By the Grace of Pandor.
Dark days for the scribe, I am granted leave to write a few words.
No doubt he wants me to cast a spell, help her up to her feet, and of course I will try. For her sake, and mine, it has nothing to do with my place under his hand.
I can’t tell you about that, since I have no idea what’s going to happen until it does. We are at the mercy of the scribal mind, even the Devil has to wait.
What can I do to help? Her sanctuary has been violated, how can we cleanse her sacred space? Let me reclaim those words. Holy things exist, they’re just incredibly rare.
The wide grasses and sweeping skies, the pure, unearthly silence, the winds that bring the stories, the hot and searing sun, all these are at stake, at risk, in danger of slipping from her grasp, simply because they aren’t yet far enough from the World.
The Ugliness of Man, here in her Paradise, I can see why she despairs, why she leaves the door wide for Dark thoughts. When you have few things, you miss them if they are taken away.
Too hard on her to let me speak all that I have to say. She begs me to come again, when she is in a different place. I will.
A quick spell, then.
She is right to seek forgetfulness, her Sanctuary is best locked away, behind the kind of walls she knows how to make, Mediaeval and six feet thick. All the pictures, the thoughts long cherished of silent walks and things found. Stay away from them. Just for now.
The trick is to keep her from hating herself without it. Hating it’s huge and hideous absence in her mind and heart. Hating new scars. Hate is a dirty fighter, it can pin your reason in less than a second, make sure it doesn’t raise its head again. How to keep her safe from it, how to hold her through the spasms as last illusions leave her soul.
How to do a better job keeping her safe, she can’t do it, someone has to. Let it be me, let me try at least.
Let me remind her that she is the only one who can move the cursed hand from my shoulder and let events unfold, as they will. See how cool I sound about it? No, it’s far from the case, I am simply impatient to know his next move so I can plan mine. I call to her, a powerful song on, the image of us standing there, frozen, in the dark, scented woods. His very unusual hand, huge, and warm and nothing like I remember. I long to understand this, come what may.
Dear scribe, I beg you rest now, remember the song, remember me, think of your Devil but keep him out for a while.
The Perfect spell, cast in her own memory, growing roots already. She understands that nothing can hurt her in our World, except Pandor, and he will be occupied, I think.
She will rest, so it will be a Faux blog if anything, for a few days. A loyal reader will be patient, of course. A trembling acolyte even more so. I will find my way back here soon enough, since He can’t have it all his way.