Today, it is summer. They know her well, a fixture in the evenings, but no one knows where she goes in the mornings. It is always summer where she is in the mornings, it is the summer of the heart, the summer of the soul, it is sacredness undefiled, the holier place that was promised to her. See, there are always holier places than this. Besides, they already have her limbs; it is all that they are willing to understand. Only very few have seen her on her summer days. To ask for it, one must also run with her in the thunderstorms. One must get past me. Do you understand this, lad?
She was born under bizarre circumstances. The stars were askew. I was given to her by the witch. She was destined to carry many burdens. Like some of my kind, I was to be, will always be, the one who carries.
We were both snatched; I from the netherworlds, she from her home. She has served in many taverns. And this is how she found you. Understand, boy, you did not find her. She found you.
For one thing, the days may be easier for her to bear.
But whenever she is not in the here and now, she comes to me. Even as she holds your hand, even as she cooks you dinner, I am with her. I carry. You are too brittle-boned for this task; it is beyond you to comprehend. Do you understand this?
But earn your place. Now, draw your sword.
