? After the last bone lies broken on a bed of leaves? Pity those innocents that died for something that they loved greater than themselves. Pity those forested acres that laughed at these horrible times. We place our Book next to their spilled marrow and dream about what could have been. Now I know why the cartographer is damned; now I know why we are slaves to this land; now I believe those visions that perverted young minds. Bond with the rot and let your blood clot. Dig our graves among those sullen roots. We shall never see the glow of the moon through the leaves, of a life outside these trees. These trespassers will die the same way as their lord: bleeding, starved and deserving of more. At the end they’ll pray for those times when sun could warm their skin and frost could cool those burning flames. The end is where we begin. We are better. We are one. Collected be damned. Needless and done.
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